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REMAINS
LITEEAEY AND THEOLOGICAL
OF
CONNOP THIELWALL
LATE LORD BISHOP OF ST DAVId's

Cj

ESSAYS, SPEECHES

AND

SERMONS

CONNOP THIELWALL, D.D.
LATE LOBD BISHOP OF ST DAVID'S

EDITED BY

J. J. STEWAET PEROWNE, D.D.
DE^Uf OF PETEHBOnOUGH AND HONOKAKY CHAPL.MN TO HEH MAJESTY

LONDON
RICHARD BENTLET & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
^ublw^jis in ©rbiimrs io l<r StaJEsig i\t. Quttn
1880

Es7

PEEFACE.

This Yolume contains a selection from the Essays, Sermons,
Speeches, Addresses, and miscellaneous writings of Bishop
Thirlwall. The bulk of the Essays consists of those originally published in
the Philological Museum, a journal which was started by him and
his friend Julius Charles Hare, and intended, as the latter informs
us in his Preface, to forward " the knowledge and the love of
ancient literature," the main attention of the Editors being
directed " toward the two colossal edifices that stand forth amid
the ruins of the ancient world ; " and their main object being " to
illustrate the language, the literature, the philosophy, the history,
the manners, the institutions, the mythology, and the religion of
Greece and Pome." Foremost among these Essays is that on the
Irony of Sophocles, a masterpiece of philosophical criticism. To
these I have added two Essays read before the Royal Society of
Literature, of which the Bishop was for many years President.
They are now reprinted from its Transactions, by the kind per
mission of the Council of that Society.
Of occasional Pamphlets I have selected those that seemed to
be of most permanent interest, or which, like that on " The Pan-
Anglican Synod," were characteristic of the author.
The Sermons collected in this volume have, with two or three
exceptions, already appeared in print. I should have been glad
to publish more out of the large number placed in my hands, and

VI PHEFACE.
especially some of the Ordination Sermons, together with the
Addresses delivered to the Candidates for Orders at Abergwili,
which the Bishop himself had selected as most suitable for pub
lication ; but to have added these to the present volume would
have unduly swelled its size, and they would only have been
inserted by the sacrifice of other matter, which the world, I
believe, " would not willingly let die."
The Speeches on the admission of Jews into Parliament and on
the Disestablishment of the Irish Church were printed by the
Bishop ; those on the Revision of the Bible and the Athanasian
Creed are taken from the Chronicle of Convocation.
Two volumes of the Bishop's Letters will, I hope, appear in the
course of next year, one edited by the Dean of Westminster, and
the other by myself.
J. J. S. P.
Camp.mdge: IZrd October, nil.

CONTENTS.

Memnon

Do.

do.

On the Position op Susa

Do.
do.
Ancjeus
Do.
do.
Philip op Theangela
Do.
do.
On the Death of Paohes
Do.
do.
Hannibal's Passage otee
THE
Alps
Do.
do.
ESSAYS.
On the Irony op Sophocles {Reprinted from the mUological Museum) . . '"''"i
. 58
. 98
. 108
. 122
. 132
. 137
On the Alleged Connexion between the Early History op Greece
AND AsBYRii. {Sead before the Eoyal Societi/ of literature) . . . 15i
On some Traditions relating to the Submersion of Ancient Cities
(Bead before the Royal Society of Literature)  jgg.
SPEECHES.
The Disabilities or the Jews. A Speech delivered in the House of Lords, May
25th, 18i8  ... 213.
The Irish Church. A Speech delivered in the House of Lords, June I5th, 1869 237
The Athanasian Creed. A Speech delivered in the Upper House of Convocation,
February 9th, 1872 . .  24/
Inaugural Address to the Philosophical Institution, Edinburgh, 1S61 . 257"
The Present State of Relations between Science and Literature. An
Address delivered at the Royal Institution of South JFales, December 6th,
1866  .... 284
SERMONS.
"Works whioh'remain, and "Woet-s which follow us. A Sermon preached at
the Charterhouse on Founder's Day, December 12th, 1845 . , , 315
The Love of God the Groundwork of true Knowledge. A Sermon preached
in theJParish Church of Swansea, on behalf of the Swansea National Schools,
August IZth, 1848  328
The Excellence of Wisdom. A Sermon preached at the laying of the founda
tion-stone of the Welsh Educational Institute, December lZth,l%Vi . 329
VIU CONTENTS. PAGE
The Apostolical Commission. An Ordination Sermon preached at Abergwili
Church, December 2\st, 1851  354
English Education foe the Middle Classes. A Sermon preaclied at the
opening of St. John's School, Hurstpierpoint, June list, 1853 . . 367
The Spirit op Truth, the Holy Spirit. A Sermon preached before tJie
JJnh-ersity of Cambridge, May 16th, 1869  385
The Two Malefactors crucified with Christ. A Sermon preaohci in St.
David's, Carmarthen, on Good Friday . . . . . . . 401
The Kesurrection not Incredible. A Sermon preached at ^Carmarthen on
Faster Day  411
LETTERS.
Diocesan Synods. A Letter to the Rev. Canon Seymour, ivith some Remarhs on a
Letter of the Rev. J. W. Joyce ........ 427
The Episcopal Meeting op 1867. A Letter to the Lord Archbishop of Can
terbury  445
APPENDIX.
Speech on the Revision op the Bible, delivered in the Upper House
of Convocation on February 10th, 1870  465
Two Letters to the Editor op The Rock, occasioned by the foregoing
Speech .  467
Other Speeches on the Revision of the Bible, deltvered in the Upper
House of Convocation on February 14th and February 16th,
1871 . .^  472
Notes on Contemporary Questions  481
INDEX  494^

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES.

Some readers may be a little surprised to see ironi/ attributed
to a tragic poet : and it may therefore be proper, before we
proceed to illustrate the nature of the thing as it appears in the
works of Sophocles, to explain and justify our application of the
term. We must begin with a remark or two on the more
ordinary use of the word, on that which, to distinguish it from
the subject of our present inquiry, we will call verbal iron//.
This most familiar species of irony may be described as a figure
which enables the speaker to convey his meaning with greater
force by means of a contrast between his thought and his expres
sion, or, to speak more accurately, between the thought which he
evidently designs to express, and that which his words properly
signify. The cases in which this figure may be advantageously
employed are so various as to include some directly opposite in
their nature. Eor it will serve to express assent and approbation
as well as the contrary. Still as a friend cannot be defended
unless against an enemy who attacks him, the use of verbal irony
must in all cases be either directly or indirectly polemical. It is
a weapon properly belonging to the armoury of controversy, and
not fitted to any entirely peaceable occasion. This is not the less
true because, as the enginery of war is often brought out, and
sham fights exhibited, for the public amusement in time of peace,
so there is a sportive irony, which instead of indicating any con
trariety of opinion or animosity of feeling, is the surest sign of
perfect harmony and goodwill. And as there is a mode of
VOL^ iir.'t B

2 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
expressing sentiments of the utmost esteem and unanimity by
an ironical reproof or contradiction, so there is an ironical self-
commendation, by which a man may playfully confess his own
failings. In the former case the speaker feigns the existence of
adversaries whose language he pretends to adopt : in the latter
he supposes himself surrounded, not as he really is by indulgent
friends, but by severe judges of his actions, before whom it is
necessary for him to disguise the imperfections of his character.
But where irony is not merely jocular, it is not simplj' serious,
but earnest. With respect to opinion, it implies a conviction so
deep, as to disdain a direct refutation of the opposite party : with
respect to feeling, it implies an emotion so strong, as to be able to
command itself, and to suppress its natural tone, in order to vent
itself with greater force.
Irony is so inviting an instrument of literary warfare, that there
are perhaps few eminent controversial writers who have wholly
abstained from the use of it. But in general even those who employ
it most freely reserve it for particular occasions, to add weight and
point to the gravest part of the argument. There is however an
irony which deserves to be distinguished from the ordinary species
by a different name, and which may be properly called dialectic
iromj. This, instead of being concentrated in insulated passages,
and rendered prominent by its contrast with the prevailing tone of
the composition, pervades every part, and is spread over the
whole like a transparent vesture closely fitted to every limb of the
body. The writer effects his purpose by placing the opinion of
his adversary in the foreground, and saluting it with every
demonstration of respect, while he is busied in withdrawing one
by one ail the supports on which it rests : and he never ceases to
approach it with an air of deference, until he has completely
undermined it, when he leaves it to sink by the weight of its own
absurdity. Examples of this species are as rare as those of the
other are common. The most perfect ever produced are those
which occur in Plato's dialogues. In modern literature the finest
specimens may be found in the works of Pascal, and of Plato's
German translator, who has imbibed the peculiar spirit of the

ON THE IRONT OF SOPHOCLES. 3
Platonic irony in a degree which has perhaps never been equalled.
One of the most unfortunate attempts ever made at imitating this
character of the Platonic dialogue is Bishop Berkeley's Minute
Philosopher. Examples of a more superficial kind, where the
object is rather ridicule than argument, will readily present
themselves to the reader's recollection. The highest triumph of
irony consists not in refutation and demolition. It requires that,
while the fallacy is exposed and overthrown by the admissions
which it has itself demanded, the truth should be set in the clearest
light, and on the most solid ground, by the attempts made to
suppress and overwhelm it.
Without departing from the analogy that pervades the various
kinds of verbal irony, we may speak of a practical irony, which is
independent of all forms of speech, and needs not the aid of words.
Life affords as many illustrations of this, as conversation and books
of the other. But here we must carefully distinguish between
two totally different kinds, which, though they may often out
wardly coincide, spring from directly contrary feelings. There is
a malignant, or at least a wanton irony, in the practical sense, by
which a man humours the folly of another, for the purpose of
rendering it more extravagant and incorrigible, whether it be
with the further aim of extracting materials for ridicule from it,
or of turning it to some still less liberal use. Specimens of this
kind are perpetually occurring in society, and ancient and modern
comedy is full of them. But this same irony has a darker side,
which can excite only detestation and horror, as something belong
ing rather to the nature of a fiend than of a man. Such is the
flattery which, under the mask of friendship, deliberately cherishes
passions, and panders to wishes, which are hurrying their uncon
scious slave into ruin. Such is the spirit in which Timon gives
his gold to Alcibiades and his companions, and afterwards to
*the thieves : though in the latter case he is near defeatiag his
own purpose by the irony of his language, which compels one of
the thieves to say : "He has almost charmed me from my profes
sion by persuading me to it." Such is the irony with which the
weird women feed the ambitious hopes of Macbeth, and afterward
n 2

4 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
lull him into a false " security, mortals' chiefest enemy," when
they have been commanded to
" raise such artificial sprites
As by the strcngtli of their illusioa
Shall draw him on to his confusion,"
tiU "He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and hear
His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear."
Such, but more truly diabolical, is the irony with which in Faust
the Spirit of Evil accompanies his victim on his fatal career, and
with which, by way of interlude, he receives the visit of the young
scholar. But there is also a practical irony which is not inconsistent
with the highest degree of wisdom and benevolence. A man of
superior understanding may often find himself compelled to assent
to propositions which he knows, though true in themselves, will
lead to very erroneous inferences in the mind of the speaker,
because either circumstances prevent him from subjoining the
proper limitations, or the person he is addressing is incapable of
comprehending them. So again a friend may comply with the
¦wishes of one who is dear to him, though he foresees that they will
probably end in disappointment and vexation, either because he
conceives that he has no right to decide for another, or because he
thinks it probable that the disappointment itself will prove more
salutary than the privation. Such is the conduct of the affec
tionate father in the parable, which is a type of universal applica
tion : for in every transgression there is a concurrence of a
depraved will, which is the vice of the agent, with certain outward
conditions, which may be considered as a boon graciously bestowed,
but capable of being perverted into an instrument of evil, and a
cause of misery. It must have occurred to most men, more
especially to those of sanguine temperament, and whose lives
have been chequered with many vicissitudes, now and then to
reflect how little the good and ill of their lot have corresponded
with their hopes and fears. All who have lived long enougli in
the world must be able to remember objects coveted with im
patient eagerness, and pursued with long and unremitting toil.

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES, 5
which in possession have proved tasteless and worthless : hours
embittered with anxiety and dread by the prospect of changes
which brought with them the fulfilment of the most ardent wishes :
events anticipated with trembling expectation which arrived,
passed, and left no sensible trace behind them ; while things of
which they scarcely heeded the existence, persons whom they met
with indifference, exerted the most important influence on their
character and fortunes. When, at a sufficient interval and with
altered mood, we review such instances of the. mockery of fate, we
can scarcely refrain from a melancholy smile. And such, we
conceive, though without any of the feelings that sometimes
sadden our retrospect, must have been the look which a superior
intelligence, exempt from our passions, and capable of surveying
all our relations, and foreseeing the consequences of all our actions,
would at the time have cast upon the tumultuous workings of our
blind ambition and our groundless apprehensions, upon the phan
toms we raised to chase us, or to be chased, while the substance
of good and evil presented itself to our view, and was utterly
disregarded. But it is not only in the lives of individuals that man's short
sighted impatience and temerity are thus tacitly rebuked by the
course of events : examples still more striking are furnished by
the history of states and institutions. The moment of the highest
prosperity is often that which immediately precedes the most
ruinous disaster, and (as in the case not only of a Xerxes, a
Charles the Bold, a Philip the Second, and a Napoleon, but of
Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage, and Venice,) it is the sense of
security that constitutes the danger, it is the consciousness of
power and the desire of exerting it that cause the downfall. It
is not however these sudden and signal reverses, the fruit of over
weening arrogance and insatiable ambition, that we have here
principally to observe : but rather an universal law, which mani
fests itself, no less in the moral world than in the physical,
according to which the period of inward languor, corruption, and
decav, which follows that of maturity, presents an aspect more
dazzling and commanding, and to those who look only at the

6 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
surface inspires greater confidence and respect, than the season of
youthful health, of growing but unripened strength. The power
of the Persians was most truly formidable when they first issued
from their comparatively narrow territory to overspread Asia with
their arms. But at what epoch in their history does the Great
King appear invested with such majesty, as when he dictated the
peace of Antalcidas to the Greeks ? And yet at this very time the
throne on which he sate with so lofty a port was so insecurely
based, that a slight shock would have been sufficient, as was soon
proved, to level it with the dust.
It was nearly at the same juncture that Sparta seemed to have
attained the summit of her power ; her old enemy had been
reduced to insignificance ; her two most formidable rivals con
verted into useful dependants ; her refractory allies chastised and
cowed : in no quarter of the political horizon, neither in nor out
of Greece, did it seem possible for the keenest eye to discover any
prognostics of danger ; her empire, says the contemporary his
torian, appeared in every respect to have been now established on
a glorious and solid base. Yet in a few years the Spartan women
saw for the first time the smoke of the flames with which a hostile
army ravaged their country in the immediate neighbourhood of
the capital ; and a Spartan embassy implored the pity of the
Athenians, and pleaded the magnanimity with which Sparta in
her day of victory had preserved Athens from annihilation, as a
motive for the exercise of similar generosity toward a fallen
enemy. The historian sees in this reverse the judgment of the
gods against treachery and impiety. But when we inquire about
the steps by which the change was effected, we find that the
mistress of Greece had lost nearly a thousand of her subjects,
and about four hundred of her citizens, at the battle of
Leuctra. It would be impertinent to accumulate illustrations which will
present themselves uncalled to every reader's mind : we might
otherwise find some amusement in comparing the history of groat
cities with that of their respective states, and in observing how
often the splendour of the one has increased in proportion to the

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 7
weakness and rottenness of the other. The ages of conquest and
of glory had passed before Rome began to exhibit a marble front ;
and the old consuls who in the wars of a century scarcely quelled
the Samnite hydra, and who brought army after army into the
fleld to be destroyed by Hannibal, would have gazed with wonder
on the magnificence in the midst of which the master of the
empire, in anguish and dismay, called upon Varus to restore his
three legions. Yet Rome under Augustus was probably less
gorgeous than Byzantium under Constantino, whose city was no
unapt image of the ill which Dante deplored, as the consequence,
though not the effect, of his conversion.* But instead of dwelling
on the numerous contrasts of this kind which history suggests in
illustrating the fragile and transitory nature of all mortal great
ness, we shall draw nearer to our main point, and shall at the
same time be taking a more cheering view of our subject, if we
observe, that, as all things human are subject to dissolution, so
and for the same reason it is the moment of their destruction that
to the best and noblest of them is the beginning of a higher
being, the dawn of a brighter period of action. When we reflect
on the colossal monarchies that have succeeded one another on the
face of the earth, we readily acknowledge that they fulfilled the
best purpose of their proud existence, when they were broken up
in order that their fragments might serve as materials for now
structures. We confess with a sigh that the wonders of Egypt
were not a mere waste of human labour, if the sight of them
inspired the genius of the Greeks. But we should have been
more reluctant to admit that this nation itself, which stands yo
solitary and unapproachable in its peculiar excellence, attained its
hio-hest glory, when, by the loss of its freedom and .its power, it
was enabled to diffuse a small portion of its spirit through the
Roman world : had it not been that it was the destiny of this
Roman world to crumble into dust, and to be trampled by hordes
of barbarians, strangers to arts and letters. Yet we can believe
this, and things much more wonderful, when we contemplate that
* Inf. xix. 115 — 117. Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre, Non la tua con
version, ma quella dote Che da te prese il primo ricco Patre.

8 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
.new order of things, which followed what seemed so frightful a
darkness, and such irretrievable ruin.
We must add one other general remark before we proceed to
apply the preceding. There is always a slight cast of irony in
the grave, calm, respectful attention impartially bestowed by an
intelligent judge on two contending parties, who are pleading their
causes before him with all the earnestness of deep conviction, and
of excited feeling. What makes the contrast interesting is, that
the right and the truth lie on neither side exclusively : that there
is no fraudulent purpose, no gross imbecility of intellect, on
either : but both have plausible claims and specious reasons to
allege, though each is too much blinded by prejudice or passion
to do justice to the views of his adversary. Eor here the irony
lies not in' the demeanour of the judge, but is deeply seated in the
case itself, which seems to favour each of the litigants, but really
eludes them both. And this too it is that lends the highest degree
of interest to the conflicts of religious and political parties. For
when we believe that no principle, no sentiment, is involved in the
contest, but that each of the rival factions is equally selfish, and
equally insincere, we must look on with indifference or disgust,
unless some other interests are likely to be affected by the issue.
Our attention is indeed more anxiously fixed on a struggle in
which right and wrong, truth and falsehood, virtue and vice, are
manifestly arrayed in deliberate opposition against each other.
But still this case, if it ever occurs, is not that on which the mind
dwells with the most intense anxiety. For it seems to carry its
own final decision in itself. But the liveliest interest arises when
by inevitable circumstances characters, motives, and principles
are brought into hostile collision, in which good and evil are sa
inextricably blended on each side, that we are compelled to give
an equal share of our sympathy to each, while we perceive that no
earthly power can reconcile them ; that the strife must last until
it is extinguished with at least one of the parties, and yet that
this cannot happen without the sacrifice of sometliing which we
should wish to preserve. Such spectacles often occur in human
affairs, and agitate the bystanders with painful perplexity. But a

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 9
review of history tends to allay this uneasiness, by affording us on
many such occasions, a glimpse of the balance held by an invisible
hand, which so nicely adjusts the claims of the antagonists, that
neither is whoUy triumphant, nor absolutely defeated : each per
haps loses the object he aimed at, but in exchange gains some
thing far beyond his hopes.
The dramatic poet is the creator of a little world, in which he
rules with absolute sway, and may shape the destinies of the
imaginary beings to whom he gives life and breath according to
any plan that he may choose. Since however they are men
whose actions ho represents, and since it is human sympathy that
he claims, he will, if he understands his art, make his administra
tion conlbrm to the laws by which he conceives the course of
mortal life to be really governed. Nothing that rouses the feel
ings in the history of mankind Is foreign to his scene, but as he is
confined by artificial limits, he must hasten the march of events,
and compress within a narrow compass what is commonly found
diffused over a large space, so that a faithful image of human
existence may be concentrated in his mimic sphere. From this
sphere however he himself stands aloof. The eye with which he
views his microcosm and the creatures who move in it, will not
bo one of human friendship, nor of brotherly kindness, nor of
parental love ; It will be that with which he imagines that the
ifivlsible powpr who orders the destiny of man might regard the
world and its doings. The essential character therefore of all
dramatic poetry must depend on the poet's religious or philo
sophical sentiments, on the light in which he contemplates history
and life, on the belief he entertains as to the unseen hand that
regulates their events.
If any of these remarks should appear questionable as a general
proposition, we may at least safely assume their truth as beyond
doubt, when they are applied to Sophocles. Not even the most
superficial reader of his works can fail to observe, that they are
all Impressed with a deep religious character, that he takes every
opportunity of directing the attention of his audience to an over
ruling Power, and appears to consider his own most important

10 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
function to be that of interpreting Its decrees. What then was
the religion of Sophocles ? what was his conception of this Power
whom he himself represents in conducting the affairs of his Ideal
world ? On the answer we give to this question must evidently
depend our apprehension of the poet's main design, and our
enjoyment of the art he has exerted in its execution. Unques
tionably the religion of Sophocles was not the religion of Homer,
and the light In which he viewed destiny and providence was not
that in which they are exhibited by the Homeric poems. In the
Interval which separated the maturity of epic and dramatic
poetry, the human mind had taken some great strides : and men
of a vigorous and cultivated intellect could no longer acquiesce in
the simple theology of the Homeric age. The dogma which to
the hearers of the old bard seemed perhaps the best solution that
could be found for their moral difficulties, that the father of gods
and men was, like the humblest of his children, subject to the
sway of an irresistible fate, against which he often might murmur
in vain : this dogma was suppressed or kept In the background,
and on the other hand the paramount supremacy of Jupiter was
brought prominently forward.* The popular mythology indeed
still claimed unabated reverence, even from the most enlightened
Greeks. But the quarrels of the gods, which had afforded so
much entertainment to their simple-hearted forefathers, were
hushed on the tragic scene : and a unity of will was tacitly
supposed to exist among the members of the Olympian family,
which would have deprived Homer of his best machinery. The
tendency of these changes was to transfer the functions of Destiny
to Jupiter, and to represent all events as Issuing from his will,
and the good and evil that fall to the lot of mortals as dispensed
by his hand. It is evident that, so far as this notion prevailed,
the character of destiny was materially altered. It could no
* See Antigen. 604. rtav, Zey, Suvafftv rir avSpiov vTrspfiaaia Kara<T;^oi, rav ovO'
virvoQ a'lptl 7ro9' u TTavroyripwc k. t. \. (Ed. C. 1035. toi Ziu QtHv Travrapxi,
¦iravTOTTTa. El. 174. in /ikyag ovpavif Zfic, 'oj 'ifop^ Travra Kal Kparivii. CEd.
T. 903. d\X* w KOarvvtiiv, liirtp op0' aKoutit;, 7,tv -Travr dvdaawv. [Herm. reads, e. 6.
dicoiui; TTcivriav dvdaauv.] The thought is still more forcibly expressed in PhUoct.
9S9. Zei/Q iaO', 'iv tidijv, ZevQ 6 rijaSi yi]Q KparOiv, Z£u_', ^ dkdoKrai TaijQ'.

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 11
longer be considered as a mere brute force, a blind necessity
working without consciousness of its means or its ends. The
power indeed still remained, and was stlU. mysterious In its nature,
inevitable and irresistible in its operation ; but it is now conceived
to be under the direction of a sovereign mind, acting according to
the rules of unerring justice. This being the case, though its
proceedings might often be inscrutable to man, they would
never be accidental or capricious.
How far these ideas had acquired clearness and consistency in
the mind of Sophocles, it is impossible precisely and certainly to
determine. But it seems indisputable that indications of them
appear in his works, and It is interesting to observe the traces of
their influence on his poetry. It has indeed been often supposed
that some of his greatest masterpieces were founded on a totally
different view of the subject from that just described : on the
supposition that mankind were either subject to an iron destiny,
which without design or forethought steadily pursued its Im
mutable track, insensible of the victims which in Its progress it
crushed beneath its car : or else that they were at the mercy of
reckless and wayward deities, who sported with their happiness,
and sometimes destroyed It merely to display their power. We
do not deny that the former at least of these suppositions ma}' bo
adapted to the purpose of dramatic poetry, and that the contrast
between man with his hopes, fears, wishes, and undertakings, and
a dark, inflexible fate, affords abundant room for the exhibition of
tragic irony : but we conceive that this is not the loftiest kind,
and that Sophocles really aimed at something higher. To Investi
gate this subject thoroughl}', so as to point out the various shades
and gradations of irony in his tragedies, would require much more
than the space which can here be devoted to it. We shall content
ourselves with selecting some features in his compositions which
appear most strikingly to illustrate the foregoing remarks. One
observation however must be premised, without which the works
of Sophocles can scarcely be viewed In a proper light. That
absolute power which we have attributed to the dramatic poet
over his creatures may be limited by circumstances : and in the

12 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
Greek theatre it was in fact restricted by peculiar causes. None
but gods or heroes could act any prominent part In the Attic
tragedy : and as the principal persons were all celebrated in the
national poetry, their deeds and sufferings were in general
familiar to the audience. The poet indeed enjoyed full liberty of
choice among the manifold forms which almost every tradition
assumed : and he was allowed to Introduce considerable variations
in subordinate points. But still he was confined within a definite
range of subjects, and even in that he could not expatiate with
uncontrolled freedom. Now the legends from which his scenes
were to be drawn were the fictions, at least the tales, of a simple
but rude age : the characters of his principal persons were such as
had struck the vigorous but unrefined imagination of a race who
were still children of nature : their actions were such as exhibited
the qualities most esteemed in the Infancy of society ; and their
fate corresponded to the view then entertained of the manner in
which the affairs of the world are directed by natural or super
natural agency. While the poet's materials were thus prescribed
for him, it was scarcely possible that he should Infuse his spirit
equally into all, and so mould and organize them, as never to
betray the coarseness of their original texture. Duly to estimate
the art of Sophocles, and rightly to understand his designs, we
must take into account the resistance of the elements which he
had to transform and fashion to his purposes. When we consider
their nature we shall not perhaps be surprised to find that he some
times contents himself with slight indications of his meaning, and
that everything does not appear exactly to harmonize with it.
We shall rather admire the unity that pervades works framed
out of such a chaos, and the genius which could stamp the
ancient legends with a character so foreign to their original
import. The irony io. which Sophocles appears to us to have displayed
the highest powers of his art is not equally conspicuous in all his
remaining plays, though we believe the perception of it to be
indispensable for the full enjoyment of every one of them. We
shall for this reason be led to dwell less upon some of his greatest

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 13
masterpieces, than upon works which are commonly deemed
of inferior value. But we shall begin with those in which the
poet's intention is most apparent, and shall thus perhaps be enabled
to find a clue to it where It is less clearly disclosed. We are thus
led in the first place to consider two of those founded on the
Theban legends.
Though it is not certain whether CEdipus King and (Edif>us at
Colonics were parts of one original design, it is at least probable
that the contrast by which the effect of each Is so much heightened
entered into the poet's plan. Each indeed is complete in itself,
and contains everything requisite for the full understanding and
enjoyment of it ; and yet each acquires a new force and beauty
from a comparison with the other. We shall therefore consider
them successively.
The opening scene of the first Oedipus exhibits the people of
Cadmus bowed down under the weight of a terrible calamity. A
devouring pestilence is ravaging its fields, and desolating its city.
The art of man has hitherto availed nothing to check its progress :
the aid of the gods has been implored in vain. The altars have
blazed, and the temples reeked with incense : yet the victims of
the Destroying Power continue to fall on every side, frequent as
ever. The streets are constantly resounding with the psean ; but
its strains are still interrupted by the voice of wailing. In this
extremity of affliction however a gleam of hope shoots from one
quarter through the general gloom. The royal house has been
hitherto exempt from the overwhelming evil. The king, happy
in the affection of his consort, and surrounded by a flourfshing
family, seems alone to stand erect above the flood of evils with
which his people are struggling, and under which they are ready
to sink. To his fortune and wisdom the afflicted city now looks
for deliverance. It has not been forgotten that, on a former
occasion, when Thebes was smitten with a scourge almost equally
grievous, the marvellous sagacity of ffidipus solved the enigma on
which Its fate depended. There Is therefore good ground for
hoping that his tried prudence, aided by the favour of the gods,
may once more succeed in penetrating to the mysterious cause of

14 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
the present calamity, and may contrive means of relief With
this belief a throng of suppHants of all ages, headed by the
mialsters of the temples, has come in solemn procession to the
royal palace, and has seated itself on the steps of the altars before
its vestibule, bearing the sacred ensigns with which the miserable
are wont to implore succour from the powerful. Informed of their
approach, the king himself comes forth to hear their complaints,
and receive their requests. His generous nature is touched by the
piteous spectacle, and though himself unhurt, he feels for the
stroke under which his people suffers. The public distress has
long been the object of his paternal cares ; already he has taken
measures for relieving It ; he has sent a messenger to the oracle
which had guided his steps in other momentous junctures by Its
tlmelj' warnings, and had brought him to his present state of
greatness and glory ; the answer of the Delphic god is hourly
expected, without which even the wisdom of ffidlpus himself can
devise no remedy.
At the moment the envoy arrives with joyful tidings. Apollo
has revealed to him the cause of the evil and the means of
removing it. The land labours under a curse drawn upon it by
the guilt of man ; it is the stain of blood that has poisoned all the
sources of life ; the crime must be expiated, the pollution purged.
Yet the oracle which declares the nature of the deed Is silent as to
the name of the criminal ; he is denounced as the object of divine
and human vengeauce ; but his person is not described, his abode
Is not disclosed, except by the intimation that the land is cursed
by his presence. The sagacity of CEdipus is still required to
detect the secret on which the safety of his people depends ; and
he confidently undertakes to bring it to light. The suppliant
multitude, their worst fears quieted, better hopes revived, with
draw in calm reliance on the king and their god ; and the Chorus
appearing at the summons of CEdipus, cheered yet perplexed by
the mysterious oracle, partially soothed by Its promises, but stOl
trembling with timid suspense, pours forth a plaintive strain. In
which it describes the horrors of its present condition, and implores
the succour of its tutelary deities.

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 15
During this pause the spectator has leisure to reflect, how
different all is from what it seems. The wrath of heaven has been
pointed against the afflicted city, only that it might faU with
concentrated force on the head of a single man ; and he who is its
object stands alone calm and secure ; unconscious of his own misery,
he can afford pity for the unfortunate : to him all look up for
succour ; and, as in the plenitude of wisdom and power, he under
takes to trace the evil, of which he is himself the sole author, to
its secret source.
In the meanwhile the king has deliberated with his kinsman
Crcon, and now appears to proclaim his will and publish his
measures. To the criminal, If he shall voluntarily discover himself,
he offers leave to retire from the country with impunity : to who
ever shall make him known, whether citizen or stranger, large
reward and royal favour : but should this gracious invitation
prove iaeffectual, then he threatens the guilty with the utmost
rigour of justice ; and finally, should man's arm be too short, he
consigns the offender by a solemn imprecation to the vengeance of
the gods. The same curse he denounces against himself, if he
knowingly harbours the man of blood under his roof, and a like
one agaiast all who refuse to aid him in his search. The Chorus, after
protesting its Innocence, offers advice. Next to Apollo the blind
seer Tiresias is reputed to possess the largest share of supernatural
knowledge. From him the truth which the oracle has withheld
may be best ascertained. But (Edipus has anticipated this prudent
counsel, and on Croon's suggestion has already sent for Tiresias,
and is surprised that he has not yet arrived. At length the
venerable man appears. His orbs of outward sight have long been
quenched : but so much the clearer and stronger is the light
which shines Inward, and enables him to discern the hidden
things of heaven and earth. The king conjures him to exert his
prophetic power for the deliverance of his country and its ruler.
But instead of a ready compliance, the request is received with
expressions of grief and despondency : it is first evaded, and at
length peremptorily refused. The indignation of CEdipus is roused
by the unfeeHng denial, and at length he is provoked to declare

16 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
his suspicion that Tiresias has been himself, so far as his blindness
permitted, an accessary to the regicide. The charge kindles in its
turn the anger of the seer, and extorts from him the dreadful
secret which he had resolved to suppress. He bids his accuser
obey his own recent proclamation, and thenceforward as the
perpetrator of the deed which had polluted the land, to seal his
unhallowed lips. Enraged at the audacious recrimination, CEdipus
taunts Tiresias with his blindness : a darkness, not of the eyes
only, but of the mind ; he is a child of night, whose puny malice
can do no hurt to one whose eyes are open to the light of day.
Yet who can have prompted the old man to the impudent
calumny? Who but the counsellor at whose suggestion he had
been consulted, the man who, when CEdipus and his children are
removed, stands nearest to the throne ? It is a conspiracy — a
plot laid by Creon, and hatched by Tiresias. The suspicion once
admitted becomes a settled conviction, and the king deplores the
condition of royalty, which he finds thus exposed to the assault of
envy and ambition. But his resentment, vehement as it is, at
Creon's ingratitude, is almost forgotten in his abhorrence and
contempt of the hoary Impostor who has sold himself to the traitor.
Even his boasted art is a juggle and a lie. Else, why was it not
exerted when the Sphinx propounded her fatal riddle ? The seer
then was not Tiresias, but CEdipus. The lips then closed by the
consciousness of Ignorance have now been opened by the love of
gold. His age alone screens him from Immediate punishment :
the partner of his guilt will nqt escape so easily. Tiresias answers
by repeating his declaration in still plainer terms ; but as at the
king's indignant command he is about to retire, he droj)s an
allusion to his birth, which reminds CEdipus of a secret which
he has not yet unriddled. Instead however of satisfying his
curiosity, the prophet once again, in language still more dis
tinct than before, describes his present condition and predicts his
fate. This scene completes the exposition that was begun in the
preceding one. The contrast between the real blindness and
wretchedness of CEdipus and his fancied wisdom and greatness

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 17
can be carried no further, than when he contemptuously rejects
the truth which he is seeking and has found, and makes it a
ground of quarrel with a faithful friend. The Chorus, in its next
song, only interprets the irony of the action, when it asks. Who is
the guilty wretch against whom the oracle has let loose the
ministers of vengeance ? Where can be his lurking-place ? It
must surely be in some savage forest, in some dark cave, or rocky
glen, among the haunts of wild beasts, that the miserable fugitive
hides himself from his pursuers. Who can believe that he is
dwelling In the heart of the city, in the royal palace ? that he is
seated on the throne ?
It does not belong to our present purpose to dwell on the
following scenes, in which the fearful mystery is gradually im-
folded. The art with which the poet has contrived to sustain the
interest of the spectator, by retarding the discovery, has been
always deservedly admired. It has indeed been too often con
sidered as the great excellence of this sublime poem, the real
beauty of which, as we hope to show, is of a very different kind,
and infinitely more profound and heart-stirring than mere ingenuity
can produce. But the attentive reader who shall examine this
part of the play from the point of view that has been here taken,
will not fail to observe, among numberless finer touches of irony
with which the dialogue is inlaid, that the poet has so constructed
his plot, as always to evolve the successive steps of the disclosure
out of incidents which either exhibit the delusive security of
Qidlpus in the strongest light, or tend to cherish his confidence,
and allay his fears. Thus the scene with Jocasta in which his
apprehensions are first awakened, arises out of the suspicion he
has conceived of Creon, which, unjust and arbitrary as it is, is the
only refuge he has been able to find from the necessity of believ
ing Tiresias. The tidings from Corinth, by which he and Jocasta
are so elated as to question the prescience of the gods, leads to the
discovery which fixes her doom. Still more remarkable is the
mode in which this is connected with the following and final stage
of the solution. CEdipus has reason to dread that the arrival of
the herdsman may confirm his worst fears as to the death of
VOL. III. c

18 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
Laius. Yet he forgets this as a slight care in his impatience to
ascertain his parentage : hence the Chorus bursts out into a strain
of joy at the prospect of the festive rites with which Citha)ron — a
spot to be henceforth so dear to the royal family — will be honoured,
when the happy discovery shall be made : and CEdipus presses the
herdsman on this subject with sanguine eagerness, which will
bear not evasion or delay, and never ceases to hope for the best,
until he has extorted the truth which shows him the whole extent
of his calamity.
No sooner has the film dropped from his eyes than he condemns
himself to perpetual darkness, to the state which, but a short time
before, had been the subject of his taunts on Tiresias. The feeling
by which he is urged thus to verify the seer's prediction is not
the horror of the light and of all the objects it can present to him,
but indignation at his own previous blindness. The eyes which
have served him so ill, which have seen without discerning what
it was most Important for him to know, shall be for ever extin
guished.* And in this condition, most wretched, most helpless, he
enters once more, to exhibit a perfect contrast to his appearance
in the opening scene, and thus to reverse that irony, of which we
have hitherto seen but one side. While he saw the light of day,
he had been ignorant, infatuated. Incapable of distinguishing truth
from falsehood, friend from foe. Now he clearly perceives all
that concerns him ; he is conscious of the difference between his
own shrewdness and the divine intelligence : he is cured of his
rash presumption, of his hasty suspicions, of his doubts and cares :
he has now a sure test of Creon's sincerity, and he finds that it will
stand the trial. Creon's moderation, discretion, and equanimity,
are beautifully contrasted in this scene, as in that of the alterca
tion, with the vehement passion of CEdipus. The mutual relation
of the two characters so exactly resembles that between Tasso
and Antonio in Goethe's Tasso, that the German play may serve
as a commentary on this part of the Greek one. And here it may
* Hermann's correction and interpretation of the passage here alluded to, v. 1271
— 1274, seem indispensably necessary, and restore one of the most beautiful touches
in the play. — [See note on page 57.]

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 19
be proper to remark that Sophocles has rendered sufficiently clear
for an attentive reader, what has nevertheless been too commonly
overlooked, and has greatly disturbed many in the enjoyment of
this play : that CEdipus, though unfortunate enough to excite our
sympathy, is not so perfectly innocent as to appear the victim of a
cruel and malignant power. The particular acts indeed which
constitute his calamity were Involuntarily committed : and hence in
the sequel he can vindicate himself from the attack of Creon, and
represent himself to the villagers of Colonus as a man more sinned
against than sinning.* But still it is no less evident that all the
events of his life have arisen out of his headstrong. Impetuous
character, and could not have happened if he had not neglected
the warning of the god. His blindness, both the Inward and the
outward, has been self-inflicted ! Now, as soon as the first
paroxysm of grief has subsided, he appears chastened, sobered,
humbled : the first and most painful step to true knowledge and
inward peace has been taken ; and he already feels an assur
ance, that he is henceforward an especial object of divine
protection, which will shield him from all ordinary Ills and
dangers. Here, where the main theme of the poet's irony is the contrast
between the appearance of good and the reality of evil, these
intimations of the opposite contrast are sufficient. But in CEdipus
at Colonus this new aspect of the subject becomes the groundwork
of the play. It is not indeed so strikingly exhibited as the
former, because the fate of CEdipus Is not the sole, not even the
principal object of attention, but Is subordinate to another half
political, half religious interest, arising out of the legends which
connect it with the ancient glories and future prospects of Attica,
and with the sanctuary of Colonus. Still the same conception
which is partially unfolded in the first play is here steadily
pursued, and, so far as the Theban hero Is concerned, is the ruling
idea. In the first scene the appearance of CEdipus presents a
complete reverse of that which we witnessed at the opening of the
preceding play. We now see him stripped of all that then seemed
* (Ed. Col. 266. ra y tpya jiov XlfnovdoT tori naWov ij ScdpaKOTa,
c 2

20 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
to render his lot so enviable, and suffering the worst miseries to
which human nature is liable. He Is blind, old, destitute : an
outcast from his home, an exile from his country, a wanderer in a
foreign land : reduced to depend on the guidance and support of
his daughter, who herself needs protection, and to subsist on the
scanty pittance afforded him by the compassion of strangers, who,
whenever thej^ recognize him, view him with horror. But a
change has likewise taken place within him, which compensates
even for this load of affliction. In the school of adversity he has
learnt patience, resignation, and content. The storm of passion
has subsided, and has left him calm and firm. The cloud has
rolled away from his mental vision, and nothing disturbs the
clearness and serenity of his views. He not only contemplates
the past in the light of truth, but feels himself instinct with
prophetic powers. He is conscious of a charmed life, safe from
the malice of man and the accidents of nature, and reserved by the
gods for the accomplishment of high purposes. The first incident
that occurs to him marks In the most signal manner the elevation
to which he has been raised by his apparent fall, and the privilege
he has gained by the calamity which separates him from the rest
of mankind. He has been driven out of Thebes as a wretch
polluted, and polluting the land. Yet he finds a resting-place in
the sanctuary of the awful goddesses, the avengers of crime, whose
unutterable name iills every heart with horror, whose ground is
too holy for any human foot to tread. For him there is no terror
in the thought of them : he shrinks not from their presence, but
greets them as friends and ministers of blessing. He is, as he
describes himself, not only a pious but a sacred person.* But the
arrival of Ismene exhibits him in a still more august character.
Feeble and helpless as he appears, he is destined to be one of
Attica's tutelary heroes : and two powerful states are to dispute
with one another the possession of his person and the right of
paying honours to his tomb. The poet on this occasion expresses
the whole force of the contrast, which is the subject of the play,
in a few emphatic lines. (Ed. How speaks the oracle, my child /
* 287. ri>cit> ydp ifpoc tiaefi^e Tt.

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 21
Ism. Thou shall be sought by them that banished thee. Living and
dead, to aid the common iceal. CEd. Wliy, who may prosper ivith
such aid as mine ? Ism. On thee 'tis said, the might of Thebes
depends. CEd. Now, when all's lost, I am a man indeed. Ism,
The gods now raise the head they once laid low.* In the following
scenes the most prominent object is undoubtedly the glory of
Attica and of Theseus. The contest indeed between the two rivals
for the possession or the friendship of the outcast, the violence of
Creon and the earnest supplication of Polynices, serve to heighten
our impression of the dignity with which CEdipus is now invested
by the favour of the gods. But still, if the poet had not had a
different purpose in view, he would probably have contented
himself with a less elaborate picture of the struggle. As It is,
Creon's arrogance and meanness place the magnanimity of the
Attic hero in the strongest relief, It is not quite so evident what
was the motive for introducing the Interview with Polynices,
which seems at first sight to have very little connexion either with
the fate and character of CEdipus, or with the renown of Theseus.
In this scene CEdipus appears to modern eyes in a somewhat
unamiable aspect : and at all events it Is one which will effectually
prevent us from confounding his piety and resignation with a
spirit of Christian meekness and charity. But to the ears of the
ancients there was probably nothing grating in this vindictive
sternness, while it contributes a very important service to the
poet's main design. That the resolution of CEdipus should not be
shaken by the solicitations of Creon, backed by threats and force,
was to be expected; we now see that his anger is not to be
softened by the appeal which Polynices makes to his pltj- and his
parental affection. He is for ever alienated from his unnatural
sons and from Thebes, and unalterably devoted to the generous
strangers who have sheltered him. Their land shall retain him a
willing sojourner, and in his tomb they shall possess a pledge of
victory and of deliverance in danger. Nothing now remains but
* 388. OIA. ri Se Te6i<77n(TTai tUvov; ISM. Se role inn Kv^V'Ov dvBpiiTrois ¦ttoti
OavovT' taiadai Z^vrd t' (iiaoiag xap'"- OIA. Tiff 5' dv ri roiovS' dvSpbq iv wpdK-
luv av ; ISM. 'Ei/ aol to. khvuiv ipaai yiyvtuQai Kparr]. OIA. "Or' oir/c It' ilfii, rjjviicaOr'
ap' tlfi dvt'ip. ISM. Vvv yap 6toi a' bpQovat, irpoaQi S' iHWvtrav.

22 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
that he should descend into his last resting-place, honoured by the
express summons of the gods, and yielding a joj'ful obedience to
their pleasure. His orphan daughters indeed drop some natural
tears over the loss they have sustained : but even their grief is
soon soothed by the thought of an end so peaceful and happy In
itself, and so full of blessing to the hospitable land where the hero
reposes. We have already remarked that the irony we have been illus
trating is not equally conspicuous in all the plays of Sophocles.
In the two CEdipuses we conceive It is the main feature in the
treatment of the subject, and is both clearly indicated by their
structure, and unequivocally expressed in numberless passages.
On the other hand, in the Electra it may appear doubtful whether
anything is gained by considering the plot from this point of
view, and whether we are justified in attributing it to Sof)liocles.
The poet's object may seem to have been merely to exhibit the
heroine in a series of situations, which successively call forth the
fortitude, the energy, the unconquerable will) and the feminine
tenderness, which compose her character. This object however
may not be inconsistent with others : and the arrangement of the
action seems to point to an ulterior design ; which we shall very
briefly suggest, as there are no marks which absolutely compel the
reader to recognize it. The lamentations of Electra at her first
appearance are protracted to a length which can scarcely be
considered necessary for the purpose of an exposition of her
character and situation, and we are therefore rather led to connect
them with the scene which precedes them : and so regarded they
certainly assume an ironical aspect. In the former our attention
was directed to the blood-stained house of the Peloplds, the scene
of so many crimes, where guilt has been so long triumphant,
where all is still hushed In secure unsuspecting repose. But
already the Avenger Is standing near its threshold, ready to
execute his errand of retributive justice, his success ensured by all
the aids of human prudence, and by the sanction of the god. The
friends concert their plan in a manner which leaves no doubt in
the mind of the spectator that the righteous cause will speedily

ON THE IRONY OP SOPHOCLES. 23
prevail. After this Electra's inconsolable grief, her despondency,
and complaints, are less suited to excite our sympathy, than to
suggest a reflection on the contrast between that apparent pros
perity and security of the guilty which she in her ignorance
deplores, and the imminent danger with which we see them
threatened by the divine vengeance. And this contrast becomes
still stronger when, by the device of Orestes, the last fear which
restrained the insolence of the criminals Is removed, the last hope
which cheered Electra's drooping spirit is extinguished ; at the
same time that the punishment of the one, and the deliverance of
the other, are on the point of accomplishment.* Clytemnestra's
sophistical vindication of her own conduct also assumes a tone of
self-mockerj', which is deeply tragical, when we remember that,
while she is pleading, her doom Is sealed, and that the hand which
is about to execute it is already lifted above her head. Finally, it
is In the moment of their highest exultation and confidence, that
each of the offenders discovers the Inevitable certainty of their
impending ruln.t
Of all our poet's remaining works, that which stands lowest in
general estimation appears to be The Trachinian Virgins. Its
merit has been commonly supposed to consist in the beauty of
detached scenes or passages : but so inferior has it been thought,
as a whole, to the other plays of Sophocles, that a celebrated critic
has not scrupled to express a doubt as to its genuineness, and to
conjecture that it ought to be ascribed to the poet's son lophon.
This conjecture Hermann (Prsef.) rejects with great confidence,
founded on his long and intimate acquaintance with the poetical
* This scene affords a very happy illustration of the difference between practical
and verbal irony. The poet makes Clytemnestra use what she conceives to be lan
guage of bitter irony, while she is really uttering simple truth : 795. HA. 'v^piZi. vvv
yap evTVxoiiffa Tvyxdv£ig. KA. ovkovv 'OpsaTrjQ Kal ov iravaarov rdSe ; HA. Tresrau-
Itt6' r/f'.tif, oix 'oTTiiig ae jroucro/iEv. According to the punctuation and accentuation
adopted by Brunck and Hermann, in 1. 796 [785. Herm.], Clj'temnestra only taunts
Electra without any irony. For the purpose of an illustration, it is not material how-
Sophocles meant the line to be spoken ; but in spite of Triclinius we prefer either
ovsovv with an interrogation (as Aj. 79) or oiiKovv, without one (as Antig. 91) : and
of these the former.
t This is the meaning of the taunt, 1481 : xal fidvrig i>v dpiarog la^dWov jraXat ;
see Hermann's note. — [He explains : Qui fit, ut qui nunc recte oonjectes, non id.
dudum feceris ?]

24 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
character of Sophocles. It would seem however as If his opinion was
formed In consideration rather of the particular features of the play,
in which he recognizes the master's hand, than of the entire com
position, which, acc'ording to his view of it, is defective in some
very Important poiuts. The interest, he conceives, is so unfor
tunately divided between Hercules and Dejanira, that though the
fate of the hero was Intended by the poet to be the main spring of
the spectator's fear and pity, his sympathy is insensibly transferred
to the unhappy victim of conjugal affection, who thus becomes In
reality the principal personage. Hence when her fate Is decided,
the spectator's suspense is at an end : the last act appears super
fluous ; and the sufferings of Hercules, now that the heroine is
gone to whom all his vicissitudes had been referred, can no longer
excite any deep concern. This defect, Hermann thinks, would
have been remedied, if the hero's sufferings had been exhibited in
the presence of Dejanira, so as to aggravate her affliction : and he
can scarcely understand what could have led Sophocles to neglect
an arrangement so clearly preferable to that which he has adopted,
unless it may have been the wish to introduce a little variation in
the treatment of a somewhat hackneyed argument.
To Hermann's judgment on the genuineness of the piece we
most cordially assent ; but for this very reason we cannot embrace
his opinion of Its supposed Imperfections, and at the risk of being
thought superstitious admirers of a great name, we are inclined to
infer from his objections to the composition, not that Sophocles
was on' this occasion either deficient in invention, or willing to
sacrifice beauty to the affectation of originality — a species of
vanity which his other works afford no ground for imputing to
him: but that his design was not exactly such as the critic
conceives. It appears to us that in fact Hermann has overlooked
one of the most Important features of the subject, which, if duly
considered, satisfactorily accounts for all that according to his
view disturbs the unity and symmetry of the drama. The fate of
Hercules Is undoubtedly the point on which the interest of the
play was meant to turn. To it our attention is directed from
beginning to end. Compared with Hercules, Dejanira is a very

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES, 25-
insignificant person : not indeed in the eyes of a modern reader,
of whom Hermann's remark may be perfectly true, that the
sympathy of the spectators is directed more to her than to the
hero. In her we find much to admire, to love, and to pity : in
him we see nothing but a great spirit almost overpowered by the
intensity of bodily suffering. But the question is, was this the
light in which they were viewed by the spectators for whom
Sophocles wrote ? Now it seems clear that to them Hercules was
more than a suffering or struggling hero : he was a deified person,
who had assumed a blessed and immortal nature,* had become an
object of religious adoration, and was frequently Invoked for aid
and protection In seasons of difficulty and danger. It was from
the funeral pile on the top of CEta that he ascended, as Sophocles
elsewhere describes,! all radiant with fire divine, to enjoy the
company of the gods above. The image of his earthly career
could never be contemplated by his worshippers without reference
to this, its happy and glorious termination. And therefore it
cannot be contended that the poet did not take this feeling Into
account, because in the play itself he has introduced no allusion to
the apotheosis. It does not follow because there Hercules himself,
according to Hermann's observation, is described as quitting life
with reluctance, like one of Homer's heroes, whose soul descends
to Orcus bewailing its fate, and the vigour and youth which it
leaves behind,+ that therefore the spectators were expected to
forget all their religious notions of him, or to consider him
abstracted from the associations with which he was habitually
connected in their thoughts. But In fact his blissful immortality
is manifestly implied in that consummation of his labours, that final
release from toil and hardship, which was announced to him by
the oracle, the meaning of which he did not understand till he
was experiencing its fulfilment. This mysterious prediction it is,
* Od. A. 602. aiirbg per' dSavdroiai Btolaiv T'lp-iriTai iv 6a\iys, Kai 1^"
KaXKiafvpov'Uprjv. f Phil. 726. 'iv' 0 \aKKaa7rtg dvrip Biolg TrXdBti izdaiv, 6f!<ji wpi irapipafig, Olrag
inrip o\9fiiV.
% Trach. 1262. uig iirixopTov TsKiova' diKoiaiov ipyov. " (iuamvis enim fortis anima,
tamen invita ad Orcum abit, ov ¦KOTp.ov ycoioaa, \nrov(T' aJporijra Kal T/jSijv.'" Herm.

26 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
which at the beginning of the play calls up Dejanira's hopes and
fears into conflict, and the marvellous mode of its accomplishment
is the subject of the ensuing scenes.
The opening scene, which, though less artificial than those of
the other plays of Sophocles, ought not to be confounded with the
prologues of Euripides, while it unfolds to us the anxiety and
gloomy forebodings of Dejanira, places her character in the point
of view which Is necessary to the unity of the piece. Her happi
ness, her very being, are bound up in that of Hercules. The most
fortunate event of her life had once seemed to her the issue of the
struggle by which Hercules won her for his bride. Now Indeed,
on looking back to the past, she is struck with the melancholy
reflection, that this union, the object of her most ardent wishes,
had hitherto been productive of scarcely anything but disappoint
ment and vexation. The hero, for whom alone she lived, had
been almost perpetually separated from her by a series of ha'zardous
adventures, which kept her a prey to constant alarm and dis
quietude. Short and rare as his visits had always been, the
Interval which had elapsed since the last had been unusually
long ; she had been kept in more than ordinary ignorance of his
situation : she begins to dread the worst, and Is Inclined to
interpret the ambiguous tablet, which he left In her hands at
parting, in the most unfavourable manner. The Information she
receives from her son, while it relieves her most painful fears,
convinces her that the momentous crisis has arrived, which will
either secure, or for ever destroy her happiness with that of her
hero. A last labour remains for him to achieve, in which he is
destined either to fall, or to reap the reward of his toils in a life
unembittered by pain or sorrow. Soon however she hears that the
crisis has ended happHy, and for a moment joy takes undivided
possession of her breast. But the glad tidings are quickly followed
by the announcement of a new calamity, the danger of losing the
affections of Hercules, or of sharing them with another. He has
reached the goal : but by the same turn of fortune she is removed
farther than ever from the object of her desires: the same gale
which has wafted him into the haven of rest, has wellnigh wrecked

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 27
her hopes. Still even against this evil she has long had a remedy
in store, which, if it succeeds, will unite her lot to that of Hercules
by Indissoluble bonds : no woman shall again dispute his love with
her. But now the irony of fate displays itself in the cruellest
manner : all her wishes shall be granted, but only to verify her
worst fears. The labours of Hercules are at an end : she herself
has disabled him from ever undertaking another. No rival will
henceforward divert his love from her: his eyes will soon be
closed upon all earthly forms. But all this is but a bitter
mockery : in truth she has made him in whose wellbeing her own
was wrapped up, supremely wretched; she has converted his
affection for herself into deadly hatred. She, who was able to
ruin him, has no means of saving him : the only proof she can
give of her fidelity and love is, to die.
That the death of Dejanira is indispensably necessary, every
one will acknowledge ; but those who think, as Hermann, that
with it the play really ends, will perhaps agree with him in his
opinion, that It ought to have been reserved to a later period in
the action. According to the view we have here taken of the
poet's design, he could not have chosen a more seasonable time for
it. Had It been longer postponed. It would merely have disturbed
the effect of the last scene without any compensating advantage.
This scene, if we are not mistaken, is so far from a superfluous and
cumbrous appendage, that it contains the solution of the whole
enigma, and places all that goes before in its true light. Hercules
appears distracted not only by his bodily torments, but also by
furious passions : by the sense of an unmerited evil, perfidiously
inflicted by a hand which he had loved and trusted. The discovery
of Dejanira's Innocence likewise reveals to him the real nature and
causes of his situation: it exhibits his fate, though outwardly
hard and terrible, as the fulfllment of a gracious and cheering
prediction. Henceforth his murmurs cease, his angry passions
subside. He himself indeed does not yet penetrate into the depth
of the mystery ; but when, as by a prophetic Impulse, he directs
Hyllus to transport him to the summit of (Eta, and there, without
tear or groan, to apply the torch to his funeral pile, he leads the

28 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
spectators to the reflection which solves all difficulties, and melts
all discords into the clearest harmony. Dejanira's wishes have
been fulfilled, not indeed in her own sense, but in an infinitely
higher one. The gods have decreed to bestow on Hercules not
merely length of days, but immortality ; not merely ease and
quiet, but celestial bliss. She indeed has lost him, but only as she
must have done in any case sooner or later ; and instead of
forfeiting his affection, she has been enabled to put the most
unequivocal seal upon her faith and devotedness.
That this last scene should appear tedious to a modern reader. Is
not surprising : but this may be owing to causes which have
nothing to do with Its dramatic merits. We are accustomed to
view Hercules either through the medium of the arts, as a strong
man, or through that of some system of mythology, as a political
or ethical personification, or it may be as a mundane genius, a god
of light. But It is probable that a vcrj^ different impression was
produced by his appearance on the Athenian stage, and that a
representation of the last Incidents of his mortal state was there
witnessed with lively sympathy. This interest may have extended
to details which in us cannot produce the slightest emotion, and
hence the introduction of the concluding injunction about lole,
which is the most obscure as well as repulsive passage In the whole
piece, may have had an adequate motive, which we cannot fully
comprehend. It certainly ought not to prevent us from enjoying
the beauty of the whole composition, which though perhaps
inferior to the other works of Sophocles, Is not unworthy of the
author of the greatest among them.
In the Ajax the poet may seem to have made a singular excep
tion to his own practice as well as to that of all other great
dramatic writers, by distinctly expounding the moral of his play,
and that not at the end, but at the beginning of it. If we should
suppose him to have done so, we must also believe that 'he at the
same time determined the point of view from which he meant the
whole to be considered. The Irony of Minerva first draws Ajax
into a terrible exhibition of his miserable frenzy, and she then
takes occasion from it to pronounce a solemn warning against the

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 29
arrogance which had involved so great a hero in so dreadful a
calamity. The following scenes, down to the death of Ajax, might
appear to have been intended merely to enforce this impression, by
representing the language and the effects of his despair when
restored to the consciousness of his real situation. The concluding
part, that which follows the main catastrophe, would according to
this view have been introduced with as Kttle necessity as the part
corresponding to it in the play last examined, though it might be
allowed possible to find some excuse for the addition in national
opinions and feelings foreign to our own. If however this were
the correct view of the tragedy, it would certainly deserve to be
considered as the most faulty in its composition of all the remain
ing works of Sophocles. The fault would lie not merely in the
want of unity between the two portions, which would be only
accidentally connected with one another and would have no
interest in common, but also in the dramatic anticlimax, in the
gradual abatement of the terror and pity which the opening of the
play so powerfully inspires. For Ajax has no sooner recovered
his senses than the thought of death occurs to him as absolutely
necessary. But he contemplates it, not as an evil, but as a certain
remedy and refuge. He finds consolation in the consciousness of
his unalterable resolution not to survive his shame, and In the
conviction that no human power can prevent the execution of his
purpose. The nearer his end approaches, the more collected and
tranquil he becomes : so that we are led to view him in a new
light, and forget the awful lesson inculcated by the goddess in the
opening scene.
It would perhaps be presumptuous to assert that the taste of
Sophocles was too pure to admit an episode at the end of a play
such as that of Johannes Parricida which disfigures Schiller's
Wilhelm Tell. But on the other hand we ought not to impute
such a defect to any of his compositions, without carefully
examining whether the parts which seem to hang loosely together,
may not be more intimately united under the surface. On the
other point we maj^ venture to speak more confidently, and to
maintain that Sophocles could never have meant to concentrate the

30 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
whole moral effect of a tragedy in the first scene, so that it should
be gradually softened and weakened as the action proceeded, and
that a construction of any of his works which implies such a
conclusion must have mistaken his design. In the present
instance it seems possible to show that the poet's thought, when
rightly conceived, leads to a point of view from which nothing
appears either superfluous or misplaced in the piece.
The hero's^ first appearance exhibits him in the lowest depth of
his humiliation. The love of glory is his ruling passion, and
disappointment in the pursuit of honour has goaded him to frenzy.
Through the interposition of the gods his vengeance has been
baffled In a manner that must for ever expose him to the derision
of his enemies. The delight and exultation which he expresses at
his imaginary triumph serve to measure the greatness of his
defeat, and the bitterness of the anguish which awaits him with
the return of reason. Ulysses himself cannot witness so tre
mendous a reverse, so complete a prostration, even of a rival,
without pity. But the reflections which the spectacle suggests to
him and Miaerva tend to divert our thoughts from what is
peculiar and extraordinary in the situation of Ajax, and to fix them
on the common lot of human nature. All mortal strength is
weakness, all mortal prosperity vain and transient, and conse
quently all mortal pride is delusion and madness. When man is
most elated with the gifts of fortune, most confident in his security,
then Is his fall most certain : he is safe and strong only while he
feels and acknowledges his own nothingness. Ajax, in the contrast
between his fancied success and his real calamity. Is only a signal
example of a very common blindness. The design of these
reflections was probably not to extract a moral from the scene,
which needed not the aid of language to convey its lesson, but to
prepare us for the contemplation of the other side of the subject,
which is immediately presented to us. For in the next scene the
hero's position is totally changed. The past indeed is immutable,
the future affords not a glimpse of hope ; but now he has awoke
from his dream, he is healed of his frenzy : he knows the worst
that has befallen him, and that can befall. The discovery, it is

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 3l
true, is attended, as Tecmessa says, with a new pain, one from
Avhich his madness had till now protected him : but it is likewise a
medicine which restores him to new health, and the pain itself a
symptom of his recovery from the long disease, of which his late
frenzy had been only the last and most violent paroxysm : it gives
him a treasure which he never possessed before, that self-knowledge
and self-control which Minerva's last words declared to be the
condition and earnest of the favour of the gods.
It is possible that many readers will think this a very exagge
rated, if not a totally false description of the state of mind and
feeling which Ajax discloses in the progress of the play. It has
been very commonly supposed that the poet's aim was to exhibit in
his character untamable pride and inflexible obstinacy, hardened
and strained to the utmost by despair : a spirit which will not
yield even to the gods, and instead of bowing beneath the stroke
of their displeasure, rises the higher by the recoil, and asserts its
own freedom and dignity by a voluntary death. If this be so, the
first scene must present a totally different aspect from that in
which we have hitherto considered it ; it will be nothing more
than the occasion which enables the hero to display this uncon
querable energy of soul ; and the more we sympathize with his
stern and lofty nature, the less can we be affected by the moral
reflections of Ulysses and the goddess, which would thus appear to
be either unmeaning commonplace, or to be designed not to
indicate, but to counteract the impression which the whole action
is calculated to produce. This however may be looked upon as a
slight objection : the main <]uestIon is, whether the language and
demeanour of Ajax after his recovery justify the common view of
the temper and sentiments attributed to him by the poet, and the
inferences that have been drawn from them as to the general
design of the play. And on this it must be observed, that though
it soon becomes apparent that the purpose of self-destruction is
irrevocably flxed In the mind of Ajax ; though he steadily resists
both the friendly counsels of the Chorus, and the pathetic
entreaties of Tecmessa ; and though that which determines his
resolve is his quick sense of honour, and his impatience of a

32 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
degrading submission, still there is nothing In his words or conduct,
either in the scenes with Tecmessa and the Chorus, or in his
concluding soliloquy, that indicates a hard, cold, sullen mood. On
the contrary, when he has learnt from Tecmessa the whole extent
of his calamity, he breaks out for the flrst time of his life Into
waillngs which express the keenness cf his grief: and again the
sight of the Chorus draws from him a strain of piteous exclama
tions on the cruelty of his fate. After this transient burst of
passion indeed he recovers his firmness and composure, gives
directions for the fulfilment of his last wishes with calmness, and
though inflexibly adhering to his purpose, repels all the attempts
made to divert him from It without heat or violence. But so far
is he from having retired into the stronghold of a selfish pride,
and shut himself up from all human sympathy, that in the midst
of his unalterable resolution his thoughts are more occupied with
care for others than with his own fate. His parental affection
rushes in a full stream into his heart, as he contemplates his
approaching separation from Its object, and expresses Itself in
that tender address. In which, while he provides for the security
of his child, and rejoices in the prospect of leaving behind him an
heir worthy of his shield and of his fame, who shall avenge his
wrongs, he dwells with delight on the image of its early years,
when the young plant, sheltered from every rude blast,* shall
enjoy its careless existence, and gladden the heart of the widowed
mother, and on the consolation and support it will afford to the
declining age of his own parents, so soon to be bereft of their
natural stay. Throughout the whole of this speech, though two
occasions occur which lead him to mention his enemies, all angry
and revengeful feelings are absorbed by the softer emotions of the
parent and the son : t and even the appearance of harshness with
* An image ludicrously disguised in Francklin's translation : " May the breath of
life meantime nourish thy tender frame," as if Eurysaces could grow up to manhood
unless it did.
f Even the lines (556) 'orav 5' i/cy irpbgTovro, Sti c' 'ojrwg ^arpog AU^ug kvex^i^olg
clog £^ o'iov 'rpdtpTjQ, on which the Scholiast remarks, dvrl rov Sel tre icSiKijaaL riiv
iraripa, do not seem to imply any definite prospect of revenge, so much as a hope
that the glory of Eurysacea might in time silence and confound his father's

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 33
which at the close of this scene he cuts short the Importunity of
Tecmessa is a sign of anything rather than coldness and insensi
bility. Again, when the fatal sword is already fixed in the
ground, his last thoughts are turned to Salamis, to the grief of his
father and mother, which alone he bewails, to the beloved scenes
and friends of his youth : even the parting look which he casts on
the Trojan plains, and their familiar springs and streams, is one
of tenderness : his last words an affectionate farewell.
All this is so evident, that it must have been at least partially
felt by every intelligent reader, and it would probably have
produced a greater effect than it seems to have done on the judg
ments that have been formed on the play, if a strong impression of
an opposite kind had not been made on most minds by the inter
mediate scene, in which, after the Chorus has deplored the
inflexible stubbornness with which Ajax has rejected the entreaties
of Tecmessa, the hero in a single speech announces the intention
with which he finally quits the camp to seek a solitary spot on the
seashore. Till within a few years all critics, from the Greek
scholiast downwards, had agreed in their general view of the
object of this speech, which they have supposed to be an artifice
by which Ajax dissembles his real feelings and purpose. They
have been equally unanimous on another point, of no great impor
tance in itself, but interesting from its bearing on the former : they
imagine that, after the scene with the child, both Ajax and
Tecmessa retire from the stage, and that the former comes out of
the tent after the Chorus has ended its mournful strain. And
now, according to the common opinion, in order to pacify his friends,
and to secure himself from interruption in the deed he is about to
perform, he affects to have been softened by the prayers of Tecmessa,
and to have consented to spare his life : in signifying this change
of mind, he at the same time declares his resolution of proceeding
to purify himself from the stain of his frantic slaughter, and to
make his peace, if possible, with the offended goddess, and of
paying due homage in future to the Atridse, whom he acknowledges
as his legitimate superiors. He then dismisses Tecmessa into
the tent, and leaves the Chorus to give vent to its delight in a
VOL. HI, D

34 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
strain of rapturous joy. This speech, if considered as ironical,
undoubtedly Indicates not merely immovable firmness of resolution,
but a spirit of haughty defiance, a bitter disdain of all restraints,
human or divine, which would prove that, if any change had taken
place in his sentiments, it was only one by which his pride had
been raised, and his ferocity hardened : and such appears to have
been the inference which has been almost universally drawn from It.
But a few years back this portion of the play was placed in an
entirely new light by Professor Welcker, who has made the Ajax
the subject of an elaborate essay in the Rheinisches Museum.^ 1829 ;
which, after all that has been written on this branch of literature,
may be considered as one of the most valuable contributions that
have yet been made to the study of the Greek drama. Beside a
most learned discussion on the sources from which Sophocles drew
his materials, and on the peculiar motives which guided him in
the selection of them. It contains the author's reasons for rejecting
the current opinion on the two points just mentioned. He conceives,
in the first place, that Ajax remains on the stage during the song
of the Chorus which follows his dialogue with Tecmessa, inwardly
absorbed In thought, and together with her and the child present
ing to the spectators what they would perhaps have looked upon
as a group of sculpture, and we should call a living picture. The
strongest argument for this supposition is, that no sufficient motive
appears or can be assigned, which should have Induced Ajax to
re-enter the tent, after he had bidden Tecmessa retire into it and
withdraw her grief from the public eye. As little should we be
able to understand why, if she had once obeyed his iajunction, she
should have come out again with him. On the other hand, dumb
show, exhlbltiug the principal person of a piece in an expressive
attitude, was a contrivance by no means unusual In the Greek
theatre, as Is proved not only by the celebrated examples of the
Niobe and the Achilles of ...Eschylus, but also by the practice of
Sophocles himself, who for instance allows Antigone to remain
silent on the stage during a choral song of considerable length ;*
* Welcker therefore conceives that Creon's command (Antig. 760) is obeyed forth-
¦with : and certainly this opinion seems to be confirmed by v. 769, rd S' ovv Kopa raS'

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 35
and in this very play keeps Tecmessa and the child for a long time
in a studied posture near the corpse. The difficulty that may seem
to arise from the Chorus in our play, which according to this
hypothesis speaks of Ajax in his presence without addressing him,
disappears if we imagine that the silent group occupied the back
ground, which would In itself be the most natural position for it ;
nor is the language of the song itself such as called for any answer.
But the more Important question Is, whether the subsequent speech
of Ajax is designed to conceal his real sentiments and to deceive
the hearers. Welcker contends that though couched in language
which is here and there ambiguous, it merely expresses the
speaker's feelings, and that it is only through the eagerness with
which men usually interpret all they see and hear according to
their wishes, that Tecmessa and the Chorus misunderstand its
meaning. He thinks that the artifice which the common con
struction attributes to Ajax Is inconsistent, not only with the
generosity but with the strength of his character, and that none
of his purposes which have been supposed to explain it are sufficient
to account for it ; and that It involves consequences which destroy
all the unity of the play, and render the poet's design unintel
ligible. In order to understand the points on which this question
hinges, we must observe that both Tecmessa and the Chorus are
actually deceived by the speech of Ajax, and consequently that
the ambiguity which deceives them was undoubtedly designed on
the part of the poet. And this fact not only renders the occasion
of the prevailing opinion, independently of its truth, very con
ceivable, but raises a strong prejudice in its favour, and throws
the burden of the argument on those who reject it. It does not,
however, necessarily follow that the deception produced by the
speech was intentional on the part of the speaker ; and to deter
mine whether the poet meant It to be so considered, we must
ova diraWd^ii fiopov. But perhaps it is not necessary to imagine the sisters present,
and both the last words of the Chorus, 804, and thoso of Antigone at the beginning
of her next speech, rather indicate that she had just made her appearance. He also
refers to the silence of Pylades in the Electra, and to that of Tecmessa when deceived
by the speech of Ajax.
d2

36 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
examine the speech both by itself, and in connexion with the rest
of the play. The first inquiry is, whether it contains any expres
sions which Ajax could not have used without intending to mislead
his friends. But it would not be a fair way of trying this ques
tion, to consider whether he speaks exactly as he might have done
if he had not been conscious of their presence. It might be
admitted that he purposely avoids the use of direct and unequivocal
terms in announcing what he knew to be dreadful and afflicting
to them, without granting that he wished to disguise his intentions
from them. Natural and common humanity would have forbidden
him to shock the feelings of persons to whom his life was so dear,
by a distinct declaration of his final resolution. On the other
hand, to ask why then he touches on the painful subject at all,
would be unfairly to call in question the undoubted conventional
privileges of the dramatic poet. Ajax must give vent to the
thoughts and feelings under which he is about to act ; but he
may be expected to do so with a considerate reserve dictated by
his situation. If after making this necessary allowance we proceed
to examiue his language, we shall perhaps find that though "it is
certainly adapted to raise hopes that he has abandoned his design
of self-destruction, it implies nothing but what he may be believed
really to have thought and felt. The beginning indeed speaks of
a marvellous change which has taken place within him : his iron
soul has been unmanned by pity for Tecmessa. This change
would seem to have been wrought during the interval occupied by
the song of the Chorus ; for at the close of the preceding scene he
had resisted all the attempts to soften him with an obstinacy
which appeared to be only exasperated by her importunity.
Hence most critics have imagined that Tecmessa is supposed to
have renewed her entreaties within the tent, and that Ajax,
instead of silencing them as before with a peremptory refusal, now
affects to be overcome by them. This however is a mere con
jecture, and we are equally at liberty to suppose that during the
pause in which he has remained silently wrapt in thought, the
workings of conjugal affection have made themselves felt so as to
cost him a painful struggle, though without being able to move him

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 37
from his purpose. It does not however seem necessary to consider
this in the light of an abrupt and almost prseternatural inward
revolution. It would be very consistent with human nature, of
which Sophocles everywhere shows a fine and intimate knowledge,
to interpret those replies to the supplications of Tecmessa, which
sound so rough and hard, as signs of awakened sympathy, which
Ajax had endeavoured to suppress by assuming a harsher tone,
but which, after it ceased to be enforced from without, had gained
new strength in his heart. Welcker regards the change as more
sudden, though perfectly natural, as the excitement of a feeling
which had hitherto slept in the hero's breast, and had at length
been roused by the shock with which the gods had humbled his
pride, and had finally been called into distinct action by the
contagion of female tenderness. He compares it to the effect
produced on the temper of Achilles by the loss of his friend. The
prayers of Tecmessa are not indeed the cause, but the occasion :
yet they decide the mood in which Ajax henceforth contemplates
his relations to the gods and to mankind, and in which he ends
his life. He considers his blood as a libation with which he is
about to appease the wrath of the offended goddess, and to atone
for the violence he had meditated against legitimate authority.
The hearers naturally mistake the nature of this purifying bath.
The mode in which he mentions his purpose of burying his sword
may perhaps seem more difficult to reconcile with this view,
and Welcker's remark, that the alleged motive, the calamitous
operation of an enemy's gifts, was a current opinion which Ajax
again expresses in his last speech, seems hardly sufficient to
remove the appearance which this passage at first sight presents
of a deliberate intention to mislead. Ajax, designiag to fall upon
his sword, speaks only of hiding It as an ill-fated weapon in the
ground. Could he, it may be asked, but for the sake of deception,
have raised an image so different from the act which he was
meditating ? The sword might indeed be said to be concealed,
when the hilt was fixed In the ground and the blade lodged in his
body : but since' this hiding produced the most fatal consequences
instead of averting them, would he have selected this mode of

38 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
describing his Intended deed, if he had not foreseen that it would
be misunderstood ? This seems scarcely possible if it had been
only the fatality of the weapon that he had in his thoughts. But
perhaps it may be more easily conceived, if we suppose him to
have reflected on it rather as having been once the object of his
pride, a tribute of respect to his valour from a respected enemy,
and afterward the instrument of his shame. He was now about
to expiate his pride, and to wipe off his shame : in both respects
he might be truly said to hide his sword in the most emphatic
sense, when he sheathed it in his own body. The last objection
that the speech suggests to the view proposed by Welcker arises
from the professions which Ajax appears to make of his intention
in future to yield to the gods and pay due reverence to the
Atridse, and in general to regulate his conduct by maxims of
moderation and discretion. These professions would certainly be
mere dissimulation if they referred to anything but the approach
ing termination of his career, whereas they seem to imply a
prospect of Its continuance. Yet, if Ajax contemplated his
death as a satisfaction both to divine and human justice, his
manner of describiag the lesson he had learnt, and which he
would thenceforth practise, is not unnatural, but strongly
emphatic. On the other hand, the objections which the speech raises to the
common opinion are very difficult to remove. If the aim of Ajax
is to deceive his friends, admitting the contrivance to be worthy
of his character, and consistent with his previous conduct, he
cannot reasonably be supposed more in earnest in one part of the
speech than another. It would imply in himself and would create
in the reader an intolerable confusion of ideas and feelings, to
imagine that he really pitied the condition of Tecmessa, and
nevertheless only expressed his sentiments for the purpose of
deceiving her. And yet who that has witnessed the scene of the
parting from his child can believe that he felt no pity for the
mother ? If so, since he couples her widowhood with its orphan
hood, we should be forced to infer that he was equally Indifferent
to both. On the same principle, if the passages relating to the

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES, 39
anger of the goddess and the submission due to the gods are to be
taken as ironical, we must consider Ajax in the light of a Capaneus
or a Mezentius, who not only disregards but insults the gods.
That he should be sincere in his professions of reverence for them,
and yet use his piety for a cloak, would be a contradiction not to
be endured. But in no part of the play is Ajax represented as an
audacious blasphemer and contemner of the gods, though in the
pride of his heart he sometimes has forgotten what was due to
them. His last speech, where his sentiments continue the same
and are expressed without disguise, breathes not only piety but
confidence in the divine favour, grounded on the consciousness not
indeed of perfect innocence, but of great wrongs suffered, and of
ample reparation made for a slight transgression. So though it
may seem natural that he should speak with bitter disdain of the
Atridse, against whom we find him retaining his resentment to
the last, it would be incredible that he should have made his pro-
' fesslon of respect for their station. If it was insincere, an occasion
of introducing such a series of general reflections as that which
follows, in which he appears to be reconciling himself to the
thought of obedience, by considering it as a universal law of
nature. All this evidently proceeds from the depth of his heart,
and so viewed is beautiful and touching : whereas if it be taken
as a trick, to make his assumed change of mood more credible,
nothing can easily be conceived more repulsive in Itself, and less
appropriate to the character of Ajax. Finally, his parting direc
tions to Tecmessa and the Chorus are so little like those of a person
who was anxious to conceal his design, that as Welcker truly
observes, one might rather be disposed to complain of the impro
bability that their meaning should have been mistaken, if it were
not that a prejudice once caught is known to be capable of bllnd-
ino" us to the clearest intimations of the truth.
On the whole then we adopt with entire conviction Welcker's
o-eneral view of this speech, which Indeed harmonizes so well with
that which has here been taken of one great feature In the poetical
character of Sophocles, that we have thought it necessary to weigh
the arguments on each side as cautiously as possible. Still, if any

40 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
one should flnd it impossible to believe that Ajax could be uncon
scious of the effect that his words were producing, we should not
be unwilKng to admit that he perceived the ambiguity of those
expressions which bear a double meaning, so long as we are not
called upon to give up the opinion that he is throughout and
thoroughly In earnest. Before we quit the subject we will notice
one or two passages which either appear to contradict this con
clusion, or have" been so interpreted. The curse which Ajax,
when on the point of death, pronounces against the Atrldas and
the whole army, may at first sight seem to be inconsistent with
those sentiments of reverence for their authority which he
expresses in the former scene, and thus to prove that they were
not genuine. It seems however no more difficult to conceive that
Ajax, while he acknowledged the debt which he owed to justice
for a breach of social order, might still consider himself as an
injured man, and invoke the Furies to avenge his wrongs, than
that he might believe himself an object of divine favour, notwith
standing the offences against the gods which he was about to
expiate. The curse itself, after the example of CEdipus, will not
be thought an Indication of peculiar ferocity. Only that it should
have been extended to the whole army, may seem an excess of
vindictive cruelty, and in fact this has proved a stumbling-block
to several critics. But it must be remembered, in the first place,
that the army had sanctioned and shared the Iniquity of its chiefs,
in withholding from Ajax the honours he had earned in their
service ; and next, that the ruin of the king Involves the calamity
of the people. So Achilles cannot distinguish between Agamem
non and the Greeks.* With the exception of this curse, which
* These considerations seem sufficient to remove the difficulty which Hei-mann
finds in the common construction of the words (844) yiitoBe, p-q ilxiSeaSs iravSripov
OTparov, which, if yivtnBt is referred to arparov, appear to him to breathe the most
atrocious inhumanity. The construction he proposes, referring ywiaBs to the Atridse,
is so harsh that one is glad to dispense with it, and yet is of very little use in soften
ing the alleged atrocity of the imprecation. Another difficulty which has perplexed
the commentators in this passage is less connected with our present subject. The
curse manifestly contains a prediction which was meant to conform to the event : yet
the words Trpoc twv (piKiarmv tKyovinv oXolaro [842], cannot be reconciled with history
¦without great violence, as by distinguishing between (piXiariov and 'iKyovoiv, in the
manner proposed by Musgrave. Hermann's interpretation is intolerably strained

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 41
however answers the purpose of recalling the hero's wrongs to-
our recollection, and thus strengthening our sympathy with his
sufferings, the whole speech is highly pathetic, so that any
expression of arrogant impiety would jar most offensively with its
general tenor. And hence it Is of some importance to observe,
that there is nothing at all savouring of such a character in the
address to Jupiter, where Ajax speaks of his petition as requesting
no great boon (atVi'/ffOjuai he a ov fiaKpov <yepa^ Xa')(uv [825]).
Mr. Campbell, in his Lectures on Poetry, has entirely mistaken the
force of this expression, where he says that tve recognize the self-
dependence and stubbornness of his pride .^ when he tells the chief of the
gods that he had but a slight boon to implore of him. Not to mention
how unseasonable such pride would have been, when Ajax was
actually supplicating a favour to which, though little for Jupiter
to grant, he himself attached great importance, and how incon
sistent with the reverence expressed for Jupiter's majesty in the
address : " Thou first, 0 Jove " — it is clear that the words in
question contain nothing more than a touching allusion to the
extremity in which he was now placed, when the only thing left
for him to desire of Jupiter was that his body might not be
deprived of the rites of burial. Mr. Campbell could scarcely have
overlooked this, if he had not been prepossessed with the common
opinion about the character of Ajax, as exhibited in the previous
speech, which he too considers as a feint, and endeavours to
explain, but without perceiving the main difficulties which the
supposition Involves. He sees nothing In the tragedy but an exhi
bition of "the despair and suicide of a proud soldier, who has
lived but for martial honour, and cannot survive the loss of it.'
Though we think this conception of the subject so inadequate as
to miss what is most essential in the poet's design, we must do
Mr. C. the justice to observe, that he has shown a lively sense of
some of the beauties of the play, which is the more meritorious,
and perplexed. There is no necessity for supposing that Ajax has Ulysses iu vie-w
at all. From him he had received a provocation indeed, but no peculiar wrong, which
he should call upon the Furies to avenge. Welcker thinks that the easiest solution
of the difficulty is to suppose that a line has dropped out after avroa^ayiig, containing
an allusion to Clytemnaastra's crime and punishment.

42 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
as we learn from him that the English translators have been
insensible to them. He complains with great reason that
Sophocles should have fallen into the hands of persons so little
capable of relishing him, as not even to be struck with the sub
limity of the opening scene of the Ajax : though, since such
perceptions are the gift of nature, we do not understand why they
are called illiberal critics. We collect however one rather melan
choly inference from this fact, and from Mr. Campbell's lectures :
that the study of the poet's works with a view to the pleasures of
the imagination has not kept pace with the diligence bestowed on
them as objects of philological criticism.
Most critics have felt a great difficulty in explaining the reasons
which induced Sophocles to protract the action after the death of
Ajax, with which, according to modern notions, the Interest
expires. What has been said on this subject has for the most
part been proposed in the language of apology, and in a tone
which now and then raises a suspicion that the advocate is not
thoroughly convinced of the goodness of his cause. Thus Her
mann faintly defends the concluding scenes with arguments which
in substance condemn them : and though Mr. Campbell assures
us that " the interest does not at all flag in the remainder of the
tragedy," we want some better explanation of the grounds of this
opinion than is to be found in the remark : " that the Greeks
attached an awfully religious importance to the rites of burial,"
which would apply equally to many other tragedies which do not
end in like manner : or in the assertion : that " we feel the hero's
virtues to be told with the deepest effect when his widow and
child kneel as suppliants to heaven and human mercy, beside his
corpse ; when his spirited brother defies the threats of the Atridse
to deny him sepulchral honours ; and when Ulysses with politic
magnanimity Interposes to prevent the mean insult being offered
to his fallen enemy." The celebration of a hero's virtues after his
death is surely not a legitimate object of tragedy : nor is it true
that those of Ajax are more effectually told by his widow and
child when they kneel beside his corpse, than when they cling to
him during his life : or by Teucer and Ulysses when they inter-

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 43
pose in his behalf, than they had previously been in the flrst
scene by the admission of an enemy, and afterward by the attach
ment and admiration expressed by his friends. Still less can the
conclusion of the piece be defended on the ground that " it leaves
our sympathies calmed and elevated by the triumph of Ulysses in
assuaging the vindictlveness of Agamemnon, and attaching the
gratitude of Teucer." Our sympathies with Ajax have already
been calmed and elevated by the serenity and majesty of his
departure : with Ulysses we have none sufficiently powerful to
keep up our interest during the following scenes : if we had, this
would imply a want of unity, which would be as great a defect as
that which has been made the subject of complaint. In order to
justify the poet by showing the connexion between these scenes
and the preceding part of the play, it is absolutely necessary to
take into account a circumstance which Welcker, though not the
first to notice It, has placed In a clearer light than any former
writer : that Ajax was an object, not merely of human interest,
but of religious veneration, with the audience for whom Sophocles
wrote. The Athenians were proud of him as one of their heroes,
who, since Cllsthenes, gave his name to a tribe which was distin
guished by some peculiar privileges.* They claimed his sons as
their adopted citizens, the ancestors of their noblest families and
some of their most illustrious men. But the hero's title to those
religious honours which were paid to him in the time of Sophocles
commenced only from his interment : and hence no subject could
be more Interesting to the Athenians in general, and more par
ticularly to the tribe which bore his name,t than the contest on
* See the honours of the iEantidaa in Plut. Symp. 1, 10, 2, 3. They were peculiarly
connected with the glory of Marathon. Marathon itself belonged to them : they
occupied the right -wing in the battle : they numbered the polemarch Callimachus
among their citizens : Miltiades was a descendant of Ajax (Marcellin. Vit. Thuc.) :
the decree for the expedition was made under their presidency. At Platsea too they
acquitted themselves so nobly, that they were appointed to conduct the sacrifice to
the Sphragitides on Cithaaron. Their choruses were never to take the last place.
Plutarch thinks that this was not so much the reward of merit, as a propitiation of
the hero, who could not brook defeat. One may compare the use made of this topic
by the rhetorician whose funeral oration is printed among the works of Demosthenes :
oiB eXdvBaviv AtavriSag, on rwv dpWTUoiv arepr)Bilg Alag djSiuiTov iavrif riyrjaaTO
rbv [3iov.
t To which Welcker with great probability refers the allusion iv tie line (861)

44 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
the issue of which his heroic sanctity depended. Welcker very
happily remarks that Menelaus and his brother fill the part of an
A.dvocatus Diaboli at a process of canonization. On the other hand,
the injury which Ajax had planned against the army and its
chiefs was one which according to primitive usage, in ordinary
cases, would have justified the extreme of hostility on their part,
and consequently the privation of funeral rites. This was not in
the eyes of the Greeks a mean insult, but a natural and legitimate
mode of vengeance ; though the violence and arrogance with
which it is prosecuted by the Spartan king are exhibited in an
odious light, undoubtedly for the sake of suggesting to the
Athenian audience a political application to their rivals, which
was especially happy in a piece dedicated to the honour of an
Attic hero, and which they would not fail to seize and enjoy.
But this strenuous opposition serves to exalt the character of Ajax,
and to enhance the glory of his triumph. And thus the contrast
between the appearance and the reality is completed, as In the
second CEdipus. At the beginning we saw the hero in the depth
of degradation, an object of mockery and of pity : this was the
effect of his inordinate self-esteem, of his overweening confidence
in his own strength. But out of his humiliation, his anguish, and
despair, issues a higher degree of happiness and renown than he
had ever hoped to attain. He closes his career at peace with the
gods : his incomparable merit is acknowledged by the rival whose
success had wounded his pride: he leaves a name behind him
which shall be remembered and revered to the latest generations.
We have already observed that the length of our remarks would
not be regulated by the value of the pieces to be examined. The
Antigone and the Philoctetes, though perhaps neither of them is
inferior In beauty to the Ajax, will detain us a much shorter time.
In the Antigone the Irony on which the interest depends is of
a kind totally different from that which has been illustrated by the
preceding examples. It belongs to that head which we have
endeavoured to describe as accompanying the administration of
KkHval t' 'ABfjvai Kai to trvvrpoipov yivog. If the tribe furnished the chorus, the
local application would be still more pointed.

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 45
justice human and divine, of that which decides not merely the
quarrels of individuals, but the contests of parties and of principles,
so far as they are clothed in flesh and blood, and wield the weapons
of earthly warfare. The subject of the tragedy Is a struggle
between Creon and Antigone, not however as private persons
maintaining their selfish interests, but as each asserting a cause
which its advocate holds to be just and sacred. Each partially
succeeds in the struggle, but perishes through the success itself :
while their destruction preserves the sanctity of the principles for
which they contend. In order to perceive this, we must guard
ourselves against being carried away by the impression which the
beauty of the heroine's character naturally makes upon our feelings,
but which tends to divert us from the right view of Creon's character
and conduct : a partiality to which modern readers are not the
less liable, on account of the difficulty they flnd in entering into
the train of religious feeling from which the contest derives its
chief importance. In our admiration for Antigone we may be
very apt to mistake the poet's irony, and to adopt the sentiments
which he puts into her mouth, as his own view of the question
and the parties, while he is holding the balance perfectly even.
But to consider the case impartially, it is necessary to observe,
in the flrst place, that Creon is a legitimate ruler, and next,
that he acts in the exercise of his legitimate authority. He
had received the supreme power by the right of succession,
and with the full consent of his subjects, whom he had preserved
from their foreign invaders.* Hasmon does not mean to dis
pute his sovereignty, but only to signify the conditions under
which it ought to be exercised, when in reply to Creon's ques
tion, whether any but himself is governor of the realm, he
says, that it is no city which belongs to one man (737).
Creon's decree is the law of the land. Ismene, remonstrating
with Antigone on her resolution, declares herself incapable, of
acting in opposition to the will of her feUow-cItizens.f And
* 1162. awaag fi'tv IxOpwi/ rrjvii KaSpilav x^ova AajSuiv te xiipag ¦jravTtXrj /tovap-
Xiav : that is, as he himself says (174), ysvovg xar' dyxtarua tUv dXtuXoruv.
t 79. TO Si Big, iroXirHv Spdv, t^vv dprixavog.

46Antigone herself in her concluding appeal admits that she has so
acted (907). Nor was the decree a wanton or tyrannical exertion
of power. Creon himself professes to consider it as indispensable
to the wellbeing of the state, which is the sole object of his care
(188 — 193), as a just punishment for the parricidal enterprise of
Polynices. And this is not merely Creon's language, whom how
ever we have no reason to suspect of insincerity : it is also evidently
the judgment of the Chorus, whose first song, which presents so
lively a picture of the immilnent danger from which Thebes has
just been rescued, seems to justify the vengeance taken on its
author. The reflections contained in the next song, on the craft
and Ingenuity of man, 'are pointed at the secret violation of Creon's
ordinance, as an instance in which the skill of contrivance has not
been coupled with due respect for the laws and obligations of
society : and the Chorus deprecates all communion with persons
capable of such criminal daring.* Antigone herself does not
vindicate her action on the ground that Creon has overstepped the
bounds of his prerogative, but only claims an extraordinary exemp
tion from its operation, on account of her connexion with the
deceased. She even declares that she would not have undertaken
such a resistance to the wiU of the state, for the sake either of
children or husband (905) : it was only the peculiar relation in
which she stood to Polynices that justified and demanded it.
This too is the only ground which Hsemon alleges for the general
sympathy expressed by the people with Antigone : and In relying
on this, he tacitly admits that the same action would have deserved
punishment in any other person. His general warnings against
excessive pertinacity are intended to induce his father to give up
his private judgment to the popular opinion. Creon on the other
hand is bent on vindicating and maintaining the majesty of the
throne and of the laws. No state can subsist, if that which has
been enacted by the magistrate, on mature deliberation, is to be set
aside because It thwarts a woman's wishes (672 — 678), or because
* [365 — 375]ffo06v5rt to prixavoEv r'ixvag virep kXirlS' ix^''^) irori pkv KaKov, dXXoT'
iir IcBXbv 'ipTTti' vopovg Trapeipuiv p(0ov6(: Qfwi' t' evopKov diKav, v^l/liroXig' d-TroXig
'6t(j) to pij KciXbv ^iveori, roXpag x^P*-^' h^l'''' ^M*'^ •Kapkariog ysvoiTo, prfr' laov
^poviov, og Tad' epdei.

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 47
it is condemned by the multitude (734). Obedience on the part of
the governed, firmness on the part of the ruler, are essential to the
good of the commonwealth. These sentiments appear to be adopted
by the Chorus. Notwithstanding its goodwill toward Antigone,
and its pity for her fate, it considers her as having incurred the
penalty that had been inflicted on her by an act which, though
sufficiently fair and specious to attract the praises of men and to
render her death glorious, was still a violation of duty, and brought
her into a fatal conflict with eternal Justice ; a headstrong defiance
of the sovereign power, sure to end In her destruction.* It has
appeared to several learned men, not without a considerable show
of probability, that the numerous passages in this play which
inculcate the necessity of order, and submission to established
authority, may have had great weight in disposing the Athenians
to reward the poet with the dignity of strategus, which we know
did not necessarily involve any military duties, though Sophocles
happened to be so employed, but which would still have been a
singular recompense for mere poetical merit, t
Nevertheless the right is not wholly on the side of Creon. So
far indeed as Polynices is concerned, he has only shown a just
severity sanctioned by public opinion, and perhaps required by the
interest of the state. Early however in the action we have an
intimation that in his zeal for the commonwealth, and for the
maintenance of his royal authority, he has overlooked the claims
of some other parties whose interests were affected by his conduct.
The rights and duties of kindred, though they might not be per
mitted to alter the course prescribed by policy and justice, were
still entitled to respect. If Antigone had forfeited her life to the
rigour of the law, equity would have interposed, at least to
mitigate the punishment of an act prompted by such laudable
* The Chorus first attempts to console Antigone by reminding her of her fame
(817): ouKowv kXeivi} Kai 'iiraivov ixova "Eg toS' diripxu KivBog viKvwv: and then
answers her complaints by suggesting her fault (853) : irpoBda i^r' laxaTov Bpdaovg
v^rjXbv kg Aircae j3dBpov TrpoaiTreacg, Hi rUvov, ttoXv : and again (872) akPtiv per
tvakfiud Tig' Kparog S' 'oTiit Kpdrog piXti, irapa^arbv ovSaprj iriXu, <7£ S' aiiToyviiiTog
tJXfff' opyd.
f Mr. Campbell very needlessly and groundlessly conjectures that Sophocles pos
sessed considerable military experience when he was elected to the office.

48 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
motives. The mode in which the penalty originally denounced
against her offence was transmuted, so as to subject her to a death
of lingering torture, added mockery to cruelty. But the rites of
burial concerned not only the deceased, and his surviving relatives ;
they might also be considered as a tribute due to the awful Power
who ruled in the nether world ; as such they could not commonly
be withheld without impiety. Hence Antigone, in her first alter-
-cation with Creon, urges that her deed, though forbidden by
human laws, was required by those of Hades, and might be deemed
holy in the realms below.* Hsemon touches on the same topic
when he charges his father with trampling on the honours due to
the gods, and says that he pleads not on behalf of Antigone alone,
but of the infernal deities (745 — 749). Creon, in pronouncing his
final sentence on Antigone, notices this plea, but only to treat it
with contempt [777] : " Let her implore the aid of Hades, the only
power whom she reveres : he will perhaps deliver her from her
tomb ; or a^ least she will learn by experience, that her reverence
has been ill bestowed." We must not however construe these
passages into a proof that Creon, in his decree, had committed an
act of flagrant impiety, and that his contest with Antigone was in
effect a struggle between policy and religion. It is clear that his
prohibition was consistent with the customary law, and with the
religious opinions of the heroic ages, as they are represented not
only by Homer, but in other works of Sophocles himself. The
determination of Achilles to prevent Hector's burial, and his
treatment of the corpse, are related as extraordinary proofs of his
affection for Patroclus, but still as a legitimate exercise of the rights
of war. In the deliberation of the gods on the subject, the only
motive assigned for the interference of Jupiter Is Hector's merit
and piety. Juno, Neptune, and Minerva, are so far from finding
anything impious in the conduct of AchiUes, that they oppose the
intervention of the powers friendly to Troy on behalf of the
deceased. So the dispute about the burial in the Ajax turns
¦entirely on the merits of the hero, without any reference to the
* 619. AN. "OpiiiQ o y "AiSrig rovg vojiovg Tovrovg iroBii. KP. 'AXX' oiix b xpVTbg
Tip KaKip Xaxiiv laog. AN. Tig oldtv, d KariaBtv evayrj TaSe;

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 49
«laims of the infernal gods. And as little does Electra seem to
know anything of them, when she desires Orestes, after killing
.^gisthus, to expose him to such interrers as befit a wretch like
him, that is, as the Scholiast explains it, to the birds and hounds.*
Hence in the Antigone it must not be supposed that any of the
speakers assume as a general proposition, that to refuse burial to a
corpse is absolutely and in all cases an impious violation of divine
laws, though they contend that the honours paid to the dead
are grateful, and therefore iiij general due to the infernal gods.
Hitherto therefore Creon can only be charged with having pursued
a laudable aim somewhat intemperately and inconsiderately, with
out sufficient indulgence for the natural feelings of mankind, or
sufficient respect for the Powers to whom Polynices now properly
belonged. He has one principle of action, which he knows to be
right ; but he does not reflect that there may be others of equal
value, which ought not to be sacrificed to it. It is not however
before the arrival of Tiresias that the effects of this inflexible and
indiscriminate consistency become manifest. The seer declares
that the gods have made known by the clearest signs that Creon's
obstinacy excites their displeasure. He has reversed the order of
nature, has entombed the living, and disinterred the dead. But
still all may be well : nothing is yet irretrievably lost ; if he will
only acknowledge that he has gone too far, he may retrace his
steps. The gods below claim Polynices, the gods above Antigone :
it is not yet too late to restore them. But Creon, engrossed by his
single object, rejects the prophet's counsel, defies his threats, and
declares that no respect even for the holiest of things shall induce
him to swerve from his resolution. Far from regarding the poUu^
tion of the altars, he cares not though it should reach the throne
of Jove himself; and glosses over his profaneness with the
sophistical plea, that he knows no man has power to pollute the
gods. The calamity which now befalls him is an appropriate
chastisement. Already the event had proved his wisdom to be
folly. The measures he had taken for the good of the state had
involved it in distress and danger. His boasted firmness now gives
* E1.1487. KTaviav TrpoBcg TaipiHaiv, Hiv tovS' eiKog tan rvyxavtiv.
VOL. Ill, E

50 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
way, and on a sudden he is ready to abandon his purpose, to revoke
his decrees. But they are executed, in spite of himself, and in a
manner which for ever destroys his own happiness. Antigone
dies, the victim whom he had vowed to law and justice ; but as In
her he had sacrificed the domestic affections to his state-policy, her
death deprives him of the last hope of his family, and makes his
hearth desolate. She, on the other hand, v/ho had been drawn
into an involuntary conflict with social order by the simple Impulse
of discharging a private duty, pays indeed the price which, she
had foreseen, her undertaking would cost; but she succeeds in her
design, and triumphs over the power of Creon, who himself becomes
the minister of her wishes.
The character and situation of the parties in this play rendered
it almost necessary that the contest should be terminated by a
tragical catastrophe, even if the poet had not been governed by the
tradition on which his argument was founded : though to the last
room is left open for a reconciliation which would have prevented
the calamity. In the Philoctetes the struggle is brought to a happy
issue, after all hopes of such a result appeared to have been extin
guished : and this is not merely conformable to tradition, but
required by the nature of the subject. Our present object is only
to exhibit the works of Sophocles in a particular point of view,
and we therefore abstain from entering Into discussions which,
though very important for the full understanding of them, are
foreign to our Immediate purpose. We cannot however help
observing, that the Philoctetes Is a remarkable instance of the
danger of trusting to a first impression In forming a judgment on
the design of an ancient author ; and that it ought at the same
time to check the rashness of those who think that in such subjects
all is to be discovered at the first glance, and to raise the confidence
of those who may be apt to despair that study and Investigation
can ever ascertain anything in them that has once been contro
verted. The Philoctetes engaged the attention of some of the most
eminent German critics, a Winkelmann, a Lessing, a Herder, for a
long time In an extraordinary degree. Yet there are probably
few points on which intelligent judges of such matters are more

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 51
unanimous than that these celebrated men were all mistaken on
the question which they agitated, and that it is only in later times
that It has been placed on a right footing and clearly understood.
The bodily sufferings of Philoctetes are exhibited by the poet for
no other purpose than to afford a measure of the indignation with
which he is inspired by his wrongs, and of the energy of his will.
It Is no ordinary pain that torments him, but of a kind similar to
that which extorted groans and tears from Hercules himself. Yet
in his eagerness to escape from the scene of his long wretchedness,
he makes an almost superhuman effort to master it, and conceal it
from the observation of the bystanders. The difficulty of the
exertion proves the strength of the motive : yet the motive, strong
as It is, is unable to bear him up against the violence of the pain.
He loses his self-command, and gives vent to his agony in loud
and piteous exclamations. But all he had hoped for from
Neoptolemus, when he strove to stifle his sensations, was not to be
cured of his sore, but to be transported to a place where his suffer
ings might be mitigated by the presence and aid of compassionate
friends. When he discovers the fraud that had been played upon
him, he Is at the same time Invited to return to Troy, by the pros
pect of recovering health and strength, and of using them in the
most glorious of fields. But long as he had sighed for deliverance
from his miserable solitude. Intolerable as are the torments he
endures, ambitious as he is of martial renown, and impatient of
wasting the arrows of Hercules on birds and beasts, there Is a feel
ing stronger than any of these which impels him to reject the
proffered good with disdain and even loathing, and to prefer
pining to his life's end in lonely, helpless, continually aggravated
wretchedness. This is the feeling of the atrocious wrong that has
been Inflicted on him : a feeling which acquires new force with
every fresh throb of pain, with every hour of melancholy musing,
and renders the thought of being reconciled to those who have so
deeply injured him, and of lending his aid to promote their interest
and exalt their glory, one from which he recoils with abhorrence.
At the time when his situation appears most utterly desperate,
when he sees himself on the point of being abandoned to an
E 2

52 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
extremity of distress compared with which his past sufferings were
light, while he is tracing the sad features of the dreary prospect
that lies immediately before him, and owns himself overcome by
its horrors, the suggestion of the ' Chorus, that his resolution Is
shaken, and their exhortation that he would comply with their
wishes, rekindle all the fury of his indignation, which breaks forth
in a strain of vehemence, such as had never before escaped him : *
a passage only inferior in sublimity to the similar one in the
Prometheus (1040), inasmuch as Prometheus is perfectly calm,
Philoctetes transported by passion.
The resentment of Philoctetes Is so just and natural, and his
character so noble and amiable, he Is so open and unsuspecting
after all his experience of human treachery, so warm and kindly
in the midst of all his sternness and impatience, that it would
seem as if Sophocles had intended that he should be the object of
our unqualified sympathy. Yet it is not so: the poet himself
preserves an ironical composure, and while he excites our esteem
and pity for the suffering hero, guards us against sharing the
detestation Philoctetes feels for the authors of his calamity. The
character of Ulysses is contrasted indeed most forcibly with that
of his frank, generous, impetuous enemy : but the contrast is not
one between light and darkness, good and evil, between all that
we love and admire on the one hand, and what we most hate and
loathe on the other. The character of Ulysses, though not amiable,
is far from being odious or despicable. He Is one of those persons
whom we cannot help viewing with respect, even when we dis
approve of their principles and conduct. He is a sober, expe
rienced, politic statesman, who keeps the public good steadily in
view, and devotes himself entirely to the pursuit of it. Through
out the whole of his proceedings, with regard to Philoctetes, he
maintains this dignity, and expresses his consciousness of it. He
is always ready to avow and justify the groimds on which he acts.
From the beginning he has been impelled by no base or selfish
motive ; but, on the contrary, has exposed himself to personal
danger for the public service. He had never borne any ill-will to
* 1197. OBCeTTOr', OviiTTOT, IcBl ToS' l/iTTlOOV, K. T. X.

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 53
Philoctetes ; but when his presence was detrimental to the armv,
he advised his removal : now that it is discovered to be necessarj'
for the success of the expedition, he exerts his utmost endeavours
to bring him back to Troy. He knows the character of Philoc
tetes too well to suppose that his resentment will ever give way
to persuasion (103), and the arrows of Hercules are a safeguard
against open force. He therefore finds himself compelled to resort
to artifice, which on this occasion appears the more defensible,
because it is employed for the benefit not only of the Grecian
army, but of Philoctetes himself, who, once deprived of his
weapons, wiU probably consent to listen to reason. Neoptolemus,
though his natural feelings are shocked by the proposal of Ulysses,
is unable to resist the force of his arguments, and suffers himself
to be persuaded that, by the step he is about to take, he shall earn
the reputation not only of a wise, but a good man.* It is true
that he retains some misgivings, which, when strengthened by
pity for Philoctetes, ripen Into a complete change of purpose.
But Ulysses never repents of his counsels, but considers the young
man's abandonment of the enterprise as a culpable weakness, a
breach of his duty to the common cause. In his own judgment
this cause hallows the undertaking, and renders the fraud he has
practised pious and, laudable, t And hence when assailed by
Philoctetes with the most virulent invectives, he preserves his
temper, and replies to them in a tone of conscious rectitude. " He
could easily refute them, if this were a season for argument ; but
he will confine himself to one plea: where the public weal
demands such expedients, he scruples not to use them ; with this
exception, he may boast that no one surpasses him in justice and
piety." Such language accords so well with the spirit of the
Greek institutions, according to which the individual lived only
in and for the state, that from the lips of Ulysses it can raise no

* 117. OA. big TOUTO y' tp^ag, Sio^ipii Smpijpara. NE. Iloia) ; paBwv yap, ova av
dpvolpr]V TO Spdv. OA. So^df t dv aiiTog KdyaBbg irfKXj/' iipa.
t Hence -with the god of craft he iuvokes the goddess of political prudence, his
peculiar patroness: {lS'i)"Eppr]e S' o irkp-nutv AoXiog I'lyrjaaiTo vtfv, Ulnrf t' 'ABdva
IloXtdf, ^ (TiOJei p.' dii.

54 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
doubt of his sincerity. We see that he has adopted his principles
deliberately, and acts upon them consistently.
But the doctrine that the end sanctifies the means, though In
every age it has found men to embrace it, has never been
universally and absolutely admitted. Ulysses has convinced him
self by his o-wn sophistry, but he cannot pervert the ingenuous
nature of Neoptolemus, whose unprejudiced decision turns the
scale on the side of truth. The intervention of Neoptolemus is
not more requisite for the complication of the action, than for the
purpose of placing the two other characters in the strongest light.
He cannot answer the fallacies of Ulysses, but he more effectually
refutes them by his actions. The wily statesman has foreseen and
provided against all the obstacles that might interfere with the
execution of his plan — except one : he has not reckoned on the
resistance he might find in the love of truth, natural to uncor-
rupted minds, and which, in his young companion, has never been
stifled by the practice of deceit. He had calculated on using
Neoptolemus as an instrument, and he finds him a man. And
hence the unexpected Issue of the struggle renders full justice to
all. Philoctetes is brought to embrace that which he had spurned
as Ignominy worse than death ; but by means which render it the
most glorious event of his life, and compensate for the sufferings
inflicted on him by the anger of the gods. The end of Ulysses is
attained, but not until all his arts have been baffled, and he has
been conpelled to retire from the contest, defeated and scorned.
Neoptolemus, who has sacrificed everything to truth and honour,
succeeds in every object of his ambition to the utmost extent of
his desires. The machinery by which all this is effected is indeed
an arbitrary symbol, but that which It represents may not be the
less true.
We are aware how open the subjects discussed in the foregoing
pages are to a variety of views, and how little any one of these can
be expected to obtain general assent. We can even anticipate some
of the objections that may be made to the one here proposed.
According to the opinion of a great modern critic, it will perhaps
appear to want the most decisive test of truth, the sanction of

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES, 55
Aristotle. And undoubtedly If it Is once admitted that no design
or train of thought can be- attributed to the Greek tragic poets
which has not been noticed by Aristotle,* this little essay must
be content to share the fate of the greater part of the works
written in modern times on Greek tragedy, and to pass for
an idle dream. We ' would however fain hope either that tho
critic's sentence, investing Aristotle as it does with a degree of
infallibility and omniscience which, in this particular province,
we should be least of all disposed to concede to him, may bear a
milder construction, or that we may venture to appeal from it to a
higher tribunal. Another more specific objection may possibly be,
that the Idea of tragic Irony which we have attempted to illustrate
by the preceding examples is a modern one, and that instead
of finding it In Sophocles, we have forced it upon him. So
far as this objection relates to our conception of the poet's
theology, we trust that it may have been in some measure counter
acted by the distinction above drawn between the religious senti
ments of Sophocles, and those of an earlier age. This distinction
seems to have been entirely overlooked by a German author, who
has written an essay of considerable merit on the Ajax, and who
in speaking of the attributes of Minerva, as she appears in that
play, observes : " Tho Idea that the higher powers can only
* " Hodie plerisque fati usus in Grajoorum tragoedia necessarius ^idetur : de quo
quum nihil ab Aristotele traditum sit, apparet, quamvis in plerisque tragcediis Grasco-
rum fato sua? sint partes, tamen scriptores illarum fabularum non cogitavisse de fato."
Hermann, Praaf. ad Trachinias, p. 7. A little further on he observes : " Qua in re
autem illi tragoedias naturam positam esse statuerint optime ex Aristotele cognosci
potest, qui et setate iis proximus fuerit, et, ut ipse Grtecus, Grtccorum more philoso-
phatus est." And so again in the Preface to Philoctetes, p. 11. " Tragici Gra3Corum
earn hubebant animo informatam notionem tragoediaB, qu£e est ab Aristotele in libro
de arte poetica proposita." Had they then all the same notion of it, and was there
no difierence between that of .33schylus and those of Sophocles and of Euripides ?
And if they had, was it sufficient, in order to comprehend it, to be a Greek of nearly
the same age, and a philosopher ? How many contradictory theories have been pro
posed on Goethe's poetry by contemporary German metaphysicians ! Even Hermann
himself has not been universally understood in his own day. Many persons are still
persuaded that his treatise De Mythologia Grcecorum antiquissima is mere poetry, while
the author himself protests that it is plain prose. But, joking apart, if Lord Bacon
bad written a treatise on the art of poetry, who would now think his judgment con
clusive on Shakespeare's notion of tragedy, or on the design and spirit of any of his
plays ?

56 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
interpose in the affairs of mankind for the purpose of making men
wiser and better, is purely modern."* That which he conceives
to be repugnant to modern ideas in the theology of Sophocles Is,
that Minerva is represented as Inspiring the phrenzy of Ajax : an
agency which appears to him inconsistent with the functions of
the goddess of wisdom. According to the view we have taken of
the play, this inconsistency would be merely nominal. But even
according to his own, it is an Inconsistency which need not shock
a modern reader more than an ancient one. We are famlhar with
a magnificent passage, in which it Is said of " our living Dread,
who dwells In Silo, his bright sanctuary," that, when about to
punish the Philistines, "Among them he a spirit of phrenzy sent.
Who hurt their minds." Minerva at all events does no more, and
according to our view she interposes for a purely benevolent, not
a vindictive purpose. Whether Sophocles would have scrupled ta
introduce her as an author of absolute uncompensated evils. Is a
question with which we are not here concerned. But the Idea of
a humbling and chastening Power, who extracts moral good out
of physical evil, does not seem too refined for the age and country
of Sophocles, however difficult it may have been to reconcile with
the popular mythology.
As we have had occasion to refer to the Samson Agonistes, we
are tempted to remark that few plays afford a finer specimen of
tragic irony ; and thajt it may be very usefully compared with the
Ajax and the second CEdipus. We leave It to the reader to
consider whether the poet, who was so deeply imbued with the
spirit of Greek tragedy, was only Imitating the outward form of
the ancient drama, or designed to transfer one of its most essential
elements to his work.
On the other hand, we admit that it is a most difficult and
delicate task to determine the precise degree in which a dramatic
poet is conscious of certain bearings of his works, and of the ideas
which they suggest to the reader, and hence to draw an inference
* Immermann, Veber den rasenden Ajax des Sophocles, p. 23 ; at p. 18 he observes :
" The way in which a superior Being steps in, and determines the hero's destiny, is
irreconcilable with our presumptions (Ahnungen) about the supreme government of
luman affairs."

ON THE IRONY OF SOPHOCLES. 57
as to his design. The only safe method of proceeding for this
purpose, so as to avoid the danger of going very far astray, and at
the same time to ensure some gain, is in each particular case to
institute an accurate examination of the whole and of every part,
such as Welcker's of the Ajax, which may be considered as a
model of such investigations. We are conscious how far this
essay falls short of such a standard : and If we are willing to hope
that it may not be entirely useless, it is only so far as it may
serve to indicate the right road, and to stimulate the curiosity of
others to prosecute it in new directions.

Note referred to on p. 18.
[Hermann reads: oBovvik ovk o^aivTo viv, instead of oipoirro, or oxpoiTo, the
reading of the old editions. He defends the plural as referring to o^BaXpoi, which
is in the mind of the messenger, and gives the general sense of the whole passage as
follows : " Quia non vidissent nee quse perpeteretur, nee qua9 faceret mala, at in
posterum in tenebris [i.e. non) videreut quos non oportuisset videre, neque oog-
noscerent, quos cupivisset oognoscere." — Ed.]

MEMNON.

Among the celebrated names which strike the attention of every
one who has been led to stray in the twilight of mythical history,
few perhaps rouse a livelier curiosity, or present a more enticing
and perplexing problem, than that of Memnon. The oftener it
occurs to us the more we feel inclined to ask : Who is this rosy
son of the morning, whose image towered above the banks of the
Nile, but, while it saluted the beams of the rising sun, pointed
toward Meroe and the Ethiopian ocean ? this founder of palaces
and citadels in Susa and Ecbatana, whose home lay in Cerne, the
farthest island of the East ? this conquering hero, who cut a road
through the heart of Asia, to find his grave or to leave his monu
ments on the coast of Syria and the shores of the Propontis ?
Without hoping to furnish a satisfactory answer to this question,
I feel tempted to review the legends relating to this renowned
person, for the purpose of inquiring In what manner they may be
best connected and reconciled. The subject has already employed
the pens of so many learned and ingenious men, that little, if any-
thins:, can remain to be done for the collection of materials : but
it also presents so many sides, that it may not be useless to
consider it from one which, though it has not been entirely over
looked, seems not to have been sufficiently noticed.
The immediate object of the inquiry proposed is to trace the
Greek tradition about Memnon to its source, or at least so far as
to ascertain the nature, historical or imaginary, of the ground
from which it sprang. It will therefore be necessary to begin

MEMNON. 59
by mentioning the earliest form in which it appears to us
among the Greeks, and the new features which it gradually
assumes or discloses under the hands through which it succes
sively passed.
We have reason to congratulate ourselves on the preservation
of the few lines in which Memnon is named or alluded to in the
Odyssey (iv. 188; xi. 521). But for this lucky chance some critics
would probably have asserted that the legend was wholly unknown
in the age of Homer, and it would have been impossible to
refute them. That it does not occur in the Iliad, where there
would have been some difficulty in introducing it, cannot raise a
reasonable doubt. Eustathius indeed informs us that there were
persons who instead of juer' a/xu/xoi/a? AWiottPjck, II. A. 423, read
/dera Me/xi/oi/a? AWioTrtja^, imagining that the hero had given his
name to an Ethiopian tribe ! * But we may very well dispense
with this conceit, and still believe that the exploits of Memnon
before Troy were as familiar to the poet of the Iliad as those of
Achilles. The Odyssey however only speaks of Memnon as the
son of Eos, as the most beautiful of mortals, and as the vanquisher
of Antilochus. Hesiod, who calls him king of the Ethiopians (Th.
985), adds the name of his father TIthonus, whose history is
related in the Homeric hymn (Ad Yenerem, 218 — 240). It may
have been about the same time that Arctlnus made the adventures
of the Ethiopian warrior the most prominent subject of an epic
poem, the JEthlopIs, of which we only know that It described the
combat in which Memnon was slain by Achilles, and how his
mother obtained Jupiter's leave to endow her son, as she had his
father, with immortality. But as there is good reason for believ
ing that Quintiis Calaber In the first five books of his poem
followed the ..Sllthlopls very closely, it is highly probable that
most of the features of his narrative were drawn from Arctlnus,
and formed a part of the earliest tradition. In his second book,
after the hopes of the Trojans have been dashed to the ground by
the death of Penthesilea and her Amazons, Memnon arrives to the
* Steph. Byz. [De Urbibus, ed. Berkel, 1688, p. 549]. Nipvoveg tBvog AiBioirmbv
o ipprjviviTai, liig 6 UoXvtaTwp tpijtriv, dpylovg rivag f) pax'povs, Kal xaXcKovg.

60 BffiHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
relief of the city with a countless host of Ethiopians. In his first
interview with Priam he describes the immortal life of his father,
and his mother Eos, the floods of Tethys, the uttermost bounds of
the earth on the east, and the whole of his progress from the
verge of Oceanus to Troy, In the course of which he had broken a
vast army of the Solymi who attempted to impede his march.
The next morning he slays Antilochus, and then meets Achilles,
with whom he maintains a long and doubtful combat. After his
fall the air is darkened, and at his mother's bidding the winds lift
his corpse stripped of his armour above the ground. The blood
which drops from it on the plain forms a stream called by those
who dwell at the foot of Ida the Paphlagonian, which every year
on the return of the fatal day again runs blood, and sends forth a
loathsome stench, as of a putrefying sore. The body Is borne to
the banks of the ..Esepus, where is a grove sacred to the Nymphs,
who mourn over the hero. His faithful Ethiopians are likewise
gifted with supernatural vigour, and enabled to follow their king
through the air to his resting-place. Eos descends with the
Months and the Pleiads in her train to bewail her son. At first
she threatens to withhold her presence from Olympus, and for a
whole day she keeps the world wrapped in darkness. But the
thunder of Jupiter shakes her resolution. The Ethiopians bury
their king, and are changed Into birds which bear the name of
Memnon, and once a year flock to his tomb, sprinkle it with dust,
and contend with one another in pairs till at least one of each has
fallen. Memnon himself, whether in Hades or in Elysium,
rejoices in these funeral honours. His tomb on the banks of the
^sepus was shown in the time of Stral^and near it was a village
called by his name.* ¦*¦•'¦
If Quintus took this account of Memnon's burial from Arctlnus,
-3]]schylus must have drawn the legend which he worked up into
his '^v)(^oaTa(Tia from a different source. For there can scarcely
be a doubt that in that tragedy he represented Eos as carrying her
son's corpse away, not to the banks of the ^sepus, but to those
either of the Nile or of the Choaspes. And the latter seems the
* Strabo, xiii. [cap. i. § 11], p. 587.

MEMNON. 61
more probable supposition, especially if Dr. Butler (Fragmm.
-3j]sch. 169) is right in his conjecture that Strabo is alluding to
this play, where he says that ^schylus had spoken of Memnon's
Cissian parentage.* ^schylus was perhaps the first Greek
poet who brought the hero to Troy from Susa ; and It is manifest
enough why a dramatic poet should have adopted this legend,
which gave a new and deeper interest to the combat between
Memnon and his Greek antagonist, in preference to any others
that he might have heard of. The connexion between Memnon
and Susa was so celebrated in the time of Herodotus, probably by
means of the drama, that the historian speaks of the royal palace
at Susa simply as Ta ^aaiX'^'ia to, Mefxvovta KoKeofxeva (v, 53),
which he explains in the following chapter by saying liovawv,
TovTo yap M-efivoviov aarv KaXeerai. In vii. 151 the same
epithet is used, as if the city had been known principally through
this legend. In what maimer .^Eschylus explained the origin of
this connexion we have no means of guessing. But it is not
probable that he knew much about the history related by DIodorus
(ii. 22), who informs us, that at the time of the Trojan war
TIthonus governed Persia as viceroy of the Assyrian king Teuta-
mus, who was then master of Asia (which agrees with the
language of Plato, De Legg. iii. p. 296 Bek.), and that his son
Memnon, then in the prime of life, built the palace on the citadel
at Susa, which remained standing till the days of the Persian
monarchy, and was called from him Memnonia, and likewise made
* I use this general expression because the meaning of Strabo' s words is not quite
clear. He says (xv. [cap. iii. § 2], p. 720) Aiyovrai Si Kai Kiaotoi ot Soiirioi' ^tial Si Kai
AiaxvXog Trjv prjTipa Mipvovog Kiaaiav. Professor Welcker (iEsch. Trilogie, p. 435)
understands by this that .SIschylus had somewhere or other called Cissia (the land
of the Cissians) the mother of Memnon : and he thinks it improbable that this should
have been in the '^vxoOTaaia, because to have spoken of Cissia as Memnon's mother
in the same play which represented him as the son of Eos or Hemera would have bred
confusion. But this must depend on the context which is lost. On the other hand, I
doubt whether Strabo's words -will bear the construction Professor Welcker puts on
them. The more obvious sense of them seems to be, that .Slsohylus had applied the
epithet Cissiau to the mother of Memnon. And this he might have done, using it
¦with a poetical latitude which would not surprise us in .SIschylus, even if the lines
quoted by Athenseus (B. § 87, vol. i. p. 165, Dind.) referred to Memnon, and were taken
(as Professor Welcker believes) from the '^vxatrraaia. All that they say of him (if
he is the subject of them) is : rivog p'lv aivtiv eKpaBihv iiriaTapai AiBioniSog yrjg.

62 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
a highway through the country which retained the same name.
DIodorus adds that the Ethiopians likewise claimed Memnon as a
native of their country, and showed there ancient palaces which to
that day were called Memnonia. At all events the Ethiopians who
followed Memnon to Troj carried his bones back to TIthonus.*
Pausanlas, in describing the painting of Polygnotus in the
Lesche at Delphi (x. 31, 6), combines the two accounts we have
been hitherto considering. Birds, he says, were seen wrought in
lilemnon's chlamys, and these were the birds called Memnonides,
which, as was generally believed near the Hellespont, were used
to go on certain days to the tomb of Memnon, and sweep it with
their wings, where It was not covered Avith trees or herbage, and
sprinkle it with the water of the ^sepus. Polygnotus had
represented a naked Ethiopian boy standing by the side of Mem
non. This, Pausanlas observes, was because Memnon was kino-
of the Ethiopians. Yet he had come to Troy, not from Ethiopia,
but from the Persian cjty of Susa and the river Choaspes, having
subdued all the nations that lay In his Avay. And the Phrygians
still show the road by which he led his army, for which he had
chosen the shortest cuts : it was the same along which the state-
couriers travelled. This tradition he repeats i. 42, 3.
What is thus put together by DIodorus and Pausanlas was torn
asunder by other writers, as Phllostratus (V. ApoU. vi. 4, Heroic.
p. 672 [cap. Iv. p. 699, ed. Clear. 1709], Ic. i. 7), Eudocia, p. 46, who
distinguish between an Ethiopian Memnon who reigned at the time
of the Trojan war, and a Trojan of the same name on whom Achilles
avenged the death of the blooming Antilochus. On the other hand,
there was a legend which ascribed the foundation of the palace at
Ecbatana to Memnon ; t and beside the Memnonium on the jEsepus
there was one near Paltus in Syria on the river Badas, which had
* iElian, Hist. An. \-. 1, thus notices both legends : Xiyovoiv oi Tr)v TpoidSa in
oUovvTsg fjpiov iivai rt Tip Trjg 'Koig Mipvovi dg Tipijv dvirov. Kal aiirbv piv rbv
vSKpbv Eig rd Souca.rd ovtw 'Mspvoviia iipvovpsva, VTrb rrjgpTjTpbg KopiaBivra ptriiopov
Ik tOiv <p6vu>v ruxiiv KrjSevaswg Trjg TrpoariKoiarig ainp, bvopd^toBai. Sk o'l t>)v
GTi^Xi^v rrjv ivTavBa dXKwg.
t By which Simonides is uncertain. Strabo says, TatprjvaL Xsyerai Mipvoiv iripl
IlaXrov rijf Hvpiag Trapd BaSdv irorapov, u)g iiprjKS SipwviSrig iv Mipvovi SiBvpapjiip
Tdv ATjXiaKuv. A younger Simonides had visited Meroe, and had written on Ethiopia :

MEMNON. 63
been spoken of by Simonides in a poem called Memnon (Strabo
•XV. [iii. § 2], p. 728*), and another on theTlver Belseos two stadia
distant from Ptolemais (Joseph. Bell. Jud. ii. 10, 2).
The great majority of voices however agree in tracing the origin
of Memnon to Ethiopia. The only notion attached to this word
in the Homeric age seems to have been that it was a region
extending to the utmost verge of the earth, bounded by the Ocean
stream, and that its inhabitants, blessed with the immediate presence
of the rising and the setting sun, were the most Innocent and the
happiest of mortals. All that Homer could have had to relate
about the march of Memnon was that he came from a far country
in the East. The Homeric distinction between the eastern and
western Ethiopians (Od. i. 24), which was grounded on a view of
geography that had long ceased to be understood in the age of
Herodotus, was nevertheless probably the occasion of that which
this historian adopted between the Asiatic Ethiopians on the
borders of India and those of Africa (\ii. 70). The name of
Ethiopia however was gradually confined to Africa, and there to
the upper course of the Nile ; and the Greek travellers who were
curious about the history of Memnon expected to find the fullest
and surest information about him in Egypt, which appeared to have
been either the country of his birth, or the scene of his earliest
adventures. The Egyptians were probably consulted very early on this
subject ; and their learned priests can have found no difficulty in
satisfying the Greeks who Inquired of them. But their answers
would vary according to the nature of the questions proposed. If
Memnon was described as a royal conqueror who had traversed
Asia and subdued all the nations he passed through, he would
naturally be compared with some one or other of the mighty kings
of Egypt, the fame of whose exploits had once resounded through
the habitable world, and might have been preserved by the faint
PUn. N. H. VI. 35. One of these Syrian Memnonia is alluded to by Oppian, Cyneg.
ii. 152. ndvrr] S' ipya fSoHv BaXepdg jiiPpiBiv dXuidg Mipvovtov irtpi vabv 'off
'Aaaioioi vatTijpig Wipvova kuikIiovoi kXvtov yoj/ov 'Upiyiviiije.
* Hygin. [Fab.] 223. Domus Cyri regis in Eobatanis, quam fecit Memnon lapidibus
variis et candidis vinctis auro.

64 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
and confused echo of the Greek tradition. He might have been
that Sesostris whose invincible arms had penetrated eastward as
far as the Ganges, and westward to the extremity of Thrace : or
that Osymandyas whose Bactrian expedition was recorded in the
sculptures of his sepulchral palace at Thebes (Diodor. i. 47, 55).
On the other hand, if the Ethiopian hero was to be considered as
the son of Aurora, as a youth of more than mortal beauty, whose
untimely death had clouded the face of nature with sadness, and
was commemorated every year with mournful rites, the Egyptian
mythology could produce a being of similar character and fate.
Such was the mysterious person who was revered as the guardian
of Thebes, and whose statue. In the Eoman period, was often
heard to utter a plaintive strain.* The Egyptian title by which
he was known at Thebes was Phamenoph or Amenophis,t which
came near enough to the Greek name of Memnon to confirm the
supposition of their identity.
The name of this Amenophls appears among the kings of
Egypt : + but there is every reason to believe that he was a merely
ideal being, though his character and attributes have been the
subject of much dispute among the learned. Our present purpose
does not require that we should enter very deeply into this
question, though we must not entirely pass over it. Jablonski
was, I believe, the first writer who expressed the opinion that the
famous vocal statue did not represent any historical personage, but
was merely symbolical and mystical. This he thought was plain
from the legends concerning Amenophls, as well as from his being
called the son of Aurora; and he conjectures that this statue, as well
* An inscription on the colossus, as corrected by Jacobs (Transactions of the
Munich Academy, t. ii. p. 42). fiovfi S' oSvppbg jjwdXai poiMspvovogrd TrdBij yoCJira.
t Paus. I. 41, 3. iiTTi [elSovl KaBripsvov dyaXpa ijxniv (according to Scaliger's
correction \_r)xovv, Dind.]), Mipvova bvopd^ovaiv oi ToXXoi. rovrov yap tpaaiv iK
AiBiOTTiag bpptiBijvai ig Aiyvirrov Kal ti]v dxpi 'S,ovau>v. dXXd yap ov Mipvova oi
Qr)^a~ioi Xkyovui, 9apevio(p Si dvai tUv iyxiopliav ov Tovro rb dyaXpa r/v. rJKOvaa Si
tjSt] Kal Ssffwffrpiv ^apkvtuv tlvai tovto to dyaXpa o Kappvaqg Sdso^l/i. [See the
discussion of this passage in Creuzer, SymboUk, ii. p. 176, note 2, 3rd edit.]
t Syncellus, i. p. 286, ed. Bonn. AiyviTTOV p. IjiaaiXtvtrev ' ApsviiJipBig. Ourog 6
' ApevdipBig kanv b Mkpvwv tlvai vopiZopipog Kal fBiyyoptvoq XiBog. 'bv XiBov xpbvoig
vuTipov KapfSvirrig b Uspaiiiv ripvei vopi^ojv eivai yorjreiav iv avTip wg TloXvaivog'o
'AdT]vaXog ((TrOjOcT.

MEMNON, 65
as the pyramids, were destined by the priests to the purpose of
astronomical observations (Opusc. i. p. 27). The name Amenophls
he interprets either guardian of the city of Thebes,* or announcer
of good tidings, quasi dicas evcuyYeXiaTrj^, and he refers this mean
ing as well as the other to the astronomical observations of which
he conceives the statue to have been an instrument. Creuzer, as
might be supposed, takes a different view of the subject, though
he is perfectly willing to adopt Jablonski's flrst explanation of
the word, to which, as he remarks, the etymology of the Greek
name corresponds so closely that it might be taken not for a
corruption, but for a translation of the Egyptian. f This Phame-
nophis-Memnon is, according to Creuzer, identical with Osyman
dyas, and closely resembles the Persian Mithras. All his attributes
and legends point to the vicissitudes of light and darkness, the
changes of the seasons, the courses of the planets. He is himself of
dazzling beauty, but his followers who bring their offerings to his
tomb show the complexion of night. He answers the greeting of
his worshippers with a joyful strain when he Is touched by the
first rays of the rising sun, but in the evening his voice is plaintive
like the tone of a broken chord. He is Horus in the prime of his
strength and beauty ; but again he is doomed to an untimely
death, and is bewailed as Maneros, and corresponds to Linus and
Adonis and the other heroes of this numerous class. Another
German writer + has proposed a very singular hypothesis about the
Egyptian Memnon, which perhaps deserves to be noticed, though
it is very difficult to describe it with the necessary brevity, with
out making it appear more fanciful and arbitrary than it really is.
He compares Memnon, not with the young victorious god Horus,
but with his vanquished adversary Typhon, who though over
powered still retains a feeble and lingering existence, and from
time to time sends forth a faint note of lamentation over his own
* In one of the inscriptions Mipvwv Qt]j3aio>v wpopaxog.
t Symbolik, i. p. 453 [ii. 177, 3= Ausg.]. He refers to Plato, Cratylus, p. 395,
who says of Agamemnon lirt oiv dyaarbg Kard rfjv iwipovjjv oirog 6 dvrjp
ivaripaivH rb bvopa b 'Ayapspvmv — the most essential quality, Creuzer observes, of
a guardian and champion.
J Wilhelm von Schiitz in the Wiener Jahrbiicher, xxi. p. 107.
AOL. III. r

66
sufferings. He represents however no physical object or event,
but is the symbol of a period In the history of the nation, one of
primitive simplicity, which had passed away and lived only in
memory, having been replaced by one of strife and conquest,
power and pomp, a calculating and oppressive rule. "Sesostris,
whose name according to Jablonski means the prince who gazes
on or adores the sun, probably represents a new dynasty. He is a
conqueror, and the destroyer of the earlier principle ; with him
too begin new buildings; obelisks and pyramids succeed to the
colossal Images of former times. These ancient statues continue
to exist, but the legend describes them as mourning over the
glories of the past, and as fostering a languid hope of a future
revival. " *
The reader will perceive from this specimen, which is perhaij.-^
but a scanty one, how copious a harvest of conjecture the subject
is capable of yielding. But the question we are at present mainly
concerned with is not what notions the Egyptians attached to
their Memnon, but in what manner he became known to tho
Greeks so as to fill a conspicuous part In their heroic poetry.
This question has been profoundly investigated by Mr. Jacobs, in
a very learned and instructive essay published In the " Memoirs
of the Royal Academy of Munich," vol. Ii., and reprinted among
his miscellaneous works. But as it may probably not be found In
many libraries in this country, it may be doing a service to those
of our readers who take an interest in such researches, to lay
before them the substance of his opinions and arguments in some
detail. The essay begins with an enumeration of the monuments of
Memnon scattered over Asia, for the knowledge of which, it Is
observed, we are indebted chiefly to Incidental allusions. One of

'' He conjectures that the sounds heard proceeded not from the statue itself, but
from some local cause that operated in its vicinity (as Humboldt speaks of subterra
neous sounds that issue at sunrise from the rocks on the Oronoko), and that this
phenomenon was either applied by the adherents of the ancient system to an existin;;-
statuc, or that a statue was erected there to take advantage of it. It is to be regretted
that so ingenious a hypothesis should not have the minutest particle of historical
ground to stand upon. See however Plutarch, De Is. et Os. o. 30.

MEMNON, 67
these, which I have not yet mentioned, is found in DIctys (De
Bello Trojano, vi. 10), where after the death of Memnon his
sister Hemera goes in search of his body. At Paphus* she meets
with the Phoenicians whom Memnon had sent by sea, while he
himself led the main body of his army over Mount Caucasus to
Troy. From them she receives an urn containing his remains,
with which she sails to PhaBuIcIa, and there buries them in a
region called Palliochis, Mr. Jacobs places this story in a new
light by comparing it with the legend of the search made by Isis
after the body of Osiris, which she finds in Phoenicia (Plutarch,
De Is. et Os. c. 15). He proceeds to notice the various hypo^
theses that have been formed about these monuments. Are they
the works of a conqueror who traversed Asia ? If so, how is it
that we find so many sepulchres erected In honour of him ? Are
we to suppose that one really contained his remains, and that the
others were cenotaphs ? Or will the difficulty be solved If we
separate the Trojan from the Egyptian Memnon, and each of these
from the Assyrian? This method Mr. J. justly pronounces an
arbitrary expedient : and it may be added that it merely multi
plies the questions instead of answering them. But on the other
hand, with equal judgment he rejects the vain attempt of DIodorus
to connect the various legends by a historical thread. " This
mode of interpretation," he remarks, " being that which Is most
agreeable to the most vulgar understanding, has for this verj"^
reason always found many partisans, and even now, though its
defects have been long perceived, it has not yet lost all its
influence. Imaginary personages in human form, and mostly
decked with crowns and robes of state, still continue to play a
usurped part on the theatre of ancient history." It is indeed
much easier and safer to laugh at these phantoms than to attempt
to dethrone them.
Mr. J, then addresses himself to a different class of critics, and
* There is a confusion in the narrative between Paphus and Rhodes, as the reader
may see by looking back to iv. c. 4. And yet it must be owing to the author, not,
as one of the commentators seems to have suspected, to the transcribers : for Hemera
would naturally begin her search in Cyprus. Palliochis is probably connected either
with Paltus or the Belseus.
f2

68 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
asks Yvhether there is any better reason for considering Memnon
as a king and conqueror, than for viewing Thoth or Osymandyas
or Dionysus in that light. The fables relating to the last of
these mythical persons have likewise been forced into the shape
of a poKtical history. Yet no one believes that they have any
other kind of historical foundation than the propagation of a
certain worship from the remote East to the shores of the ^gean.
And such Mr. J. conceives to be the real import of the various
legends concerning Memnon. He too was a god, whose rites were
carried from Ethiopia through Egypt and Asia to the coast of the
Propontis. To clear the way for his hypothesis Mr. J. combats the opinion
of Marsham and Jablonski, who imagined that Ethiopia in the
fable of Memnon included Upper Egypt. He contends that
according to the greater part of the ancient authors this name was
applied to the country of which Meroe was the capital. Phllo
stratus asserted that Memnon was worshipped at Meroe as well as
at Memphis by Ethiopians as well as by Egyptians,* and that he
cherished his hair in honour of the Nile, which rose In Ethiopia ; f
and Agatharchides mentions that the Memnonia at Thebes were
built by Ethiopians. + The descriptions of Lycophron § and
Quintus Calaber, II which speak of Cerne and the Southern Ocean,
'^ Heroica [c. iv.], p. 699. Qvovaiv avrip Kara Meporjv Kal M'spipiv AlyvTTrioi.Kai
AiBioTTeg, iTrnSdv aKrXva TrpuiTTjv b i'jXiogjKpdXy.
"^ Imag. I. 7- b rOiv [ioarpvxt^v daraxvg, o'vg oipai 'NeiXipirpe^e ¦ l^eiXov yap Aiyvir-
Tioi /lEv ixovoi rag iK^oXag, AiBioTreg Si rag Trriydg. There is a curious misprint in
the German, which is not noticed in the corrigenda : dass er sein Heer dem uthiopischen
Nil gendhert habe.
X Ap. Phot. p. 448, Bek. These Ethiopians however are here represented as com-
2)aratively recent invaders : he is speaking of the gold mines on the Red Sea : tvp-qrai
fiiv vTrb ruiv irpoiriov roij tottov jSauiXiijJv raJv pErdXXttJv rj ipviTig, SikXnrE Si kvtpyovua
•Kori piv AlBioTTuv £7rt rriv A'lyvTrrov irXriBovg avveXBovrog Kal TroXXd rdg TroXiig irt)
0povpri{7avTog {{if' ijjv Kai rdMepvovsia (yvvTereXioBat ^aiTi),Trori SiMrjSidv KallUpffiitt'
iTriKparrjirdvTfjjv. § Cass. 18. Axaoia, goes ioith. Ti9u>vbv iv KolryairrjgKipvrig TriXag AnroHaa. On
the other positions of this fabulous island the reader may consult Eustath. ad. Dionys.
Perieg. 218, who speaks of the iravvoTaroi AiQio-Trrjig AvTi^ Itt' 'QKtdvtpTTvpdrrig rrapd
ripTTta Kipvrig. There is a learned and luminous dissertation on this subject in
ViUckers Mythische Geographic, pp. 56 — 81.
[I B. 118. Memnon describes dKapdrov iripara x^ovbg, dvroXiag re 'HeXiov Kal
Trdaav diz' oiKtavolo KiXivBov MixpiQ i^^l Upidpoio ttoXiv Kal Trpuiovag "IS^ig.

MEMNON. 69
point the same way : and the exceeding beauty for which Homer
praises the hero is a characteristic not of the Egjq)tians but of
the Ethiopians, who, Herodotus says, were the finest men in the
world.* All these indications favour the supposition that the
Egyptians became acquainted with Memnon in the same way and
through the same channel as that by which they acquired their
knowledge of Ammon. The latter god came from the Ethiopian
Meroe,tthe central seat of his worship, to his stUl more renowned
sanctuaries in Egypt and Libya. Thebes in Upper Egypt was a
colony of Meroe, and its Egyptian name, Amoun-noh, the city of
Ammon, shows that the worship of that god was the basis on
which the colonists founded their new state. Memnon too
originally belonged to Meroe, which was deemed the place of his
birth, because it was the earliest seat of his worship. In Thebes
he was revered as Phamenophis, Guardian of the city of
Ammon, that is, as a ministering god, one of the class which the
Greeks designated by the names of Qeol -napecpot and oTmiot. So in
the Egyptian mythology Thoth Is the servant of Isis and Osiris,
and Anubis the guardian of Osiris and the attendant of Isis. And
thus, as Ammon himself migrated with his priesthood from
Ethiopia to Egypt, the guardian of his sanctuary accompanied

* III. 114. dvSpag piyiirrovQ Kal KaXXifrrovg Kal paKpofSiuirdTovg. To this we
may add the fact mentioned by Athenteus (p. 566), KaBianav Si Kal ttoXXoi rovg
KaXX'iarovg jiainXiag, ibg pixpi vvv ol 'ABdvaroi KoXovpivoi AiBioing, log ^rjai Biiov
iv AiBioviKoXg, to which Aristotle also alludes, Pol. iv. 4, d Kara piyeBog Sitvipovro
Tag dpxdg liairtp iv AiBiomif (paai Tivtg. This may be probably considered as a
historical fact, and is perfectly consistent with what Diodorus says (iii. 5) about the
election of the kings by the priests : oi 'leptig t? avriiv roig dpiarovg irpoKpivovaiv, ix
Si rCiv KaraXtxBivTdjv 'bv dv b Btbg Ktiipd^tov Kard riva trvvi^Beiav irepitpepoptvog XdjSy,
TOVTOV TO TrXrjBog a'lpuTai ^aaiXia. Another Ethiopian custom reported by Diodorus
(hi. 7) deserves to be mentioned here : ipaai avvi)Beg dvai Kai rb avvreXivrdv sKovaiuig
Toig iraipovg roig PaaiXiiJai. So that the honours which Memnon's companions pay
to his tomb are quite in keeping with the national character. Mr. Jacobs has not
noticed Quintus Curtius iv. 8, Alexander — Memphim petit. Cupido, baud injusta
quidem, oeterum intempestiva, incesserat, non interiora modo Aegypti, sed etiam
Aethiopiam invisere. Memnonis Tithonique celebrata regia cognoscendae vetustatis
a-vidum trahebat paene extra terminos soils. Demetrius iv rip Trtpl tUv kot' Aiyvirrov
(ap. Athen. xv. p. 680) : Xiyerai Se rig pvBog virb riov AiyvTrriuiv, 'on ot AiBtoireg
artXXopivoi tig Tpoiav iiirb roS 'l'iBo>vov, iird iJKOvcrav rbv Mipvova rtTEKtvrrjKtvai, iv
rovTtp rip roirip Tovg artfdvovg dvipaXov sjri rdg aKavBag.
t See Heeren, Ideen, ii. p. 441 and foil.

70 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
him in his wanderings, and, when his origin was forgotten, was
honoured at Thebes as a native hero.
In the ancient world religion and commerce were intimately
connected together. The*gods accompanied their worshippers
into the foreign lands to which they were led by the pursuit of
gain, and their successive stations were marked by new temples,
altars, and rites. " The Indian commerce carried the worship of
Bacchus from the Ganges' to Thrace and thence farther south
ward : so Serapis was transported from Egypt to Colchis, and
thence to SInope, whence he returned to his native home : so the
Phoenician Hercules travelled to Gades, and the Astaroth of the
same people was introduced by them into all the islands and
countries visited by their fleets and caravans." And as the
numerous birthplaces of Bacchus, his Nysas, in Ethiopia and
India, Arabia and Thrace, plainly indicate so many seats of hls-
worshlp, so the Memnonia may be regarded as traces of the pro
gress of the Ethiopian god. We find his sway permanently
established In several cities : and it may be fairly conjectured
that It was not confined to the comparatively few spots In which
we happen to have heard of it.
The chief difficulty that stands In the way of a historical inter
pretation of the legend of Memnon arises from the great number
of sepulchral monuments that laid claim to his remains from
Meroe to the ^sepus. But the hypothesis now* proposed affords a
complete explanation of this singular fact, which is in perfect
accordance with the oriental genius, and especially with that of
Egyptian antiquity. The religion of Egypt was as gloomjr and
melancholy, as that of the Greeks was cheerful and gay. It
filled life with images of death, and even dashed the pleasures of
the banquet with recollections of the grave. The gods themselves
die and are burled and bewailed. Many cities in the valley of the
Nile contested the possession of the remains of Osiris ; and the
sepulchre of Isis was shown at Memphis, and at Philse, near the
borders of Ethiopia. Her festival was celebrated with mourning,
like many others in the East. And there can be no doubt that
Amenophls was honoured with similar rites. We learn from

MEMNON. 71
Phllostratus that the Ethiopians mourned over Memnon's untimely
death (Vit. ApoU. vi. 4) ; and Oppian (Cyneget. ii. 152) says the
same of the Assyrians. This agrees perfectly with the Greek
legend about the yearly contests of the birds at the Memnonian
barrow. Hence it appears that according to all analogy Memnon
must be admitted into the ranks of the Egyptian and Ethiopian
gods. His graves are his sanctuaries, and his palaces are like
many in Egypt, which were mansions not of the living, but of the
dead. Foreign as such buildings are to our usages and notions,
they were familiar to those of the Egyptians, In whose eyes life
had no import but that of a transition into the realm of death.
Hence the magnificence of the sepulchral palace of Osymandyas ;
and the Labyrinth was destined to a similar purpose. We meet
with instances of the same usage in other parts of the East. The
temple of Belus was sometimes called his palace, sometimes his
grave. Semiramis buried NInus in her palace (Diodor. ii. 7) ;
and Persepolis was at once the residence and the burial-place of
the Persian kings : such therefore we may conclude was the
character of the Asiatic Memnonia.
I am conscious that this slight sketch has not done full justice
to the arguments of a writer who Is no less distinguished by his
eloquence than by his learning : yet I hope it will have enabled
the reader to understand and enter into his opinions. I must now
proceed to assign some reasons which prevent me from assenting
to his hypothesis, and lead me to prefer a different view of the
subject. The sum of his reasoning amounts to this : the supposi
tion that the Greek legend of Memnon was founded on a historical
basis leaves the most essential of its features, the death of the hero,
and the rites with which he was honoured, wholly unexplained ;
whereas the hypothesis just stated accounts satisfactorily for these
and all the other circumstances of the case. I shall first say why
I am not satisfied with this explanation, and shall then attempt
to show that the one I adopt is consistent with all the conditions
of the question.
And in the first place I must express my doubts as to the
extent which Mr. Jacobs attributes to the worship of the Ethio-

72 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
plan god or hero in Asia, as indicated by the Memnonia. Instead
of presuming that these monuments once existed in far greater
numbers than the fragments of ancient history disclose to us, I
am inclined to suspect that we hear of more than ever existed,
I collect from a passage In Mr. J.'s essay that Jablonski enter
tained the same opinion : but as I have not been able to meet
with that author's Syntagmata de Memnone, I do not know on
what arguments he founded it. To me the Memnonia reported
to exist at Ecbatana and at Susa seem very extraordinary, even
on Mr. J.'s hypothesis ; and the closer they are examined the
more suspicious do they appear. As to the former of these
capitals, what Hyglnus attributes to Memnon is the same work
which Herodotus ascribes to Deloces. From the notice this
historian takes of the Memnonian Susa, it seems fair to conclude
that he had never heard of any connexion between Memnon and
Ecbatana ; and It is not very probable that such a report, if it had
existed in his day, should have escaped him and have reached
Hyginus. On the other hand, when It was once known that
Memnon had founded Susa, or at least built the palace there, it
was quite in the spirit of Greek invention to extend the story to
the Median metropolis. I do not therefore even think it necessary
to have recourse to the Syrian Ecbatana, though this, which lay
near the river Belseus and the Memnonium mentioned by Josephus,
and, as it would seem, alluded to by Oppian, might certainly, as
Mr. Jacobs himself admits, have been confounded with the
Median.* On the other hand, the legend that Memnon dwelt at
Susa appears to be confirmed by the authority of Herodotus, who
repeatedly adds the epithet Memnonian to the name of the city or
the palace. But it Is still very questionable whether we ought to
look upon this as the record of an ancient tradition. I lay no
stress on the fact that Susa was founded by Darius Hystaspis,t
because this statement, though probably authentic, needs not to
* Plin. N. H. V. 19. Promontorium Carmelum et in monte oppidum eodem nomine
quondam Ecbatana dictum. Juxta Getta, Jebba : rivus Pagida sive Belus. It was
the residence of the Babylonian Jews. Joseph. Vit. 6.
t Plin. N. H. VI. 27. In Susiana vetus regia Persarum Susa a Dario Hystaspis
filio condita.

MEMNON. 73
be taken so literally as to exclude the previous existence of a town
or a temple on the same site. But Diodorus (i, 46) relates that
the Persians were said to have buHt or adorned the famous palaces
in Persepolis, and Susa, and Media, with the treasures which they
carried away from Egypt, and with the aid of Egyptian artists,
I see no reason for questioning this fact, except with regard to
the treasure ; and I conceive that this Is not only the most
probable explanation of the Egyptian character, which, as Mr.
Jacobs infers from the report of Diodorus, was visible in the
buildings at Susa and Persepolis, but that it also satisfactorily
accounts for the legend which had become prevalent among the
Greeks in the time of Herodotus, that Susa was the abode of
Memnon. I am therefore strongly inclined to strike both Ecba
tana and Susa out of the list of the original Memnonia.
This however is but a secondary question. My chief objection
to Mr. Jacobs's hypothesis is, that it implies either a state of
things which is not only attested by no evidence, but at variance
with all that we know of ancient history, or else a particular fact
equally unattested and intrinsically Improbable. If Memnon was
an Egyptian god whose worship passed from his own country
into Asia, it was undoubtedly spread by human means : and the
question is. Who were its carriers ? It is to be regretted that
Mr. Jacobs has not been so explicit on this point as was necessary
to secure the reader from the danger of misunderstanding him.
For it is not from a direct assertion, but from rather vague
allusions and comparisons, that we collect the precise nature of
his opinion. After mentioning that the ancient religions migrated
with mankind from the east toward the west, and remarking the
connexion between ancient commerce and devotion, that "the
merchant journeyed from one sea to another under the guidance
and protection of his gods," he proceeds to illustrate his meaning,
in the passage above quoted, by the examples of Bacchus and
Serapis, Hercules and Astarte, which he immediately applies to
the worship of Amenophls, but without expressly saying that it
was propagated by commerce or by any other means. Since how
ever he alludes to commercial intercourse, and to no other channel

74 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
of communication, and at the outset combats the opinion that
Memnon was a conqueror, and the Memnonia trophies of his
Aactorles, we must conclude that he conceives the Egyptian
worship to have been diffused over Asia, like that of Hercules and
Venus, by a peaceable traffic. But ^yhich was the people that took
the active part in this traffic ? This is the question on which
everything seems to me to depend, and for which nevertheless I
can find no distinct answer in Mr. J.'s essay. Still there are only
two suppositions that can be made on this subject : and each of
them raises a difficulty in mj^ mind which appears to me insur
mountable. The nation whose commerce this form of religion
followed in its progress, was either the Egyptians themselves, or
some other. Nothing certainly can be imagined more likely than
that Egyptians should have planted the worship of one of their
tutelary gods In the countries they traversed. But in what period
do we hear of a commerce in which the Egyptians were active ?
of fleets and caravans conducted by Egyptian merchants ? This
is something which must be proved before it can ever be made
the foundation of a tenable hypothesis. It implies a state of
things not only attested by no evidence, but at variance with all
that we know of ancient history, which Informs us that except for
some temporary conquests, or In consequence of a forced migra
tion, the Egyptians before the age of the Ptolemies never left
their native land. On the other hand, notwithstanding our uncer
tainty about the dates of tho Phcenlclan colonies and of their
commercial expeditions, their high antiquity Is sufficiently pro
bable and well attested to be readily admitted in the discussion of
any hypothesis. But we have the strongest proof of which any
negative assertion is capable, that they did not spread the worship
of Amenophls over Asia, because we meet with no trace of that
worship in any of their known settlements, but with others
apparently differing from it both in nature and In name. If there
was ever room for such a being as Amenophls in the Phoenician
mythology, it seems to have been very early flUed up by another
person of kindred attributes, by their Thammuz or Adonis.
Which of these two suppositions expresses Mr. J.'s meaning, I

MEMNON, . *
cannot even conjecture : but that he must adopt one or the other,
and cannot have had any third people in his view, as the instru
ments of diffusing the worship of Amenophls, seems certain : but
111 neither case can I reconcile his hypothesis with history or
analogy : it Implies a fact wholly unattested, and intrinsically
Improbable. For these reasons I must at least suspend my assent to it until
the difficulties I have stated shall have been removed.
The hypothesis I am about to propose can scarcely claim the
merit of originality ; for the steps which led me to it had been
already taken, all but the last. Among others Buttmann, in the
second volume of his Mythologus,* has brought together a number
of facts and observations, which might have been expected to have
led him to the same conclusion ; and perhaps they would have
done so, if he had not been dazzled by the captivating form into
which Mr. Jacobs has wrought his hypothesis, so that in another-
placet he thinks it scarcely possible to withhold assent from it.
In the essay on the MInya3 Buttmann's object is to render it pro
bable that Minyas, the ancient king of Orchomenus, Is a person
of exactly the same mythical character with the Indian Menu,
the Egyptian Menes, the Phrygian Men or Manes, and the Cretan
Minos, with whom the history of their respective countries begins,
and he compares the Mannus of the Germans (Tacit. Germ. 2),
the son of the god Tuisco, who was celebrated in the ancient
songs of the nation. To this list I would add the conquering hero
Memnon. I scarcely imagine that any reader will be startled by
• the slight variation in the form of his name from that of the above-
mentioned persons : but should this be the case, it will be sufficient
to remember that Memnon is only a dilatation of Menon, and then
to remark that in a Greek author quoted by Pliny the old king of
Egypt occurs under the latter name.+ Indeed in this respect my
* Vol. ii. Ueber die Minyoe der altestcn Zeit, pp. 232—241.
t i. p. 199.
J There can be no doubt, I should think, about the person meant. N. H. vii. 56.
Anticlides in Aegypto invenisse (literas) quemdam nomine Menona tradit xv. annis
ante Phoroneum antiquissimum Graeciae regem. — Anticlides might well conclude
that Menes was the inventor of letters, since his son Athothis -vsrote books on anatomy.

76 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
hypothesis seems to have a considerable advantage over Mr. J.'s.
For the real audible name of the Egyptian god or hero whom he
seeks to identify with Memnon was not Amenophls, but Phame
noph,* though the flrst letter is only the article : and the corrup
tion of this word into Memnon is certainly much less simple and
natural than the other. Beside this there is a resemblance
between the character of Memnon and some of the persons with
whom I compare him, sufficiently close at least to raise a pre
sumption in favour of my conjecture. The Phrygians, as we read
in Pausanlas, viewed Memnon as a great conqueror, and as the
maker of the highway that passed through their country. On the
other hand, Plutarch observes that among the Phrygians all
brilliant and wonderful works are called Manic, because Manis,
one of their ancient kings, whom some name Masdes, was a brave
and powerful man in his day : and Plutarch himself compares this
hero with Semiramis and Sesostris. t So too what is reported of the
first king of Egypt agrees extremely well with the general outline
of Memnon's history. I lay no stress on the coincidence between
Menes and Osiris, though it seems very clear that the actions of
the one are attributed to the other. + But Menes Is represented
Syncell. i. 101. "ABoiBig — orl ipipovrai /3i;8Xot dvaropixal, larpbg ydp yv. He also
built the palace at Memphis. It is proper to observe that the same character and
similar actions are attributed to the second king of the third dj'riasty, p. 106. 2l(Top-
Bog '6g 'AtTKXi^Triog irapd AiyvTrrioig eKXiiBrj Sid rifv larpiKrjv. ovrog Kal rr)v Sid
^eurHiv XiBwv oiKoSoprjv e'vparo. dXXd Kal ypatpijg iirepeXrjBri. Again the second
king of the fourth dynasty, Suphis, emulates his predecessors by building a pyramid
and -writing a book : Pliny, N. H. vi. ; Aethiopia clara et potens, etiam usque ad
Trojana bella Memnone regnante.
¦* One of the inscriptions begins IkXvov avSrjtravTog lyiit JloirXiog SaXfSZvog ^utvdg
rdg Beiag Mipvovog r] ^apsvojip.
t De Is. et Os. 24. peydXai piv vpvovvrai irpd^tig iv ' Auavpioig ^tpipdpiog, peydXai
Si a'l ^etrdxTTpiog iv AiyvTrrip' ^piiyeg Si t^ixP^ viJv rd Xapirpd Kal Bavpaard rSiV
ipyojv MaviKd KaXovffi, Sid to Mdviv rivd rijjv TrdXai ^aaiXkmv dyaBbv dvSpa Kal
Svvarbv yev'zuBai Trap' avroig, 'bv evioi Mdd^jjv KaXovoi. The latter name reminds
us of the Persian Onnuzd or Oromasdes, which is -written by oriental scholars, Ahuro
Mazdae : the last word is an epithet signifying great.
i Plutarch, De Is. et Os. c. 8, mentions the story of the curses recorded at Thebes,
Kara Meiviog rov (SaaiX&otg '6g -TrpioTog AiyVTrriovg Trjg dirXovrov Kal dxpvpdrov Kai
Xirijg drrriXXaKt SiaiTrjg. c. 13 he says, (iauiXevovra S' "Oiripiv AiyvitTiovg piv evBvg
d-Kopov (i'lov Kal BripiiiiSovg diraXXd^ai, Kaprrovg re Sei^avra Kal vopovg Bipevov avroig
Kal Btovg Sei^avra [SiSd^avral ripdv varepov Si yrjv Trdaav ypepovpevov irrtXBtXv
Diodorus, i. 45, relates of Menas, KaTaSeiiai ToXg XaoXg Beoig re akjitcBai Kai BvaiaQ

MEMNON. 77
not merely as a founder of religious institutions, and the author
of a higher degree of civilization, but also as a conqueror, who
gained great renown by an expedition which he led into foreign
lands.* It may therefore be fairly assumed that a name which a
Greek would naturally form into Memnon was long before the
time of Homer celebrated in the west of Asia as that of a hero
who had come from the East, and had achieved many glorious
exploits ; and this very simple supposition, if It may not rather
be termed a well-attested fact, appears to me quite sufficient to
explain every feature In the Greek legend of Memnon. This I
shall proceed to show by analysing the legend and successlveljr
examining its elements. These are, the parentage of Memnon, his
extraordinary beauty, his premature death, his funeral honours.
As to the first point I may be very brief, because it raises no
difficulty, at least none that is peculiar to my hypothesis. To say
that Memnon came out of the distant East was equivalent to call
ing him an Ethiopian, and no parent could be assigned to him
mor6 befitting his beauty and his illustrious deeds than the goddess
of the morning. It was not an arbitrary fiction, but a mytho
logical deduction, as legitimate as that which determined the
lineage of Achilles and jEneas. The beauty of Memnon may at
flrst sight appear a necessary result of his birth : since the rosy-
fingered goddess could bear none but comely children. It Is how
ever quite as probable that the beauty of the hero was the earlier
feature, and contributed to fix the story of his birth. The sense
of beauty, which gradually developed itself among the Greeks in
imrtXtXv, npog Si Tovrotg TrapaTiBtaBai rpairi^ag Kal KXivag, Kal arpivpvg TroXvrtXti
XprjoBai, Kal rb cvvoXov rpv^^v Kal TToXvTsXrj j3iov e'iariyr)iyaaBai. When we com
pare these descriptions, and remember the viripopiog arpartia of Menes, it is difficult
to approve of Wyttenbach's criticism, who objects to Squire's opinion that Menas and
Osiris were one and the same person. " Atqui diversae sunt res, diversae traditiones.
Menis Aegyptios primus a simplici et frugali victu ad lautiorem delicatioremque
convertit, at Osiris a vita inopi et ferina ad frugum agrique culturam ac Deorum
•cultum eos traduxit." As if luxury and frugality were not relative terms. Then
he adds a chronological argument ; et omnino hie illo antiqiiior celebratur.
* Syncell. p. 102 (Bonn). Merd v'lKvag Kal roiig rjpiBiovg rrpuirriv Swaortiav
RarapiBpovai jiaaiXiiov bKriii. &v yeyove Mrivric'bg Siaaijpuig airHv iiyrjaaro — Mrjvrjg,
ov "GpoSoTog Mrjva oivopaatv. — ovrog vntpopiov arpartiav iirou'iaaTo Kai ivSo^og
iKpiBri. vrrb Si 'imroTrordpov ripirdaBri. It is remarkable that he too comes to an
untimely end.

78 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
SO many directions, manifested Itself In the attention paid to the
human form, perhaps before they had begun to attempt even the
rudest Imitation of it. It is a characteristic tradition, even if it
should not be literally true, that Cypselus, the ancient king of
Arcadia, instituted a contest for the palm of female beauty on the
Alpheus.* The antiquity of similar contests at Tenedos a,nd
Lesbos was probably verj'- great, t The scholiast on II. ix. 129
imagined that the poet alluded to that in the latter island, which
was held in the precincts of the temple of Juno.+ And I am
inclined to suspect that the legend of the rival goddesses may have
owed its origin to this local usage. The Homeric poems contain
abundant evidence that beauty and valour were attributes equally
-essential to the idea of a perfect hero. Achilles surpasses all the
other Greeks equally in both.§ At the same time it is necessary
to distinguish this from other cases, in which the beauty ascribed
to a mythical person was probably connected with a totally dif
ferent train of associations. The beauty of Hylas and Hyacinthus,
and perhaps that of Pelops and EndymIon,|| belongs to a separate
head, and has nothing in common with that of Achilles. But that of
Peleus, of Bellerophon, of Jason, and Theseus,1I and other similar
heroes, may be properly considered as an early indication of the
national turn of mind. And this is confirmed by the impor
tance which the Lacedajmonlans, who retained the old Greek
character with so few refinements, attached to this quality.** If
the Ethiopians paid exclusive regard to it in the election of their

* Nicias 'sv roXg 'AoKaJiKoij, Athen. xiii. p. 609. The contest took place at the
festival of the Eleusinian Ceres. Another is mentioned in the same page, on the
authority of Theophrastus, among the Eleans for the other sex. On comparing this
passage with what is said of the Elean contest in p. 565, F., we are led to suspect that
the object in all these contests was to select the most comely persons for the service
of the deity.
t Theophrastus ap. Athen. xiii. p. 610.
i irapd AetrfSioig dyitv dytrai KaXXovg yvvaiKwv iv rip Trjg"Hpag repivei Xeyope-
vog KaXXifjTtXa.
§ II. II. 674.
II Athen. xiii. p. 564.
H About Theseus, see Athen. xiii. p. 601.
** Heraclides Lembus ap. Athen. p. 566. [card rrjv Sirdprriv Bavpal^trai pdXXov
i KaXXiarog, Kal yvvq fj KaXXiarri.

MEMNON, / 9
kings, we read that Archidamus was fined by the ephors for pre
ferring a rich wife to one who was more likely to bear princes
worthy of Sparta,* and we know what a difficulty the oracle threw
into the way of Agesilaus in mounting the throne. If therefore
Memnon was a great warrior, it followed almost of course that he
was a person of surpassing beauty.
But the third feature in the legend of Memnon seems to be that
which Mr. J. found most difficult to reconcile with the hypothesis
that he was a real conqueror ; and as this objection would apply
with equal force to the supposition of his having been an Imaginary
one, I must endeavour to remove it. The premature death of
Memnon may I conceive be satisfactorily accounted for by two
causes, which, though distinct from each other, may have had an
equal share in the formation of the legend. In the first place it
must be remarked, that it is not owing to a merely accidental
association of ideas that all the qualities of an accomplished hero,
the highest fulness of strength, fleetness, beauty, and courage,
meet to adorn the character of Achilles, who is to be cut off
in his prime. This cannot be denied, even by one who should
contend that Homer was onlj' relating a fact, and that Achilles
may be considered as much a historical person as Brasldas. For
still it wiU be certain that it could be only by the choice and
design of the poet that the hero's untimely death Is represented
as the price which he has to pay for his glory. t Hence it is clear
that his fate is nothing more than the appropriate epical expres
sion for the same feeling which afterwards breaks out in the
plaintive strains of the lyric muse, the feeling of sadness produced
by the shortness and uncertainty of life, by the inflexible destiny
which contracted all human enjoyments within a narrow span,
and often embittered it with sorrow, often snatched away the most
precious gifts of nature and fortune, almost before the possessor
had time to taste them. That this motive entered into the compo-
* iiriXiyovrag 'on PamX'iaKovg dvri jiaaiXiiov roXg ^irapridraig ytvvdv irpo-
aipilrai. t II. xviii. 95 — 121, itg Kal iyiiv, d Si) pot bpoir] poXpa rirvKrai, Keiiro/i', ivti ki
Bdvii) • vvv Si KXiog iaBXbv dpoiprjv.

80 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
sition of the legend of Memnon seems the more probable, because
he is slain by Achilles, and because it is by his hand that Nestor
is bereaved of the youthful Antilochus.
It was not however only the high degree of beauty and valour
attributed to Memnon that may have given this turn to the legend ;
it might be very naturally suggested by his character as a con
queror. For he was a conqueror of ancient times : his greatness
had passed away ; his name was preserved only by a faint echo of
his old renown ; a new generation had sprung up to occupy the
scene of his exploits ; what monument of him could be found there
but his tomb ? That this was a natural train of thought appears
to me sufficiently proved by what Sallust says of the African
legend about Hercules, who was believed, after leading a vast
army out of the East to the conquest of the Western world, to
have died in Spain.* I shall presently have occasion to mention
what I conceive to be another parallel instance. But without
dwelling on this point. It might be enough to say that, as there
can be no doubt that from the earliest times the plains of Asia
were covered with numberless barrows, raised by the various tribes
who had contended for the possession of the country, if the name
of Memnon was celebrated there, it would have been scarcely
possible that It should not have been connected with some of these
monuments even before the Trojan war. Wherever a nameless
sepulchre was found, there was probably a tale to account for it :
just as In all parts of Peloponnesus, but especially In Laconia, the
people showed great barrows which they called the graves of the
Phrygians who accompanied Pelops on his famous expedltlon.f
Yet those Phrygians were conquerors. And must we here have
recourse to the hypothesis of an Egyptian worship ? It would
surely not be a very extravagant conjecture, that among those
'* Jug. 18 — postquam in Hispania Hercules, sicut Afri putant, interiit, exercitus
ejus compositus ex variis gentibus, amisso duce ac passim multis, sibi quisque, impe-
rium petentibus, brevi dilabitur. Ex eo numero Medi, Persae, et Armeni, navibus
in Airicam transvecti proxumos nostro mari locos occupavere. So that Hercules must
have come from Susa and Ecbatana. Pliny, N. H. v. 8 ; Pharusii quondam Persae
comites fuisse dicuntur Herculis ad Hesperidas tendentis.
t Athen. p. 625, F. iSoig dv Kal rrjg XleXorrovvrjirov iravraxov, pdXiara S' iv
AaKtSaipovi xi^para ptydXa fi KaXovoi rd^ovg rOiv ptrd TliXoTTOg ^pvyCjv.

MEMNON, 81
numerous barrows which, as Strabo informs us,* were in his day
shown almost all over Asia, and called by the name of Semiramis,
some at least passed among the natives for her tombs. This how
ever, I must acknowledge, is an argument which would drop out of
my hands, if any one should choose to deny that Semiramis had any
thing to do with the Assyrian dominion, and should contend that
she is only another representative of the Egyptian worship, which
Mr. J. supposes to have prevailed throughout Asia until it was
compelled to give way to the Persian arms.f The barrow on the
^sepus was apparently distinguished by the neighbourhood of
Troy, and by being embosomed in a grove sacred to the River
Nymphs. + As to the story of the birds, by which Mr. J. thinks
his hypothesis is confirmed, I can only say that I can discover no
ground for assuming that the Memnonides were the original type
after which all the other animals of the same class, the birds of
Dlomede, of Meleager, of Achilles, § were invented, or that any of
these legends were founded on anything more than observations
more or less correct on the habits of birds in particular places,
which were naturaUy connected with local legends. Any one
who reads the stories Pliny has collected in the tenth book of
his history about birds of passage wHl very easily understand what
ample materials the popular imagination might find in them. ||
* XVI. p. 737. Kal rijc 'EtpipdpiSog, xwpic rHJv iv Ba^uXdvi 'ipyuiv, TroXXd Si Kal
dXXd Kara irdffav yijv oxtSbv SeiKVVTai, 'barj rrjg r^ireipov Tavrrjg icrri, rd rt ^litpara,
a Sri KaXovoi ^epipdpiSog, Kal rtixrj) k. t. X.
f Note, p. 27. " The triumph of the Persian arms put an end to the Egyptian
worship in Asia, and the sepulchral palaces of Memnon were converted into residences
of kings,"
X Quint. Calab. 11. 588. yxi re 'Svpijidujv KaXXirrXopdvurv Ti-iXti dXaog KaXbv, o
Si] ptromffBe paKpbv irepl ffijp' ijSdXovro AlarjiroXo BvyaTptg,dSr]v TrerrvKaffp'tvov vXy
Uavroiij § On the transformation of Diomede's companions into birds, Strab. vi. p. 284. On
the Meleagrides, Pliny, N. H. x. 38. SimUi modo pugnant Meleagrides in Boeotia. — ¦
Meleagri tumulus nobilis. iElian, H. A. iv. 42. In Phllostratus, Heroic, p. 746, the
birds perform the same office at the temple of Achilles as at the tomb of Memnon :
Koopoijvrag avrip rb dXuog rip rt dvipip riijv irrepajj/, Kal raXg air' avrijiiv paviai.
II To select one specimen : c. 31. Pythonos comen vocant in Asia patentibus campis,
ubi congregatae (ciconiae) inter se commurmurant, eamque quae novissime advenit,
lacerant. Such congregations would most frequently take place, or at least would
attract most attention, on solitary hillocks. The Seleucides mentioned ia c. 39 seem,
to have owed their name to Greek flattery.
VOL. Ill, G

82 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
It will not be irrelevant, before we quit this part of tho subject,
to remark that, though Mr. J.'s reflections on the gloomy character
of the Egyptian worship, and the contrast between it and the
Greek are in general very just, still there is a very important
branch of the Greek religion to which they are not applicable, and
this is, the rites celebrated In honour of the dead. These rites
were necessarily of a funereal character, and all festivals of which
they formed a part presented a dark as well as a light side.* The
original distinction between the worship of the gods and that of
the heroes was never effaced, though it was sometimes difficult to
ascertain whlch^was most properly due, as in the cases of Hercules,
Achilles, Diomede, and others, t Though I should hesitate very
* See the description of the Hyacinthia in Athen. p. 139. Phllostratus, Heroic.
p. 740, observes, rd piv KopivBiutv irrl MeXiKkpry . . . Kal brroaa o'l avroi Spijiiaiv irri
roXg rrjg MrjStiag Traiaiv — Bprjvcp t'lKaarai rtXeariKip rt Kal ivBkip.
t Paus. II. 10, 1. <^aXoTOv iv ^iKvwvii} Xiyovaiv iXBovra KaraXajSeXv HgaKXtX a^dg
wg ijpitii ivay'ii^ovrag' ovkovv rj^iov Sp^v oitSiv 6 ^. Ttjjv avrijv, dXX' ug Bn^'^Bijtiv. — ¦
Achilles received divine honours at Olbia (at least if Dion. Chr. ii. p. 80, 6 p'tv
ydp Btbg, is to be taken literally) and at Astypalaea : Cic. De N. D. iii. 18, Achillem
Astypalaeenses insulani sanctissime colunt ; qui si deus est, et Orpheus et Rhesus
dii sunt, Musa matre nati. At Ilium he seems to have received the honours both of
a god and a hero : Philostr. Her. [20] p. 741. The passage is worth transcribing,
because it illustrates better perhaps than any other the distinction between the two
rites, and is in this respect equally valuable, whatever opinion we may hold as to tho
writer's authority. He relates that in ancient times before the Persian invasion, in
compliance with the injunction of the oracle of Dodona, QtrraXovg ig Tpoiav TrX^or'rag
Bviiv 'btya err] rtp 'AxiXXei Kal aipdrreiv rd piv org Bt<^, rd Si big iv poipi^ rixiv Keipsvojv.
The Thessalians had every year sent a ship to Troy, with black sails, having on board
fourteen Btuipoi and two bulls, one white and the other blaclr. The messengers on their
arrival at the tomb of Achilles Spopoig tppvQpujp'tvoig ^vvrjXdXaZov, dvaKaXoiivrEg rbv
'AxiXXia, (TTt^avuioavrtQ Si rrjv Kopvip^v roii KoXiovori,Kal (36Bpovg iir' avry bpv^avrtg,
rbv raijpov rbv psXava big TtBvtiJitri ia^arrov' tKaXovv Si Kal rbv UdrpoKXov iirl rrjv
Saira . . . Ivrtpovrtg ft tial ivayiffavrtg KarifSaivov iiri rriv vavv rjSrj, Kal Bvcravrtg 'trri
70V aiyiaXov rbv 'trtpov rixiv ravpoiv 'AxiXXti ndXiv, Kavov r ivap^dptvoi Kal airXdyx-
voiv ett' EKtivrj ry Bvaii}, iBvov ydp rr)v Bvtjiav ravrrjv big Bt(p,\7rtpl bpBpov dirsTrXtov
dirdyovTsg rb 'itpiiov, wg prj iv ry TtoXtpi^ tvbixoXvro. He then proceeds to relate
that these rites having been neglected, and Thessaly in consequence ha-ving been
afflicted -n-ith a drought, and an oracle bidding them rip^v rbv 'AxiXXia big Bipig, a
piv iig Bttp ii'optZov, dftXXov rHiv Spbipivbiv i^r/yovptvoi ravry rb oig Bipig, ivijyi^ov S'
iog TtBvtuiri. Compare Heroic, p. 707 and the descriptions of Pausanlas, x. 4, 10,
III. 19, 3 ; Plutarch, Qu. Rom. 34. Seuophanes is said to have been consulted by the
people of Elea whether they ought to sacrifice to Leucothea and to bewail her : the
philosopher advised them ei piv Bibv vrroXapjSdvovtri prj BprjvtXv, tl S' dv9pi.irrov pi]
Biuv. Aristot. Rhet. ii. 23. Plutarch (De Is. et Os. c. 70) places tho scene of the
story in Egypt, and gives the speech of X. a different turn : ti Btovg vopiZ,ovai pi]
BprjvtXv, ti Si Bprivovm Btovg pfj vopiZeiv. — The origin of the confusion above exem-

MEMNON, 83
much to deduce the whole of the Greek religion, as some ancient
and modern writers have done, from this source, still I as little see
the necessity of attributing an oriental origin to such rites, when
we meet with them among the Greeks. Homer's description of
the obsequies of Patroclus, though the poet strives to soften the
ferocity of the act, by leading us to view it as a measure of the
love of the hero for his deceased friend, when combined with other
ancient legends, seems to imply that the Scythian practice described
by Herodotus, of sacrificing human victims together with other
animals at the tombs of their dead kings, was not unknown to the
Greeks of the heroic age.* The inference I draw from this remark
plified between diviae and heroic honours may in general be accounted for by the
well-known fact, that in numberless instances a god was transformed by a legend,
which laid hold of one of his epithets as the name of a distinct person, into a mortal
hero. (See Mueller, Prolegomena z. e. w. M. p. 271, foil.) Whether a hero (before
the Macedonian period) was ever really sublimated by the mere enthusiasm of his
adorers into a god is very doubtful ; so that a great part of Cotta's argumentation
becomes a mere sciomachy. It must however be admitted that we find the belief in
the general possibility of such an apotheosis prevailing very early among the Greeks.
It was perhaps partly founded on the language of the Odyssey (xi. 601 and iv. 561),
which however admits of a different construction, and partly on the fact that in
different places (and sometimes it would seem in the same place) both kinds of rites
were actually performed in honour of the same person. Pindar, Nem. x. 11, says:
AioprjSfa S' dpPpoTov KavBd irore TXavKCiKig iBr)Kt Btov (Compare the quotation from
Polemo in the Schol.). This was after the example of Menelaus. Hesiod (Pausan.
1. 43, 1), among his other innovations, reported 'Ifiyivtiav ouk diroBavtXv, yviipy St
' ApTtpiSog 'SiKdrrjv tivai. Empedooles indeed speaks of a change from the human
to the divine nature as the ordinary effect of certain religious observances. But this
was manifestly a philosophical or mystic doctrine wholly unknown to the ancient
Greeks, though Professor Dissen (Pindar, Comm. p. 653) seems to view it in a dif
ferent light. " Ne Empedocles quidem pMlosophus decs ex his animabus fieri dicens
plane inania finxit." Yet in the very passage he refers to, the distinction between
the doctrine of Emp. and the old Greek theology appears very clearly, when we
consider how Pindar expresses the same thing. Emp. (Sturz. v. 407 — 9) says : tig
Si riXog pdvrtig re Kal ipvorroXoi Kal irjrpol, Kai Trpopoi dvBpbirroiaiv iirixBovioiiTL
TriXovrat, "'EvBtv dvapXaarovai Btol ripyai ipepiaroi. Pindar merely says : Oloi Si
^tpatipova TTOivdv TraXaiov irivBeog Si^trai, ig rbv 'vrrtpdtv dXiov Ktivbiv ivdTip'.trti
dvSiSol ^vxdg irdXiv. ek rdv fSaoiX^tg dyavol Kal cBivti Kpanrvol iroipiq. re
piyiaroL dvSpeg av^ovr' ' ig Si rbv Xonrbv ^^povoi' ijpbitg dyvoi Trpbg avBobiirbiv
KaXtvvrai. Thren. 4. Indeed it can scarcely be imagined that Empedocles meant to
express any commonly-received doctrine, since he spoke of himself as a god in his
life-time ; 'tyoi S' vpXv Btbg apjiporog oiiK in Ovrjrbg IlwXtiipai ptrd rrdai rtripivog,
biaiTtp ioiKt. V. 367. Aristotle, or some one for him, says in his apology (Athen.
p. 697), oil ydp dv Trort '^pptig- Bvtiv big dBavdnp Trpoaipovptvog itig Bvr]np pvijpa
KaTfCKtvaZov, xai dBavarO^tiv rrjv ipviriv PovXbptvog imrailiioig dv npaXg SKOirprjaa.
* Quintus, III. 680, describes a similar sacrifice at the funeral of Achilles, which he
probably took from Arctlnus.
G 2

84 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
is, that, even if it could be proved that mournful rites had once
been performed at the grave of Memnon on the ..^sepus, Mr. J.'s
hypothesis would gain nothing by the admission.
I must here digress for a moment to meet an objection which
may possibly occur to some readers, who have been led to consider
it as an unquestionable truth, that hero-worship was unknown to
Homer, and may therefore have been startled by the foregoing
observation. Mr. Mitford says (Chap. II. Sect. 1), " Nor is there
found In Homer any mention of hero-worship, or divine honours
paid to men deceased, which became afterward so common." This
is an unfortunate mode of expression, since it must In general have
the effect of preventing the reader from suspecting the real state
of the case. It Is as if one should say : Saint- worship, or divine
honours paid to men deceased, is a practice of which we flnd no
mention in the writings of the Apostles. A Greek theologian
would not only have denied that hero-worship was the same thing
with divine honours paid to men deceased, but would have been
able to point out a broad visible distinction between the honours
paid to heroes and those paid to the gods, which must have pre
vented even the vulgar from confounding them. Hero-worship
¦consisted in the repetition of certain funeral ceremonies, and may
be said to have existed as soon as such repetitions began to be
practised. At what period this practice arose is certainly a dis
putable question. Homer does not expressly mention it ; nor does
the word hero with him signify a person who was the object of It.
But since his poems exhibit the feelings and opinions on which
the practice was grounded in full force, there is strong reason,
independently of those which might be deduced from the old
Italian religion, to believe that it existed in the age they refer to,
though it undoubtedly underwent many modifications both as to
its form and its objects, before it became the hero-worship which
we find prevailing in the historical period.
But to return to the subject. I find all the leading features in
the Greek legend of Memnon intimately connected together, and
all springing naturally out of a single cause, the tradition of the
presence of a great eastern warrior and conqueror in the west of

MEMNON. 85
Asia, If I should have succeeded in establishing this point, my
inquiry would be here properly at an end. For this conclusion
cannot be at all affected by the aspect which the legend presents
among a different people, and least of aU by the allusions made by
ancient writers to the honours which Memnon received In Syria.
In the first place, considering the proximity of Egypt and Syria,
and the early and frequent Intercourse between the two countries,
we might admit the probability of the supposition that the Egyp
tian Memnon was really worshipped in the places of which Josephus
and Simonides spoke, and to which Oppian alludes, without being
led to any further conclusion about the Memnonium on the
jEsepus. But on the other hand, as we do not know what was the
Syrian name of the person whose monument and worship the
Greeks found there, we may with equal probability suppose that
they applied the name of Memnon, with which they were familiar,
to some object of Syrian devotion which was foreign to them, but
which suggested the comparison by its history, attributes, or rites.
And more particularly I conceive that the Egyptian Maneros, who
presents many points of resemblance, on the one side to Memnon,
and on the other to the Syrian Adonis, might have served as the
middle term in such a comparison,* At all events these instances
cannot suffice to establish that gigantic system of Memnonian
worship, by which Mr. J.'s imagination connects Ilium with Susa
and Ecbatana.
As it was the resemblance already pointed out by others between
the names and characters of Menu, Menes, Minos, &c. that led me
to the view here taken of the Greek Memnon, so it may perhaps
receive some additional recommendation from a comparison
between the latter and one of the most celebrated of the former
* He was the only son of old Menes (Herod, ii. 79), as, according to Jablonski,
Opusc. i. p. 178, his name imports. He was cut off like his father by an untimely
death : though Herodotus does not say that he was swallowed by a hippopotamus.
In Hesyohius, Mav'tpoig, Jablonski proposes to read BtoXoyrjaai. But since Hesych.
adds, icat Sid roiro' Trdaiv dvd aropa ytviuBai, and Pollux says, iv. 54, Aiyvrrrioig
fiiv b Mav'tpbig ytbipyiag tvptrijg, MovaHiv paBrirrjg, AiTviparjg Si ^pv^iv, and again,
I. 38, XXvog Kal Xirvipirrig BKaTravtitiv biSai Kai ytbipyHv, I am led to conjecture
ycbipyfjaai. At all events Wyttenbach should have considered this before he joined
in the outcry against the luxury introduced by Menes.

86 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
personages, the Cretan lawgiver. As such Minos certainly reminds
us much more of the Indian and Egyptian sages. Indeed his
connexion with the latter appears much closer than it really was,
in the legends of the Egyptian priesthood or their Greek
admirers. For like the Egyptian Memnon he is made to build a
labyrinth, which has now vanished again into air : * and on the
other hand, Sesostris, not content with conquering all Asia, sub
dues the greater part of the Cyclades, like Minos, and concludes
his expedition In the Minoan period of nine years, t But Minos
also resembles Memnon in two main points, which are not like the
former of late Invention : in the beauty of his person, and in his
violent death, which snatches him away at the height of his power
and glory. As to the beauty of Minos, I need only mention his
adventure with the traitress Scylla.J But what renders this
legend remarkable is, that it occurs again in a different scene, and
with different persons. In the expedition of Amphitryon against
the Taphlans, Comjetho is seduced, like Scylla, to cut off the
fated golden hair from the head of her father Pterelaus.§ Accord
ing to ApoUodorus the seducer on this occasion was Amphitryon
himself : but according to another version it was his ally Cephalus.||
And Cephalus Is beloved by Aurora, as his wife Procris must have
been by Minos, since he gave her the hound which was alone
capable of overtaking the Cadmean fox.^ These coincidences are
singular, though they may possibly be accidental. The death of
Minos in Sicily seems to be a legend of similar Import with that of
the death of Hercules in Spain, though perhaps it admits of a
more precise interpretation, into which however it would be
unseasonable to enter here.
* Hoeck, Kreta, i. p. 62, has shown very satisfactorily that the Cretan labyrinth
is a late fabrication.
t Diodor. I. 55. rrjV Xonryjv ' Au'iav UTratrav v-jrijKoov i-rroirjiraro Kal rCiv Kv.icXd-
Sbiv vyffbiv Tag TrXdarag, — ffwrtXiuag rr]v arpartiav iv irtaiv ivvia.
I Hence Nonnus, xxv. 165, surrounds Minos with a host of Cupids, and adds,
Mivbig piv nroXiTTopBog tip rrort KaXXtX yvpvip 'Yapivrjg riXog evpt, Kal ov v'lKrjae
aiSrjptp, 'AXXa -rroBip Kal ipbiri.
§ ApoUod. II. 4, 7. The hair of Pterelaus is of gold, that of Nisus purple (Pausan.
I. 19, 4). It is the same variation which occurs about the golden fleece : see Mueller,
Orchom. p. 172.
II Tzetz. ad Lye. 934. H ApoUod. ii. 4, 7.

MEMNON, 87
It now only remains to add a few remarks on the origin of the
tradition on which, according to the hypothesis here proposed, the
legend of Memnon was founded. Buttmann has endeavoured to
show that the names Menu, Menes, Minos, &c. originally signified
nothing more than our word man, and that these mythical persons
were at first only representatives of their several nations, or of
mankind in general, who afterwards became kings and lawgivers.*
To this view of the subject I have no objection, and would only
observe that it is perfectly consistent with the early existence of a
tradition, that one of these kings was a mighty conqueror who
came out of the East. By what means such a tradition was con
nected with the name of Memnon It is scarcely possible to ascer
tain, and is therefore of very little use to inquire, except for the
purpose of showing how such a connexion might have arisen.
There are three ways in which this may be conceived to have
happened. One, which would perhaps be the simplest explana
tion of the fact, is a migration by which the people to which the
legend belonged had exchanged its earlier seats for a new country
in the West. In this case the hero who represented it would
assume the character of a conqueror, who had led a victorious army
out of the East. And there can be no doubt that such migrations
very often changed the face of Western Asia, as we are led to
believe in particular with regard to the Phrygians, from the fact
mentioned by Herodotus, that they were related to the Armenians ;
for though he expresses this by saying that the Armenians were a
colony of the Phrygians,! historical analogy renders it much more
probable that the latter race originally sprang from Armenia. It
would however be also possible that the exploits of a foreign
conqueror, who had passed through the land In ancient times,
should have been transferred to a native hero. And thus the
legend of Memnon may appear to attest the expedition of Osyman
dyas or Sesostris. But this explanation can only be adopted by
* Mythologus, ii. p. 239.
t VII. 73. See Hoeck's Kreta, i. p. 125. He produces several strong arguments,
dra-wn partly from history and partly from geography, for his opinion that the
Armenians were the ancestors of the Phrygians.

88 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
those who are satisfied as to the reality of the enterprises attributed
to these conquerors, which of late has begun to be vehemently ques
tioned. Indeed it appears that even in the last century suspicions
had arisen among the learned on the subject. Marsham, in the
spirit of criticism which prevailed in his age, distinguishes between
the expeditions .of Sesostris and Osymandyas, by what appears to
him a decisive mark. He observes (Canon, p. 404) that the Bac-
trlans are not numbered among the nations conquered by Sesostris,.
whereas they formed a part of the empire of Barneses, as described
in the monument shown to Germanlcus, or at least by the priests
who interpreted it, and having afterwards rebelled were reduced
to submission by the victorious arms of Osymandyas, who on this
occasion made a progress through the extensive dominions acquired
by Sesostris. Perizonius (jEgypt. Orlg. p. 301) is so far from
admitting the force of this argument, that on the contrary he
believes the conquests of Sesostris or Barneses (whom he considers
as the same person) to have been greatly exaggerated both in
Diodorus and Tacitus : and he suspects (p. 306) that Sesostris was
no other than Osymandyas. He is however willing to receive his
expedition as a historical fact, provided It be confined within rea
sonable limits, and considered merely as a transient Inroad Into
the heart of Asia, not as the beginning of a long period during
which a great part of Asia was subject to the kings of Egypt :
a state of things as to which Lipsius had already expressed his
incredulity.* Freret observes " that it Is Impossible to doubt
that Sesostris conquered, a part of Asia Minor, and even carried
his arms Into Thf ace. In all these countries he left monuments
of his conquests : Herodotus assures us that he saw two of
these monuments In Ionia : and he speaks of those In Thrace as
one who was certain of their existence (ii. 103). The same his
torian informs us that Sesostris left a body of troops in Colchis,
to secure this frontier of his new empire, t It is scarcely pos-
* Ad Tacit. Annal. ii. 60. De hac tanta potentia Aegyptiorum nihil legi, nee
facile credam. He was perhaps equally ignorant of the vast extent of their ancient
commerce. f This is not a correct statement of what Herodotus says. He assigns no such

MEMNON, 89
sible to doubt that he posted another with the same motive in
Asia Minor."*
The progress of critical caution now renders it necessary to
modify Freret's proposition, and will only permit us to say, that
it Is impossible to demonstrate that the expedition of Sesostris
never took place. The authority on which it rests appears to a
modern critic far from conclusive. He observes " that no really
historical traces have yet been found of the expedition of Sesostris.
For it is to be hoped that those strange monuments of It which
the ancients saw in Palestine and Scythia, though their existence
is satisfactorily proved by the testimony of Herodotus, will not be
pronounced such, until some of them shall have been brought
under our inspection, so that modern as well as ancient criticism
may attempt to decide whether they are memorials which really
demonstrate the fact, or whether the observers of those days
accepted as such without suspicion an interpretation given to
certain hieroglyphics by an ancient legend, or even inscriptions
by which a later generation attested Its belief in a legendary
fact."t It must be allowed that these doubts are not arbitrary
and groundless suspicions. The arguments adduced by Herodotus
in favour of his conjecture about the Colchians excite our curiosity
with respect to the particulars which he has passed over,+ but
cannot convince us that he did not misconstrue them ; more espe
cially as hero, we do not even hear of any such monuments as were
said to have marked the bounds of the conqueror's march in
Thrace. § As to those which the historian himself saw in Pales
tine and in Ionia, besides the general objections thrown out by
motive to Sesostris, and does not even make up his mind about the cause which led
the Egyptians to settle there ; see ii. 103.
* Memoires de I'Academie des Inscrip. vol. xlvii. p. 131.
t Buttmann, Mythologus, i. 198.
J How desirable would it be to know the precise grounds of the remark, Kai ij
Zorj Trdaa Kal rj yXOiaaa ip^eprig iariv dXXjjXoicrt, and whether with respect to the
latter point they were more cogent than from the specimen given they seem to have
been as to the former I
6 It is not clear whether we must add, and in Scythia, as Buttmann appears to do
in the passage quoted above. But it seems better in ii. 103 to refer rovrovg and
TovTbiv to the Thracians only, since it is- probable that Herodotus was speaking -with
reference to Greece.

90 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
Buttmann, they seem liable to doubt on some more special grounds.
The relations between Egypt and Syria, which arose in an early
historical period, render it impossible to draw any safe inference
from Egyptian monuments in the latter country, as to events
assigned to the mythical ages. And a similar objection is appli
cable to the authority of those sculptures seen by Herodotus In
Ionia, of which he pronounces, with a confidence which we cannot
share without knowing something more of his reasons, that they
were monuments, not of Memnon, but of Sesostris. We learn
from Xenophon that Cyrus planted some colonies of Egyptians in
Asia Minor. And though this statement is suspicious from the
place in which it appears, it is in substance at least confirmed by a
more historical testimony.* Whether those Egyptians were, as
Xenophon represents them, auxiliaries of Croesus, or on the con
trary of Cyrus himself, which would be quite consistent with the
relation in which, according to Herodotus, the Persian conqueror
stood to Egypt,t and even with the main fact related by Xenophon
himself, in either case, if the fact of the Egyptian settlements be
admitted, they seem to afford an easy explanation of the monu
ments seen by Herodotus In Ionia. If on any of their marches
the Egyptian troops found themselves at leisure In a station near
a rock, which struck them by its remarkable appearance, the
thought of carving on it the Image of one of their ancient heroes,
who had perhaps passed by that very road, and had unquestion
ably conquered the country, would not be very unlikely to occur
to them.
It is to be regretted that Mr. Jacobs has not thought it
necessary. In discussing the legend of Memnon, to state more
explicitly his opinion on this disputed question. He assumes the
existence of the Colchian colony, but he seems to consider it as a
* Cyropajd. vii. 1, 45. The Egyptians receive several cities from Cyrus, rdg piv
dvbi a'l in Kal vvv iroXtig AiyvTrribiv KaXoiivTai. Adpiaaav Si Kai KvXXifvrjv rrapd
ILvpriv TrXrjaiov BaXdaarjg, dg in Kal vvv ot drr' iKtivuiv ixovai. This Egyptian
Larissa is again mentioned in Hell. iii. 1, 7.
t It seems to result from Herod, ii. 1 and 2 that Cyrus treated Amasis as
his vassal : the only argument he can produce against the assertion of the
Egyptians, that Cyrus demanded their princess for his harem, is that Cambyses was
not her son.

MEMNON, 91
commercial, not a military one, and leaves us in doubt whether he
acknowledges Sesostris as a historical person, or regards him as no
less fabulous than the equally celebrated Osymandyas, whose wars
he treats with as little respect as his library. But the argument
on which he appears to ground his belief in this Colchian colony,
whatever was its origin, is too remarkable to be passed over in
silence. " Serapis was carried by Egyptians to Colchis, whence
he migrated to SInope, and thence back to his original country."
This manner of alluding to the well-known affair of Serapis
strongly excited my curiosity as to the reasons which had led the
author to such a conclusion. But the reference which accompanies
it is merely this : FontenU Memoir, de I' Acad, des inscript. t. x.
Galliot, Dissert, siir le dicu Serapis. Amsterd. 1760. The latter
work I have not yet met with 5 and indeed my curiosity -^^as so
fully satisfied by the perusal of the former, that perhaps I have
not done all that I might to gain a sight of It. The essay of the
Abbe de Fontenu is a dissertation on a medal of the younger
Gordian, struck at Sinope, and on the history of that city. It
contains some observations on the medal, which are not unin
teresting, beside a mixture of fable and history about the city
Itself, in the usual style of the French Academicians, who In
treating of a place or a person seem always to proceed on the
supposition that their learned colleagues never heard of the name
before. But as to the main point, the matter of Serapis, all that
I could find proved by the dissertation is, that, wherever an
opinion has been firmly embraced, everything will be sure to
make for it. The opinion which Mr. J. adopts about the deity of
Sinope is so far from being established by the Abbe, that it is
only one among a great number of conjectures which he proposes
as about equally probable, and is not even that which he himself
prefers. AU that is disputable in the question we are now con
sidering he takes for granted. The difficulty with him is not
where to find Egpytians out of Egypt, but to choose between the
numerous .points from which an Egyptian deity might have been
brought to Sinop^. He observes that Sinop6 might have received
the worship of Serapis, if not immediately from the inhabitants of

92 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
the neighbouring provinces, who had it from the Syrians and
Phcenicians, among whom it had been introduced from Egypt, at
least from the Colchians, an Egyptian colony, with whom Sinop^
was closely connected by commerce, or perhaps from the Milesians,
whose colony it was, and who, having kept up an intimate con
nexion with Egypt ever since the time of Psammetichus, could
not fail to be thoroughly versed In the Egyptian religion. This
last is in fact the conjecture he prefers, so that he really lends
no support whatever to Mr. J.'s hypothesis : and to remove all
difficulties he subjoins : "I might add that the Athenians, whose
colony the Milesians themselves were, had too great a veneration
for Isis and Serapis, the knowledge of whom they had received
from Egypt through Cecrops and Erechtheus, two of their kings
who were natives of that country,- not to have established or pro
moted the worship of those two Divinities on the coasts of the
Euxine, where they were so powerful during a long period, and
where they founded so many celebrated colonies." (p. 500.)
In the meanwhile the main point on which Mr. J.'s argument
depends — that the god of Sinope had ever been an Egyptian
deity before he was introduced into the temple at Alexandria — is
left by the Abb^ in equal uncertainty with the road by which he
reached Sinope. " Would we know," he asks, " to what country
the worship of Jupiter Plutus originally belonged ? It is very
probable that it was Egypt. Even if Plutarch (De Is. et Os.) did
not assure us that this god was no other than the Egyptian
Serapis, it woidd be impossible to mistake him from the modius
on his head, his Egyptian dress, his attitude,- his demeanour, and
his hands raised toward heaven." How far a mistake on this
subject is possible may be partly Inferred from a previous
remark of the Abbe's on the same figure, which he says is dressed
in the Greek or rather in the Egyptian fashion,* but will become
much clearer from an inspection of the figure itself, which could
certainly never have suggested such a thought to one who did not
view it through the glass of a favourite hypothesis. The good
¦* La figure de Serapis est ioi vetue a la Grecque, on plutotu I'^gyptienne. (p. 497.)

MEMNON. 93
Abb^ has the truly astonishing simplicity to add : " We need
only compare several medals of Egyptian cities on which Serapis
is represented, with the reverse of this of Gordian and several
other medals of Greek towns, which exhibit the Jupiter Plutus
of the Greeks, to perceive at once that it is one and the same
deity." After this we could not have been surprised to find that he
received the whole story told by Plutarch and Tacitus as a matter
of fact. But since Mr. J. certainly does not, it would have been
more to his purpose to have assigned some reason for thinking
that the Pluto of Sinope was an Egyptian god, than to have
appealed to the Abbe, on whose dissertation I should not have
dwelt so long, if it had not afforded a signal example of the
danger of trusting to references, even in the writings of the most
learned and candid men. It would carry us to a great distance
from our subject, and would be of little use to discuss this
question : but I may be aUowed to remark that the accounts
we have of the transaction raise no presumption whatever in
favour of Mr. J.'s opinion. It seems very clear that Ptolemy's
object in the juggle he concocted with the aid of his Greek and
Egyptian theologians (one of whom was the Manetho on whose
veracity so much of what sometimes passes for history depends)
was to promote the trade of Alexandria, and to unite his Greek
and Egyptian subjects, by the introduction of a new deity, who
might be considered as belonging equally to both. The god of
SInope was recommended by the variety and ambiguity of his
attributes and ensigns, which, with the help of a little pious
fraud, rendered him peculiarly fit for the purpose. If the neigh
bourhood of Colchis had influenced the king's choice, that
circumstance would probably have been mentioned among the
proofs by which Manetho and TImotheus convinced him of the
identity of Pluto and Serapis.*
* The nature of the transaction will be best understood by comparing the pagan
writers Tacitus, H. iv. 83 ; Plutarch, De Is. et Os. 28, to whom may be added
Eustath. ad Dionys. 255, with two of the fathers, Clemens Al. Protrept. e. 4, and
Cyril contra Jul. p. IS. Lest I should appear to dismiss the subject too hastily, I
will transcribe the remark of a modern critic, Bernhardy on Eustathius : Serapidis

94 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
But to return from this digression, it appears that we cannot
rely on the expedition of Sesostris as a historical ground for the
legend of Memnon, even though we may admit it to be highly
probable that he, or some other king of Egypt, really gained
those naval victories which are represented in the sculptures of
Medinat-Abou;* for we shall not look for the scene of these
exploits among the Cyclades, but in the Arabian Gulf, where the
monuments mentioned by Strabo may certainly be genuine. f
There is however still a third supposition which I will venture to
hint, with the diffidence that belongs both to the obscurity of the
subject and to my own very imperfect means of forming an
opinion on it. The relation between the Egyptians and the
Indians is a question that has long exercised the curiosity of
the learned. That the former were an Ethiopian colony seems
now to be placed almost beyond dispute by the concurrence of
tradition with arguments drawn from the nature and history of
the two countries. But the origin of the Ethiopians themselves
has long appeared to be buried in impenetrable darkness. They
claimed, like many other nations, the honour of being autoch-
thons.+ ^Vhen the Macedonians became masters of Egypt, and
cultum, quern Jos'em Ditem fuere qui interpretarentnr, a Ptolemaeo Sotere, pruden-
tissimo consilio, ne sacra peregrina videretur Aegyptiis invitis obtrusisee, monitu
scilicet insomnii, Sinope (cujus nummos effigiem del exhibere docet Eckhel D. N.
P. I. vol. ii. p. 391, eique accedit Diogenis facetia ap. Diog. Laert. vi. 63) fuisse
depromptum exposuit Tacitus. Nam G. I. Vossii hariolatio huic deo per Aegyptum
priscam adjudicantis venerationem, nititur conjecturis et argumentationibus incertis :
quamquam proximo abest sententia Jacobsio (de Memnon. p. 19) probata, ut Serapis
ab Aegyptiis mercatoribus in Golchidem sit translatus posteaque patria in jura
restitutus. * Eitter, Afrika, p. 744, remarks : " What Herodotus and Diodorus, following
Hecatseus and the accounts of the priests, relate of Sesostris, seems to be confirmed
by these sculptures." This however depends on the question whether the hostile
navy and crews are really Indian.
t Strab. XVI. p. 769. AtDeira, on the Straits of Babelmandeb, it was said arriXrjv
tivai "Ltawarpiog roil Aiyv-irTiov prjvvovaav (EpoT^ ypdppaai rrjv Sid^aatv aiirov^
*PaivtTai ydp rrjv AiBioniSa Kal rr)v 'ipbiyXoSvriKrjv TrpixiTog Karaarpt^dptvog ourog'
tira Sia[3dg tig Tr]V 'Apa^iav, KavrtvBtv rrjv ' Aa'iav iiTtXBbiv rriv avpiraaav Sib Kal
TToXXaxov Seauiarpiog x^ipaKtg Trpoaayopevovrai Kal dtpiSpvpara iariv Aiyvirriwv
BiCiv 'itpiv. This must be compared -with the passage above quoted about Semiramis.
Pliny, N. H. vi. 34, says, Hucusque Sesostris exercitum duxit.
X Diodor. in. 2. on oiiK ii7riXvStg iXBovng, dXX' iyytvtXg bvTtg rrjg x^paC; SiKaibig
avTQxBovtg bvopd^ovrai, axtS'ov Trapd Ttdai avpipbivtXrai.

MEMNON, 95
Greek travellers began to explore Ethiopia, and sometimes made
a long stay at Meroe,* it is probable that many conjectures were
formed on this point. But It is scarcely before the Roman period
that we hear of a tradition that the Ethiopians were of Indian
origin : and the writers who report it are not of the highest
authority. Phllostratus introduces an Indian Bramin larchas,
relating that the Ethiopians of Meroe were once inhabitants of
India ; but having killed their King Ganges, they were pursued
by his spectre, and could find no resting-place (before, we are
to suppose, they quitted the country).! Elsewhere he brings In
an Egyptian saying, that he had heard from his father that the
Indians were the wisest of men, and the Ethiopians a colony of
the Indians, who preserved many of the institutions of their
ancestors. + It seems evident that, beside the suspicious character
of the author, these accounts deserve not the slightest attention
as an Indian tradition, and that they cannot have been an Ethio
pian one. We find however the same fact more simply stated by
Africanus, in a passage abruptly inserted after the mention of
Amenophthis-Memnon in a list of Egyptian kings, under a title :
" concerning the Ethiopians, whence they were, and where they
settled ; " which is explained as follows : " The Ethiopians
migrated from the river Indus, and settled on the frontiers of
Egypt." § It is unnecessary to dwell on the extreme uncertainty
of such statements, and I will only point out two causes which
may explain their origin, and which do not appear to have been
sufficiently noticed by those who, having been Inclined to adopt
* Pliny, N. H. vi. Primus Dalion ultra Meroen longe subvectus : mox Aristocreon
et Bion et Basilis : Simonides minor etiam quinquennio in Meroe moratus cum de
Aethiopia scriberet.
t Vit. ApoU. III. 6. X VI. 8.
§ Syncell. i. p. 286. TlEpt AiBioirbiv, irbBtv rjaav, Kal ttou tpKTjaav. AiBiorrtg
drrb 'IvSov irorapov dvaaravrtg irpbg ry Aiyinrrip ipKrjaav. Parthey, De Philis
Insula, p. 6, thinks this passage spurious as to the form, though not, if I understand
him, as to the substance. He says, after mentioning one of the passages of Phllo
stratus : Alia ooloniae Indicae mentio apudSynceUum spuria nobis videtur, cum res
Aethiopum toto libro non amplius commemorentur. Duo versus : vtpl AiBwirbiv —
ipKrjaav inter quadragesimnm et quadragesimum primum Aegj-pti regem intem-
pestive interjeoti (?), pro capitis amissi initio argumentove margini adscripts
habemus.

96 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
them on other grounds, have attributed a higher value to them
than they can fairly claim.* In the first place we find that early
after the Macedonian conquests attempts began to be made to
deduce the Egyptian mythology from the Indian. Plutarch
censures Phylarchus for having said that Dionysus first brought
two oxen Into Egypt from India, and that the one was named
Apis, the other Osiris, t It is clear enough to what historical
inferences these mythological conjectures were likely to lead. In
the next place we read in Procopius as an acknowledged fact, that
the Nile flows from India. + When this hypothesis was first
.started we do not know, but whenever it was received, the con
clusion that the Ethiopians came from the same land In which
the river took its rise might naturally foUow.
But however unworthy of regard may be the scanty testimony
of the ancients on this question, there are other sources of
information still open, from which it may not be too sanguine to
hope for a solution of it. This can only be looked for from a
comparison of the ancient systems of rehgion and polity in the
two countries : but it seems by no means improbable that such an
investigation may finally ascertain the degree of connexion
between them, and their relative antiquity. In the meanwhile
the author of an excellent work on Indian antiquities has pro
duced a number of very strong arguments to prove that the
religion of Egypt must have been transplanted from India.§
That he has decided the point would perhaps be too much for any
one, certainly for one Avho is not familiar with the literature of
both countries, to pronounce. But If upon continued examination
this opinion should be as generally received as that of the Ethio
pian origin of the Egyptian priesthood, which not long ago was
* V. Bohlen, Das alte Indien, &c. i. p. 119; "The attacks on these testimonies
may be parried with no less ease than it may be shown on the other hand that they
are not conclusive."
t De Is. et Os. c. 29.
X De Edif. vi. near the beginning. "StXXog piv b TTorapbg 'ti 'IvSbiv 'tir' Aiyinrrov
ipepopsvog. Perhaps we may attribute something to the distinction made by
Herodotus, and seemingly confirmed by Homer, between the Eastern and Southern
Ethiopians. § V. Bohlen, Das Alte Indien mit besonderer Riiclcsicht auf Aegypten,

MEMNON, 97
as generally rejected,* we should then have another key to the
mysterious legend we have been discussing. For as it would
then be clear that there was a historical connexion between the
Indian Menu and the Egyptian Menes, so it would not be an
extravagant conjecture, that the movements which transported
an Indian colony into Africa vibrated through the heart to the
extremities of Asia, and that the same shock which agitated the
nations carried the name of Memnon on the wave of conquest
and migration from the Indus to the ^sepus. As however I do
not wish the reader to strain his eyes upon this distant retrospect,
I will conclude with reminding him that the hypothesis here pro
posed is quite independent of all these conjectures, though perhaps
if it were to be tried by their merits it might bear to be con
fronted with its rival ; but that the advantage it claims over its
antagonist is, that it gets rid of a cumbrous load of hypothetical
machinery, which though it cost the ingenious author little
trouble to raise, his readers cannot so easily support, and that it
preserves the essence of an ancient tradition, while it illustrates
the character of the people which interwove the foreign legend
with their national poetry.
* Wesseling on Diodor. in. 2 (vol. i. p. 175) observes : Quod si tamen Aegyptiis
respondendi locus esset, dubium non est quin usdem rationibus pugnarent, et
Aethiopas sues esse colonos pertenderent : manebit ergo lis sub judice, donee
aliunde, utri antiquitate praestent, probabitur : quod Aegyptiis fortasse in facili erit.

[In a MS. note in his own copy of the Philological Museum, Bishop Thirlwall says^
at the end of this essay :
" It may interest some readers to compare this view of Meronon -with Mr.
Gladstone's in the Contemporary Review of July, 1874."]

VOL, ill, H

ON THE POSITION OF SUSA.

Among the many Illustrations history affords of the instability of
human greatness, one not the least remarkable is that the site of
the " Memnonian city " should have become a subject of con
troversy. Many of our readers are probably acquainted with the
difference of opinions that has arisen on this question, who do not
know that it has been at length, if not completely decided, at least
brought so near to that point as scarcely to admit of any farther
doubt. This is one of the services rendered to Oriental geography
by the celebrated Orientalist, Joseph von Hammer. But the dis
covery by which he threw a new light on the subject was first
published in a German review, which I believe has but a very
narrow circulation in this country, the Vienna Jahrbiicher der
Literatur, vol. viii., and there is reason to believe that few even
of the persons who take an interest in eastern geography are yet
informed of it. At least in a popular work, the author of which
has paid more than ordinary attention to eastern geography, the
opinion which Von Hammer has refuted, or at least shaken to its
foundation, is adopted and stated in a manner which clearly
implies that the writer was not aware of the strongest arguments
that have been brought against it. In the life of Alexander the
Great in Mr. Murray's Cabinet Library, pp. 168, 169, Susa is
described as situate on the Choaspes, the modern Kerah, and as
corresponding to Shus, " where a smaU temple still commemorates
the burial-place of Daniel," The proposition which Von Hammer
maintains is that the Kerah is not the Choaspes, nor Shus, Susa,

ON THE POSITION OP SUSA, 99
but that the modern Schuster or Tostar occupies the site of the
ancient city of Memnon, and that the Choaspes is the modern
Karoon. A glance at a good map of Asia will show that the
distance between the two places is so considerable as to render
the question of some importance to ancient history : and I may
therefore hope that my labour will not be wasted if I make
Von Hammer's discovery more generally known. For this purpose
I subjoin a translation of that part of his article which relates to
this point. But for the sake of readers to whom the subject may
not be familiar, I will first briefly state the principal arguments
which had been previously adduced on each side of the con
troversy. This I shall do with the assistance, and partly in the
words, of Mr. Kinneir, who in his Geographical Memoir of the
Persian Empire (pp. 101 — 106) has reviewed the conflicting reason
ings of Major Rennel and Dr. Vincent, and has declared him
self, though not with absolute confidence, in favour of the former,
who places Susa on the site of Shus and on the banks of the
Kerah, or Haweesa, or Karassu, against the latter, who contends
that Susa is Shuster, and the Karoon the Choaspes.
Mr. Kinneir, as an eye-witness, informs us (p. 99), that "about
seven or eight mUes to the west of Bezphoul (a town on the
eastern bank of the Abzal, twenty-eight miles west of Shuster)
commence the ruins of Shus, stretching not less perhaps than
twelve miles from one extremity to the other. They extend as
far as the eastern bank of the Kerah, occupy an immense space
between that river and the Abzal, and like the ruins of Ctesiphon,
Babylon, and Ktfa, consist of hiUocks of earth and rubbish
covered with broken pieces of bricks and coloured tUe. These
mounds bear some resemblance to the pyramids of Babylon, with
this difference, that instead of being entirely made of brick, many
are formed of clay and pieces of tile, with irregular layers of
brick and mortar five or six feet in thickness, to serve, it should
seem, as a kind of prop to the mass. Large blocks of marble,
covered with hieroglyphics, are not unfrequently here discovered
by the Arabs, when digging in search of hidden treasure ; and at
the foot of the most elevated of the pyramids stands the Tomb of
h2

100 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
Baniel, a small and apparently a modern building, erected on the
spot where the relics of that prophet were believed to rest,"
Major Eennel's arguments in favour of Shus are three in
number. "First (as Mr, Kinneir states them), the similarity of
name ; and the situation, which agrees better with the distance
between Sardis and Susa mentioned in the tablets of Aristagoras
than that of Shuster. Secondly, the legend of the Prophet
Daniel, whose coffin was found at Shus ; and thirdly, that Susa
ought to be placed on a river which has its sources in Media." I
pass over Dr, Vincent's, replj' to the first and second of these
arguments, since the reader will easily guess them, as weU as his
own mistake, which Mr, Kinneir corrects, about the name Kuzistan
(which he confounds with Kuhistan, and derives from the moun
tains which surround the province). But as to the river of Susa,
Dr. V, observes that it was the Euleus : that Nearchus sailed iip to
Susa icithout entering the Shat-ul-Arah ; ichich he could not have
done, had that city stood on the Kerah : and that, when Alexander
descended the Euleus, he sent his disabled ships through the cut
of the Hafar into the Shat-ul-Arab, And finally, that a strong
reason for placing Susa at Shuster occurs in Ibu Haukul, who
says that there is not in all Kuzistan any mountain except at
Shuster, Jondi Shapour, and Ardz : and as it is evident that the
castle at Susa icas a place of strength, it is reasonable to suppose that
it stood upon a hill.
The words in Italics contain the strength of Dr. V.'s reasoning,
which however does not convince Mr. Kinneir, who fortifles
Major Eennel's position with an additional argument derived
from the ruins of Shus above described, which is certainly very
striking. He remarks, " Strabo teUs us, that the Persian capital
was entirely built of brick, there not being a stone in the pro
vince. Now the quarries of Shuster are very celebrated, and
almost the whole of the town is built of stone : but there is no
such thing in the environs of Shus, which was evidently formed of
brick, as wiU appear from my description of the pyramids that
now remain."
I must here stop to observe that Mr. K. makes Strabo say

ON THE POSITION OF SUSA, 101
something which I cannot find in his Greek text, and which
materially affects the question, Strabo says of Su^a, "The walls
of the city, and the temples and the palace likewise, were built,
as those of Babylon, of brick and bitumen, according to some
authors."* But he does not add here, nor anywhere else in his
description of Susiana, that there was not a stone in the province,
unless Mr. K. collects this from what he says of the rugged
mountains that separate Susiana from Persis.i
Still, after all the abatement which must be made on account
of the manner in which Strabo expresses himself, which implies
that aU his authorities were not agreed on the subject, it may be
admitted that Mr. Kinneir has strengthened Major Kennel's case
by this observation. But on the other hand, he has nothing to
oppose to Dr, Vincent's argument about the citadel of Susa,
which Strabo and others speak of, and of which there seems to be
no trace at Shus : and to meet the objection drawn from the
voyage of Nearchus, he is forced to contend that the Euleus and
the Choaspes were two different rivers. He says : " If we admit
the ruins of Shus to be those of ancient Susa, the Kerah will cor
respond to the description of the Choaspes, but not to that of the
Euleus : for the latter entered the gulf by a channel of its own,
whilst the Kerah flows into the Shat-ul-Arab. As it is not how
ever ascertained that the Choaspes and Euleus were the same," &c.
Hence the sense in which he understands the statement that
Nearchus sailed up to Susa is this : " Nearchus might have
ascended either the Abzal or the Karoon, without entering the
Shat-ul-Arab ; and certainly could not have done so by the Kerah,
which meets that stream between Bassora and Korna.X But this
* KaBdirtp dprjKaat rivtg.
f TTaptpTriTcrti bptivrj rpaxda Kal drroropog ptra^v rdiv ^ovaibiv Kal rrjg Vltp-
alSog. X In the " Life of Alexander the Great," the Euleus is spoken of as the same
river with the Choaspes, the modern Kerah (p. 352), and yet Alexander is made to
enter the Persian Gulf by the main channel of the Karoon (p. 350) ; which is meant
for a translation of Arrian's account that Alexander KariTrXti Kara rbv EuXaioj'
¦KOTap'ov lag iirl BdXaaaav, vii. 7. How the author reconciles these two statements
I am at a loss to imagine. As to Mr. Kinneir's explanation, it should be compared
with the expressions of Arrian, Ind. c. 36. Karaarijaai rb vavriKov ig Soiio-a—
tart aot adiag KaraaTrjao) ig Sovaa rdr viag.

102 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
circumstance will not be much In favour of Dr. V.'s assumption ;
for the ruins of Shits appiroach loithin a few miles of the Abzal: and
we are uncertain whether the Euleus flowed to the east or west of
Susa." These few miles, it must be remembered, according to
the passage above quoted from Mr. K., are as many as seven or
eight. The reader wiU now be prepared to hear the observations of
the learned writer who has since taken up the subject, which
Mr. K. was compelled to own he left, as he found It, perplexed.
After observing that " Mr. Kinneir has very superfluously
made the Euleus and the Choaspes two distinct rivers In his map,*
though D'AnvIUe, Vincent, Mannert, and after them Hoeck (In a
Latin prize essay entitled Veterls Mediae et Perslse Monumenta),
have placed the identity of the Euleus and the Choaspes beyond all
doubt," he proceeds to say, " Arrian, Pliny, and the Bible place
Susa on the Euleus ; Herodotus, Strabo, and Curtius, on the
Choaspes; and what some relate of the Euleus, others mention
with regard to the Choaspes, that it was famed for Its exceedingly
light and exceUent water, that the Persian kings drank of no
other, and carried it with them on their journeys." Then after
mentioning the difference of opinions as to the position of Susa,
and Dr. Vincent's argument drawn from the voyage of Nearchus,
he adds, " Without dwelling on the force of this and the other
reasons adduced by Vincent for the identity of Susa and Shuster,
we hasten to communicate a passage from the original sources of
Persian geography, which decides the question, and fixes the site
of the ancient Susa at Shuster. This passage occurs in the valu-
* The distinction however is not altogether superfluous for Mr. Kinneir's argu
ment : the epithet would be more applicable to Mr. Mitford's distinction between
the Fuleus and the Pasitigris, which, he imagines, both fell by separate mouths
into the Persian Gulf, having their courses nearly parallel and not very distant for
a considerable way before reaching the gulf. He adds, " Susa stood on the Euleus.
But this river was, towards its mouth, so inconvenient for navigation, that the
preferable course for vessels from the gulf to Susa was up the Pasitigris to a canal
communicating -with the Euleus." (Ch. Iv. sect, v.) No authority is cited for this
assertion, but it seems to be founded on the description of Alexander's voyage down
the Euleua, Arrian, vii. 7, combined -with Ind. 42, in neither of which passages
however is there any allusion to such u, canal. The only one mentioned is tho
Hafar Cut.

ON THE POSITION OF SUSA, 103
able Manuscript, No. 433 of the Imperial library, which seems to
be a portion of the Nushetol-Kulub."
" The Tigris of Shuster rises in the yellow mountain {Kuhiserd)
and the (other) mountains of Great Louristan, and after a course of
thirty and odd parasangs reaches Shuster. It is always cool, and di
gests food, so that in the hot weather the people of the country rely
on its digestive quality, and eat coarse food, and it is digested." *
" In this passage the excellent quality, on account of which
the water of the Euleus or Choaspes was drunk by the kings of
Persia, is sufficiently marked : this property of the river, which
the lapse of centuries has not changed, at once unties the knot,
and would of itself suffice to determine the identity of the two
streams, if the name Tigris of Shuster did not expressly testify
that this river united with the Pasitigris Is the same which
Nearchus sailed up with his fleet from the sea, and down which
Alexander sailed from Susa to meet him. The Pasitigris, the
modern Jerahi, flowed into the Euleus, the modern Karoon, from
the east, and since the river of Shuster is likewise called the Tigris
of Shuster, the modern Persian geography has preserved the name
of the Pasitigris which was used by Nearchus. So the Simois
toward its mouth is called the Mendere after the Scamander which
falls into it."
In a subsequent passage, after remarking on the want of an
eminence at Shus corresponding to the citadel at Susa, he adds :
"Our authorities enable us completely to demolish one of the
strongest arguments of our opponents founded on Baniel's Tomb,
which is shown at Shus, and not at Shuster. The following extract
from the valuable list of cities by Achmed of Tus proves that
Daniel's tomb was originally at Shuster, and not at Shus, and that
the prophet's body was transported from Shuster to Shus in con
sequence of a great famine,
J>Xb IJl,.^u:) ASUMil t— ^jj M)^*~5 '^~V) 1^ JiAMj u i^ \J..-ijl Ai>- • j«o

104 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
" Shuster is a good city on the banks of the river Meshrikan,* in
the district of Kusistan. This is the river on which Sapor built
the Shadreioan before the gate of the city, because it lies on a hiU,
and the water does not come up to it. He buUt Shuster with stone
and iron pillars. The body of Daniel (peace be with him) was
formerly at Shuster. The people of Shus, who were afflicted with
a famine, desired the body of Daniel (peace be with him) to turn
away the famine. The body was sent to them to Shus, to turn
away the famine. They hid the coffin in the river, and the elders
of Shus swore that the coffin was not in their city. After this
they asked the boys : the boys said that the coffin was in such a
place. Wherefore it is the custom to hear the testimony of boys.
The glory of this city is the dyke Shadreican on the river Meshri
kan : its wares are rich stuffs and rice."
To this is added an extract from a Turkish geographical work,
the Jehannuma, which, though it does not mention the transfer,
yet on the whole conflrms the statement of the Persian author.
"Baniel's Tomb is on the west side of the city (Shtis) : they say it
has remained there ever since the captivity in the time of Nebu
chadnezzar. At the time of the (Moslem) conquest a coffin was
found which was taken for that of Daniel, and was brought out in
time of dearth and honoured with prayers. Abu Musa Elashari
made a vaulted chamber of stone under ground by the bank of the
river that flows by the city, in which he deposited the coffin, and
turned the river of Shus over it, out of reverence, that the body of
a prophet might not lie in the hands of the people." The same
Turkish author in mentioning Shuster notices the excellent quality
of the water in digesting the coarsest food.
Two observations of Von Hammer seem after this to set the
question completely at rest : " In the first place, the river of Susa
can only be that which flows under the walls of the city, and not
another flowing several miles off (as the Ab-zal), because Daniel
* This is the name of the artificial canal, occasioned, as Mr. Kinneir says (p. 99),
by the construction of the dyke called by the Persian author the Shadrewan : it
discharges its waters into the Abzal, half a mile from the place called Bundekeel by
Mr. K., which Von Hammer takes to be the same with one called Aslcer Mokerrem
by the Eastern geographers.

ON THE POSITION OF SUSA, 105
stood at the gate of the city (viii, 2) by the river of Ulai, In
the second place, it is by no means uncertain whether Susa stood
on the eastern or western bank of the Euleus (as Mr, Kinneir sup
poses), because Alexander on his march toward the east arrives
first at the Choaspes, and then at Susa. This circumstance has
been clearly pointed out by Hoeck, to prove the position of Susa
on the eastern bank of the Euleus or Choaspes, only he is quite
wrong In looking for this river in the Kerah or Karasu."
Lastly, we are indebted to the ingenious author for a happy
conjecture, which removes the only remaining difficulty that
might seem to leave a doubt on the subject. With this we shall
conclude our extracts,
" The five authors who maintain the identity of Susa and Shus
(Rennel, Barbie du Bocage, Sir William Ouseley, Kinneir, and
Hoeck) may ask their five opponents (D'AnvUle, Herbelot, Vin
cent, Mannert, and the writer) to what place the vast ruins of
Shus correspond, if it be not the ancient Susa ? We wiU meet
this question with another which involves an answer to it. Where
are the ruins of the great city of Elymais, the capital of the pro
vince of the same name, which contained the great temple Azara,
mentioned by Strabo, Josephus, and Zonaras,* dedicated to Venus
or Diana (Zaratis, Sohra, or Anaitis, Anahid) ? where are they to
be looked for but here in the centre of the province of Elymais,
which the river of Shuster separated from Susiana ? Elymais was
the capital of the province Elymais, and Susa that of the province
Susiana ; the former lay on the eastern bank of the Kerah, the
latter on the eastern bank of the Kai-oon. Both were celebrated
for their temple of Anaitis, which in the former city was caUed
after the other name of the goddess (Zaratis) Ta Zajoa or Ta "A^apa.
By an oversight which has never before been noticed, the party who
maintain the identity of Susa and Shus have entirely forgotten the
capital of Elymais, and have attempted to transfer the capital of
Susiana into the heart of Elymais. "
* Strabo, xvi. [p. 744] I, 18 ; Joseph, Antiq. ix. 1 ; Zonaras, iv. 20.

ANC^US,

It is the peculiar advantage of a Literary MisceUany like the
present, that it affords room for the discussion of minute questions,
in themselves of little or no moment, and only interesting so far
as they may appear to be connected with subjects of higher
importance ; whUe, on the other hand, the historical or philosophical
views to which such details owe all their real value may not admit
of a full development in the same place, and may with more pro
priety be briefly hinted. The writer trusts that this remark will
be sufficient to justify him. If starting from a seemingly incon
siderable point in mythical history he proceeds to show Its bearing
on questions that embrace a wide fleld, and that can never be
indifferent to a historical inquirer, without dweUIng on them at
a length exactly proportioned to their relative dignity.
Several of our readers perhaps are familiar with the proverb
which suggests the uncertainty that intervenes between the cup
and the lip, who are not acquainted with its high antiquity and
its supposed origin. According to the Greek mythologers the
person who flrst experienced a truth which after him became pro
verbial was a king named Ancaeus. Lycophron, who has expressed
the proverb with his usual simplicity and perspicuity : (v. 489.)
wi Tvo\\a ¦^etXevi Kal ceTraarpaiwv votwv
p-eaw KvKiviiei Moljoa Traujj.'rjaTwp ^poTwv '
refers it to an Arcadian hero, AncoBus of Tegea, who was killed
by the Calydonian boar. His valour and untimely fate were

ANC.SUS, 107
subjects of lively interest in his native city ; and the artist who
adorned one of the pediments in the great temple of Minerva Alea
at Tegea with the principal figures belonging to the Calydonian
chase, had represented Ancaeus in the act of sinking under his
wounds, after the hatchet, with which he had ineffectually assailed
the boar, had dropped out of his hand (Pausan. vm. 45, 7). But
Lycophron's Greek commentator censures the poet for confound
ing two perfectly distinct personages, the one just mentioned
and Ancaeus. a son of Neptune and Astypalaea, and king of the
Leleges.* This people, according to Pherecydes (Strabo, xiv. p.
632), was in possession of the coast of Asia between Ephesus and
Phocsea, and of the islands Chios and Samos, before the Ionian
migration, and a legend reported by Tzetzes on the authority of
an Aristotle who had written a book entitled TreTrXot, placed
the scene of the event which gave rise to the proverb in Samos.
There Ancaeus had planted the vine : but a seer or an oracle had
predicted that he should never drink wine from its fruit. When
the grapes were ripe, the king pressed a bunch into a cup, and as
he raised it to his lips scoffed at'the idle prophecy : the seer replied,
TTovXv fMBTa^v 7Te\ei KvXiKO^ Kol T^eiAeo? UKpov' at the same
moment a shout was heard, and tidings came that a boar was
ravaging the fields. Laying aside the untasted must, Ancaeus
rushed forth to encounter the invader, and perished in the
conflict. With regard to the proverb, it can scarcely be doubted that it
belongs to the Samian AncsBus, whose son Samos was said to have
given his name to the island : for the prediction which is the basis
of the story had most probably some connexion with that peculiar
defect in the quality of the Samian soil which rendered it unfavour
able to the growth of the vine, while the neighbouring islands, as
weU as the adjacent coast of the continent, were celebrated for the
* So he is described by Asius (in Pausan. vii. 4, 1), who does not mention the
Oarians, as is incorrectly stated by Panofka (Res Samiorum, p. 11). Strabo himself
speaks of the Carians as having inhabited Samos while it was called Parthenia
(xiv. p. 637 [c. 1, § 15]), but perhaps he only uses the name of Carians according;
to a commonly received notion, as equivalent to that of Leleges, without at all
meaning to contradict Pherecydes.

108 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
excellence of their wines. * But even if we suppose Lycophron to
have been mistaken In referring the occasion of the proverb to the
Arcadian, there still remains a resemblance between the fates of
these two Ancaouses, close enough to startle the curious reader.
The coincidence however extends much further ; for we flnd both
the heroes taking a share in the Argonautic expedition. Both
appear In the catalogue of ApoUonius, who describes Ancaeus of
Tegea as clothed in the skin of a Masnalian bear, and wielding a
great double hatchet in his right hand ; his namesake of Samos
(Parthenia) is simply described as the comrade of the Milesian
Erginus, and like him skiUed in navigation and in war; he is
marked however by the epithet 'vrrep^ios, which reminds us of
his ungovernable temper. The armour of the Tegean would natu
rally excite the surprise of any one who was familiar with that of
the Homeric heroes, and its singularity is even more striking on
board the Argo than in the Calydonian forest. The poet therefore
adds a few lines to explain this strange garb and weapon : and we
learn that Aleus, the grandfather of Ancaeus, desirous of keeping
him at home, had taken the unavailing precaution of locking up
his accustomed armour : a satisfactory explanation perhaps, so
long as the closing scene of his life is kept out of view, but one
which cannot be reconciled with that by any but a very forced
and artificial construction.
Some of our readers who are not strangers to the way in which
aU mythical legends, and above all the Greek, are apt to shift
their phases, wiU probably by this time have been led to ask
themselves whether according to the rules of sound criticism it is
allowable to imagine that two stories, in which two heroes of the
same name both embark in the Argo and both come to their death
In fighting with a boar, can have had two essentially distinct
foundations ; and whether it is not sufficiently clear that Ancaeus
of Tegea and Ancaeus king of the Leleges were originally one and
the same person, and that the slight variations which occur in the
description of his character and adventures must have arisen from
* strabo, xiv. p. 637 [c. 1, § 15]. iarl S' ovk tSoivoc, Kaivip tvoivovadv riuv
kvkXip vrjauiv, Kai rrjg ^rrtipov axtSov Tt rqj jrpoatxovg trdarig rovg dpiarovg
iKiptpoiarig oivovg.

ANCJilUS, 109
the legend having been transplanted to a foreign soil. Should
this be granted, it seems no more than a natural conclusion, which
may be drawn independently of any opinion as to the original seat
and form of the myth, that its transmission from the one place to
the other implies some degree of affinity between the two tribes
who claimed possession of it, and that we may fairly regard it as
an additional ground for believing that the Leleges of the Asiatic
coast and the neighbouring islands were nearly related to the old
Arcadians, whom the ancient writers unanimously represent as a
Pelasgian race, A very early connexion between Arcadia and the
part of Asia adjacent to the territory of the Leleges is implied in
the legend of Telephus, who like Ancaeus is a grandson of Aleus,
and whose combat with Achilles in the plain of the Caicus was
the subject that fiUed the other pediment in the above-mentioned
temple at Tegea,
The chief difficulty that perplexes all inquiries into the character
of the Leleges is the combination in which we find them placed
with some Hellenic tribes on the one hand, and on the other hand
with the Carians, The ancients themselves were divided in their
opinions on the question whether the Leleges and the Carians
were the same or different races, and they seem generaUy to have
inclined to the former side, with Herodotus, who looked upon the
name of Leleges merely as one by which the Carians had been
known while they occupied the islands of the ...Egean in the
reign of Minos. This however is a case in which we may cer
tainly venture to decide with great confidence even against this-
high authority. For it is perfectly clear from the accounts trans
mitted to us of these two nations that their histories were quite
distinct, and that at aU events they were not connected together
by any closer affinity than subsisted between the Greeks and the
Thracians. The principal, and apparently the earliest settlements,
of the Leleges were on the continent of Greece, where there are
only a very few traces of the Carians, and those confined to the
eastern coast. The latter themselves maintained that they were
from the beginning an Asiatic people, and claimed the Lydians
and Mysians for their brethren. It is not at aU surprising that

no BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
the manifold contact into which they were brought with the
Leleges on the coast of Asia should have led many of the ancients
to overlook these broad distinctions between them, as it may here
and there have effaced all the marks by which they could have
been discriminated. Yet even there they were far from being
completely mingled or confounded by tradition. Pherecydes, in
the passage of Strabo above referred to, distinguishes the territory
of the Leleges from that of the Carians, who were masters of the
coast toward the south. In many parts of Caria Itself monuments
remained even to the latest times of Greece, that preserved the
name of the Leleges. A Carian writer, Philip of Theangela
(Athen. vi. c. 101), the author of a treatise on tho two nations,
compared the condition in which the Leleges were placed by
the Carians to that of the Laconian helots and the Thessalian
Penestae. Strabo himself adopted the same view, though not per
haps on very critical grounds ; for he appeals to the authority of
Homer, who mentions both Carians and Leleges as distinct bands
in the Trojan army. He conceives these Leleges, whom the poet
describes as occupying a small territory at the foot of Ida, to have
been the original stock from which all the other tribes of the same
name were descended. According to his view they had migrated
southward after their towns had been sacked by AchiUes, and had
founded some new ones in Caria, where Pedasa preserved the recol
lection of the Pedasus which they had left on the banks of the
Satnioels. Another body of them took possession of a part of
Pisidia, and became blended with the ancient inhabitants. Finally
they joined the Carians in their expeditions, spread over all parts
of Greece, and gradually disappeared. It is however pretty clear
that in forming this theory the geographer has been biassed by
the same superstitious reverence for Homer which on other occa
sions perverted his naturally sound judgment. It is at least
equaUy probable that the Leleges had once covered the whole
coast between the Hellespont and Caria, and if we may lay any
stress on the evidence of Philip of Theangela, we shaU be inclined
to believe that they had preceded the Carians in the possession of
that country. It is rather remarkable that Pedasa was the only

ANCiEUS. Ill
town in Caria that held out against the troops of Cyrus : it was
taken after a long siege, which cost the Persian general much
trouble. Yet after the faU of Miletus we find the Carians of
Pedasa receiving from the Persians a portion of the Milesian
territory (compare Her. i. 175 and vi. 20). Does this singular
mark of apparently unmerited favour, combined with the strange
mode of divination practised by the priestess of Minerva, warrant
a suspicion that so late as the reign of Cyrus the population of
Pedasa remained distinct from that of the surrounding country,
and was then exterminated after its gaUant struggle, and replaced
by the submissive Carians ?
If this conjecture be well founded, the Carians may be supposed
to have stood in the same relation to the Leleges as their brothers
the Lydians to the Meeonlans, and Uke them to have advanced
from the interior toward the coast. This movement however
must have taken place long before the conquest by which the
name of the Maeonians was merged in that of the Lydians ; for
the latter people was unknown to Homer : as it seems also to have
preceded, though perhaps not by so long an interval, the migra
tion of the Mysians, whom Jupiter in the IKad sees stUl far from
Ida on the banks of the Danube.* That of the Phrygians was
also believed by some of the ancients to have taken place after the
Trojan war; and there seems to be sufficient evidence that at a
period subsequent to that event some unknown cause, connected
perhaps with that which produced the Thessalian and Dorian
migrations, threw a number of tribes previously settled in Thrace
and the adjacent countries upon Asia. The Lydians and Carians
however are not mentioned among them : and this might raise a
doubt as to the reaUty of that mutual affinity which was recognised
by these two nations and the Mysians, and seemingly confirmed by
their exclusive admission to the temple at Mylasa (Her. i. 171),
And perhaps it was not a nearer one than existed between the
Mysians and many other branches of the Thracian famUy : and
the belief in it may have arisen chiefly out of the accidental juxta
position in which after many changes the fortunes of the three
* Posidonius ap. Strab. vii. p. 295 [c. 3, § 2], and Niebuhr, Kleine Schriften, p. 371.

112 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
nations finaUy placed them: as it was probably this cause that
occasioned the popular legend which we learn from the native
historian Xanthus to have been commonly received among the
Lydians, : * that the Mysians were an offset of the same root,
descended from a sacred tithe, which had once been exposed on
Mount Olympus : as according to Myrsilus of Lesbos (Dionys. i.
23) the Tyrrhenians of the ^gean had sprung from a similar
portion of the Italian Tyrrhenians, which had been consecrated by
a vow. But the well-attested community of language- among
these three tribes furnishes a stronger argument of the fact than
tradition or popular belief : and if we adopt what appears to be
the most probable view of their origin, and suppose that the
Phrygian and other kindred races came down from the table
lands of Armenia,! that some of them remained in Asia, while
others crossed over into Europe and were afterwards driven back
toward the east, we shall have no difiiculty in conceiving that
tribes which had not shared all one another's wanderings might
nevertheless retain many decisive marks of their original affinity.
There are two other questions, one of them highly interesting,
connected with this subject, which ought to be noticed here, but
which we must not attempt to discuss in the space to which we
confine ourselves. As to the first we only wish to observe, that
although the Phrygians, Mysians, and several other nations that
finaUy settled In the same part of Asia, are described by the
ancients as Thracians, this name must be understood in a geo
graphical, not an ethnographical sense, and that their relation to
the various tribes which In the days of Thucydides occupied the
same part of Europe whence they had migrated, may notwith
standing have been extremely remote. + The second question is,
how far the early population of Western Asia was allied to that of
Greece, According to a view which has hitherto been very preva
lent among writers on this subject, the distinction we have drawn
in a preceding page between the Carians and Leleges would
be trifling and unsubstantial. It has been commonly supposed
'4 * Strab. xii.'p. 572 [c. 8, § 3]. f See Hoeck's Kreta, i. p. 125 and foil,
X See a note on this subject in the French translation of Strabo, torn. iii. p. 23,

ANC^US, 113
that in the period when the history of Greece first begins to dawn,
an intimate connexion subsisted among its inhabitants and those
of Thrace, and of Asia Minor. The traditions concerning the most
ancient poetry of Greece, which represent it as cultivated by
Thracian and Lycian bards, seemed to imply that one language
was spoken or understood throughout those countries, and that
the wide difference that was observed between them in this respect
at a later period, was a change that had been graduaUy introduced
by time and accident. Now however that the researches of Niebuhr
have enabled us to form a more exact notion of the limits within
which the early inhabitants of Asia Minor and Greece may be
regarded as the same people, this argument has lost aU its force,
and until some other can be found, we may reasonably doubt that
there was ever any closer resemblance between the Greek language,
in any of its forms and stages, and that of the Lydians and their
kinsmen, than appeared after these races had been formally dis
tinguished from the Greeks as barbarians, or than now strikes a
common reader in the specimens collected by Jablonski. We may
admit, and indeed it seems scarcely possible to deny, an affinity
between the Carians and Leleges for Instance, such as connects
together the most distant members of a widely propagated race,
including the numberless varieties of the Indo-Germanic family,
but we have no ground for concluding that, after their first sepa
ration from their parent stock, they had ever been brought into
contact before we find them neighbours on the coast of Asia, or
that there was any pecuUar resemblance between them, except
what arose out of this fortuitous intercourse. That a considerable
interchange however of language and ideas was likely to take
place between two nations so situate cannot be denied; and we
are now about to point out an instance in which we conceive the
influence of this mixture may be traced.
It is no other than that from which we set out, to which we
now return from this digression, to examine more closely the
character and attributes of the mythical hero Anceeus. We have
pointed out what appear to us sufficient reasons for believing that
in this instance two persons of the same name have grown out of*
VOL. Ill, I

114 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
one ; and as this division is itself a fiction, it may the more readily
be imagined that features which properly belonged to one of them
might easily be transferred to the other. This we conceive to
have happened with regard to the double hatchet, with which we
have seen the Arcadian Ancaeus accompanying the Argonauts and
attacking the Calydonian boar. We have already observed that
the legend alluded to by ApoUonius can only serve to mark the
singularity of the weapon, without explaining the cause that made
It the inseparable badge of a Grecian hero. But In the hands of
the Samian Ancaeus it would have excited no surprise, for we
should see in it nothing but an ancient religious symbol, which
from the earliest times of which we have any historical notices
appears to have been familiar to the inhabitants of the western
coast of Asia, and especially of the part nearest to Samos, where it
Is visible among the wrecks of antiquity at this day. Chandler
at least saw it not only on the keystone of the arch at Mylasa,*
but also on two marbles inserted in the wall of a church built on
an islet in the lake of Myus, and under it, as he says, the name of
the proprietor, Jupiter of Labranda (Travels, c. 51, p. 169). To
persons conversant with this subject, it would be unnecessary to
say anything more on the wide diffusion of this symbol ; but for
the sake of readers to whom It may be new or not very familiar,
we will add a few remarks to illustrate this point. Plutarch
(Qu, Graecae, 45) answers the question : why the statue of Jupiter
Labradeus f in Caria wields a hatchet, and not a sceptre or a
thunderbolt : by relating a legend, according to which the weapon
in the hand of the god represented one which had once belonged
to the Amazon Hippolita, had been taken from her by Hercules,
and by him presented to Omphale, whose successors the kings of
Lydia had worn it as a sacred ornament till the time of Candaules,
* A view of this arch is engraved in the Ionian Antiquities, vol. ii. pi. xxii.
See also the vignette on the opposite page. If circumstances should ever render it
possible to explore the ruins of Asia Minor -with the attention they deserve, other
specimens might probably be found. They would be still more interesting if they
were discovered further to the north.
t The word should probably be -written Aaj3pavStvg, but the mistake may have
been made by Plutarch himself: or he may have conceived that the name of the
village was not directly derived from the epithet of the god.

ANCiEUS. 115
who disdaining the reUc had consigned it to one of his attendants.
When Gyges revolted from his master, he was assisted by a Carian
chief, who received the hatchet as the reward of his services, and
on his return to Caria, dedicated a statue to Jupiter, which he
adorned with it. Hence the god received the title Labradeus,
labrys being the name for a hatchet in the Lydlan language. This
story traces the use of the hatchet to the Amazons : and accordingly
we find it not only on the Carian coins, but on those of a great
number of cities in Asia Minor, which claimed Amazons as their
founders. The reader may see many of these coUected in the
work of Petitus Be Amazonibus : the hatchet appears sometimes
by itself, sometimes in the hand of the Amazon : and in those of a
later period it is wielded by the Koman emperors. The Greek
traditions not only spoke of Amazons as founders of many towns
in ^oKs and Ionia, but related that they were among the inha
bitants of the country whom the Ionian colonists found on their
arrival. It was disputed whether they or a son of the river
Caystrus had built the temple of the great goddess at Ephesus,
but it was universaUy admitted that when Androclus landed
there with his foUowers, Leleges and Lydians (that is Maeonians)
were in possession of the upper part of the town, and Amazons
were dweUing within the precincts of the sanctuary : the lonians
forcibly expeUed the former, but the latter were permitted to remain
in peace (Pausan. vii. 2, 8) . As the double hatchet was the con
stant badge of the Amazons, these traditions seem sufficiently to
prove the antiquity and the extensive diffusion of the symbol,
which, by the light afforded by these monuments, we trace
from the south-west of Asia Minor to the neighbourhood of
Themiscyra. It may not however be equally clear that we are justified in
terming it a religious symbol. And undoubtedly if there were no
other ground for calling it so than that it was carried by the
Carian god, its claim to this title would be doubtful ; for it might
easUy be conceived that a piece of armour which had once been
worn by a race of warlike kings might become the pecuUar dis
tinction of a god of war, such as the Carian Jupiter seems to have
I 2

116 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
been. But its association with the Amazons places it in a different
light, and may be considered as a sufficient proof that it was a
sign originally connected with some religious meaning. We
venture to assert this, on the supposition that scarcely any one
will now be found to embrace any other view of that celebrated
race, than that which regards them as the ministers of some kind
of reUgious worship. On this point we believe almost aU mytho
logers are now agreed, though the explanation of their various
attributes and of the legends relating to them is a problem that
will always afford room for difference of opinion. We do not
mean to discuss these questions, but we may observe that according
to one view of the Amazons, the badge which uniformly distin
guishes them is not an unmeaning ornament, but is in perfect
unison with their character, while it is very difficult to perceive
its connexion with any other that has yet been proposed.
The reUgions that prevailed In Asia Minor from the earliest
times of which we have any tradition down to the propagation of
Christianity, so far as they were not introduced or modified by the
Hellenic settlers, exhibit a remarkable simplicity and conformity
in their general outlines, which presents a striking contrast to
the inexhaustible variety, the endless ramifications of the Indian,
Grecian, and Egyptian systems. Their common basis appears to
have been the same on which the latter were raised ; but either
the genius of the people was deficient in that quickness of inven
tion which moulded these Into such a multiplicity of forms, or
the numerous sacerdotal dynasties which united reUgious and
political authority, and, from sanctuaries which were at once
centres of commerce and of devotion, spread their sway over large
surrounding tracts, checked every tendency either to vary or to
refine and spiritualize the estabUshed objects and modes of wor
ship. These temples, with their subject principaUties and con
secrated serfs, flourished with little interruption or diminution of
their power and lustre under the shelter of the Lydlan, Persian,
Macedonian, and Boman Monarchies, and during the successive
revolutions that took place around them, the religion of which
they were the seats underwent as Uttle alteration in its essential

ANCiEUS. 117
character as in its outward forms. It was the adoration of nature
contemplated as the great sensible whole, but under two or three
different aspects, determined by the disposition of each people,
and regulating its modes of worship. The earUest and simplest
conception of nature perhaps entertained by the human mind is
that of a merely passive productive power : and this the imagina
tion of almost every people has figured to itself in the shape of a
female deity. The next step has been to distinguish an active
vivifying principle: and this must then be represented by a
person of the other sex. A third stage ascends to the union of
these two powers ; which may be exhibited in various ways, either
by simply combining their mythical forms in some prodigious
mixture, or by transferring some of the attributes of the one to
the other. Specimens of the former process are said to occur in
Indian works of art ; and a very Uvely and exact description of
such a compound figure is preserved in a fragment of Porphyrins,
who had extracted it from an account given by the Babylonian
Bardesanes of an interview he had with some Indian envoys in
the reign of HeUogabalus.* Among other things they told him
of a large natural cave in a very lofty mountain, containing a
colossal statue. It was erect, with its arms stretched out in the
form of a cross. The right side of the face, the right arm and
foot, and the whole of the right side of the body were male, the
other half female. The sun was carved on its right breast, the
moon on the left : and on other parts various other natural objects.
Its head supported the image of a god. It was conjectured by
Payne Knight f that some such androgynous figure had given rise
to the legend of the Amazons wanting the right breast. Whether
we adopt this opinion or not, it seems at aU events in the highest
degree probable that it was to their connexion with some such
worship that they owed their legendary character : and that on
* Stobaius, ed. Heeren, vol. i. p. 144. Compare Heeren's Ideen, xii. p. 29.
t The writer of this article only learnt Mr. Knight's conjecture from a note in
Creuzer's Symbohk, ii. p. 175 [575, 3rd edit.]. He does not possess the work in
which it was proposed (Inq. into the Symbol. Lang.), and though he read it a year
ago, yet as his attention was not then directed to the subject, he had entirely for
gotten that the subject of the Amazons was discussed there, and does not now
know whether Mr. Knight takes any notice of the hatchet.

118 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
precisely the same principle on which among an effeminate and
luxurious people the Babylonian Mylitta was honoured by the
prostitution of her female devotees, the priestesses of a masculine
goddess, such as the Cappadocian Enyo, represented her by
assuming the garb of the other sex. And it is easy to conceive
that wherever a train of religious ideas prevailed, such as sug
gested the image described by Bardesanes, there they may have
been compendiously expressed by such a symbol as the Amazonian
hatchet. The very mode in which it probably originated seems
to be pointed out in a fragment of Heraclides Ponticus on the
state of Tenedos (Pol. vii.) He relates that King Tennes, from
whom the island, before called Leucophrys,* derived its name, was
the author of a law by which an adulterer was to be put to death
with a hatchet, and that his own son afterwards incurred the
penalty ; for a memorial of this act of justice the Tenedlan coins
bore on the one side a hatchet, and on the other two faces,
male and female, growing out of one neck. We know however
that a totally different explanation of the Tenedlan hatchet was
given in anothe^ legend reported by Pausanlas (x. 14), and also
that Apollo himself was represented at Tenedos, like the Carian
Jupiter, with the hatchet in his hand : f and we may therefore
pretty safely conclude that both the stories are only instances of
the faciUfcy with which the Greek mythology could account for
usages the origin of which had been forgotten.
We fear we may already have ventured too far on this dan
gerous ground, and would not abuse the freedom it offers ; we
cannot however refrain from adding another remark on the
adventure of the double Ancaeus. Eudocia (Viol. p. 24), without
assigning any locality to the story, relates that Ancaeus was a
* This name recalls to mind the Artemis Leucophryne or Leucophryene of Mag
nesia on the Mfeander (Strab. xiv. p. 647). Amazons appear with Cybele on the
coins of the other Magnesia, and Petitus, p. 285, is probably right in explaining the
introduction of the hatchet in a medal of Demetrias from this circumstance ; Beger
(Thesaurus, i. 250) has a similar medal -with the hatchet, which he does not attempt
to explain.
t Steph. Byz. (who mentions both the legends) TivtSog. Kai iprjaiv 'ApiaTtiSrjg,
Kal dXXoi riuv iv TtviSi^i, ' A-rroXXoiva ir^XtKvv KpartXv Sid rd avpftdvra roXg irtpi
Tivvrjv.

ANCiEUS. 119
lover of husbandrj', who planted a vineyard and tasked his
labourers hardly:* so that one of them was provoked to make
the prediction which we have seen in another version attributed
to an oracle or a seer. The rest of this narrative agrees with the
former, and the writer adds that Pherecydes had said Ancaeus
died of a wound in the thigh, which he received from the Caly
donian boar. The severity of Ancaeus toward his labourers
reminds us of the son of Midas, Lityerses, whose untimely fate
was the subject of a plaintive ditty sung in the summer among
the Phrygian husbandmen. He had been wont to challenge men
to vie with him in reaping, and to scourge those whose strength
flagged in the contest: tUl at length he met with one more
robust than himself, and died by his hands (Poflux, iv. 7, 54).
This single coincidence indeed would not be a sufficient argument
for referring Ancasus to the same class of mythical persons to
which Lityerses belongs. The latter, it is well known, corre
sponded to the Egyptian Maneros, the Phoenician Adonis, and the
Mariandynlan Borimus, inasmuch as each of them was a hero
whose tragical fate was the theme of periodical waillngs and
mournful lays. Most mythological writers have beUeved that
all these legends and usages had a common origin, and that
although they may have been sometimes adopted where their
meaning was not known, or retained after It had been forgotten,
they were grounded on a natural sympathy with the changes of
the seasons, and that the vicissitudes of the sun in his yearly
course had been transformed by the popular imagination into a
tale of human suffering. This view was not unknown to the
ancients ; and of the Phrygians and Paphlagonians in particular
Plutarch observes, that the former conceived the god as sleeping
in winter, and awake in the summer, and that they solemnized his
slumber and his uprising with enthusiastic rites ; while the
Paphlagonians described him as fettered and imprisoned during
the gloomy season, and restored to motion and liberty in the
spring.t We are not now concerned to vindicate this opinion,
though we are far from being convinced by the arguments with
¦* jSapvg iirtKeiro ToXg oiKtraig. t De Is. et Os. c. 69.

120 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
which it has lately been attacked by a writer of consummate
learning and ingenuity.* It is sufficient for our present purpose
to remark, that as the Ancaeus of Eudocia coincides in his general
character with the Phrygian Lityerses, so in his fate he resembles
Attes, Adonis, and the Paphlagonian Borimus : the latter was the
son of King Upls, and was killed in his youth while hunting on a
summer's day,t whether also by a boar is not mentioned: but
perhaps the extent to which religious abstinence from swine's
flesh had spread over Asia Minor t may justify us in supposing
that this was the original and proper form of the story. And if
we are allowed to transfer a part of the Arcadian legend to the
Samian Ancaeus, and to think that he may also have been described
as a stripling too young for feats of arms, the resemblance between
him and the three last-mentioned mythical personages will become
still more striking.
To some of our readers these conjectures wUl probably appear
too bold and fanciful : yet before we conclude we must run the
risk of still further forfeiting their good opinion, by confessing a
suspicion which we have long harboured, that the sacred legend
we have just been considering was the real foundation of a narra
tive which has hitherto been received as a piece of true history.
We mean the beautiful tale in the flrst book of Herodotus, con
cerning the son of Croesus, whom his father, after having long
used the same precaution as old Aleus with his grandson, of lock
ing up his arms, at last reluctantly sent out against the enormous
* Lobeck, Aglaophamus, p. 687^692.
t This is the story told by Pollux, iv. 7, 54. Nymphis in Athenseus, p. 619 f.,
gives a different version, according to which Borimus was the son of a noble and
wealthy man, a youth of exceeding beauty : he was inspecting the labours of the
harvest, and going to draw water for the reapers disappeared.
X At Comana (Strabo, xii. p. 675) rb r'tptvog .... SiaifiaviaTara rrjg rdv
vdbiv Kptbiv (5puiatbig KaBapevti, 'ottov yt Kal rj dXXrj noXig' ovS' tiadytrai tig avrrjv
iig. Pausan. VII. 17, 10. " Arrrjg dniBavtv vrrb roii vog ' (in Lydia) /cat n iirbptvov
TovroiQ FaXarHv Spbiaiv oL JltaaivoxivTa ixovng, iiiv ovx dirrbptvoi. The same
superstition prevailed in Crete ; a vestige probably of Phoenician influence ; and a
curious legend was invented to connect it with the Cretan mythology. A sow was
said to have suckled the infant Jupiter, and to have drowned his cries with her
grunting : Sib (says Agathocles in Athen. p. 376, a) vavrtg rb Zoiov rovro vtpi-
utTTTov yyovvrai, Kai ov riuv Kotiov Saiaaivr' dv. See also Dion. Perieg, 852, and
the Scholiast about Aspendus.

ANC.SUS. 121
boar that was wasting the Myslan flelds, to perish like Ancaeus in
the chase. We need scarcely remark that the whole story is
much more like one in the Arabian Nights than any series of events
that ever happened in the world ; that the adventure of Adrastus
has no necessary connexion with It ; and flnaUy that the Ufe and
character of Crcesus afforded large room and strong temptation
for the Introduction of flctitious episodes. A tragical tale which
the Greeks found current, about the son of a king or a wealthy
man who had been cut off in his youth, might very easUy be
applied to Croesus. It is undoubtedly true that the adventure
related by Herodotus might have had at least a historical founda
tion : yet when we consider the name of Atys, the scene and the
circumstances of his death, we feel strongly inclined to beUeve
that it belongs altogether to the domain of mythology.

PHILIP OF THEANGELA.

In the first number of the Philological Museum (p. 110) [see
above, p. 110], I had occasion to quote a passage of Athenaeus which
refers to a work of Philip of Theangela : o QeayyeXevs. A town of
so Uttle note as Theangela might have been thought tolerably fortu
nate if It had produced only one writer whose name has come down
to us. Some critics however have been disposed to add a second.
The name of Philip occurs in a passage of Plutarch (Alex. c. 46),
with the addition of 6 elawyyeXew. Harduin (on PUny, N. H.
V. 29) perceived that this must be the same writer who is quoted
by Athenaeus. But in the same chapter of Plutarch another
author is mentioned with the same addition, 'Kaprj^ 6 elirwyyeXew :
and Harduin, meaning of course that his correction should be
applied to both cases, proposes to read X, 6 GeoryiyeAeii?. Dacler
in a note on the passage of Plutarch (ed. Eeiske) approves of the
change in both instances : and in that of PhUip it has been since
received into the text : whether flrst by Schaefer I do not know.
On the other hand, Sainte-Croix, Examen critique des historiens
d'Alexandre-le- Grand (p. 39, n. 3), objects to both alterations;
and, instead of making Plutarch's description of Philip conform to
that of Athenaeus, is for correcting the text of the latter. I shaU
give his reasons in his own words. After observing that among
the institutions of the Persian court adopted by Alexander was the
office of the elacvyyeXevs, and that this post was flUed by Chares of
Mitylene, and enabled him to collect the materials of his work
entitled laTopiai twv irepl 'AXe^avhpov, he subjoins the foUowing
note : " X.a.pr]^ 6 elaa/yyeXew. Plut. Alex, c, 46, Quelques savans

PHILIP OP THEANGELA. 123
n'ayant pas fait attention au sens de ce dernier mot ont voulu mal
a propos le changer. Plutarque ajoute ensuite au nom de Chares
celui de Mitylene sa patrie, ibid, c. 54. II parle d'un autre
isangele, appele PhUippe, qui avoit aussi ecrit quelque chose sur
Alexandre. Cet isangele est indubltablement celui dont on avoit
un ouvrage historique sur les Leleges et les Cariens (Strab. xiv,
p. 455. Athen. vi. p. 271), Dans ce dernier U faut lire
elaayyeXem au Ueu de QecuyyeXew."
In the passage of Strabo (p, 661) our author is described as
^iXtTCTTos 6 Tft KapiKU ypcL^a^. In Plutarch he is mentioned
among a crowd of writers who had discussed the subject of the
Amazon's visit to Alexander. The story, Plutarch says, was adopted
by most of them, wv ical KXeiTapj(^69 eaTi, koI UoXvKpuro^, Kal
'Ov'y]aiKpLTO^,Kal'Ai'Ttye.vi]9,Kal"IaTpo9. ' ApiaTo^ovXo^ he, Kal
ILaprjs: 6 elaaryyeXevi, kuI YlToXefiaioi, Kal ' AvTiKXeidrjs, Kal ^iXtav
6 Ofj^aios, Kal 4>f\(7r7ro9 6 elaayyeXew, tt^os he tovtoi^ 'E/caTaio?
6 lEpeTpievi, Kal OtXtTTTro? 6 XaAfftSeu?, Kal Aovpis 6 2a/iios-,
irXaajia (paai yeyovevai tovto. It was necessary to transcribe this
passage that the reader might be enabled to appreciate the merit
of the correction proposed by Sainte-Croix. It wiU, I think, be
evident to every one on a Uttle reflection, that, independently of
the authority of manuscripts, his change in the text of Athenaeus
is quite inadmissible, and that the second elaaryyeXem in Plutarch
requires some alteration. Plutarch himself was on the side of the
minority in the controversy, and for the satisfaction of those
readers who might not be convinced either by the nature of the
case or by the names opposed to Onesicritus and his fellows, he
proceeds to mention that Alexander himself, in a letter to Anti-
pater, gave a fuU account, iravTa ypdtpuiv aKpi^m, of the proposal
which the king of the Scythians had made to him, at the time
when he was supposed to have had his interview with Thalestris,
to give him his daughter in marriage, but said nothing about the
Amazon, And he adds an anecdote tending almost equally to
shake the credit of the story: when Lysimachus had become
kino- of Thrace, he one day heard Onesicritus read the fourth
book of his True Sistory, which contained the particulars of the

124 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS
Amazon's visit to the Macedonian hero : and lohere, asked the king
with a smile, was I at the time ? The same question might have
been asked by Chares, if he fiUed the office of elaar^yeXew at the
time to which Onesicritus referred the occurrence. And it can
scarcely be doubted that it was for this reason that Plutarch here
described him by his office, and not by his birthplace, as in c. 54,
and also placed his name between those of Aristobulus and
Ptolemy, of whom Arrian (vii. 13) says on the same occasion :
TavTa he ovTe 'ApuyTo^ovXo?, ovtb IlToAejuaibs', ouTe tk aXXo9
aveypai^ev, OffTt? iKavoi hirep tivv TijXtKOVTWv TeKixi]piwaai. If the
PhUIp of Strabo and Athenaeus had held the same office, and
enjoyed the same means of information as Chares, they would
surely have been described together as ol eluayyeXel^s : if other
wise, Philip would have been described Uke the other historians
by his birthplace.
But whatever may be thought of the true reading in Plutarch,
one is at a loss to conceive why Sainte-Croix should have proposed
his correction of Athenaeus. For even if Plutarch had reasons
for caUing Philip by his title, Athenaeus might still have described
him in the usual way, as Plutarch himself does Chares in another
chapter. It is scarcely credible that he should have forgotten
the passages of PUny and Stephanus Byzantlnus, in which PhiUp's
native town Is mentioned, and he does not throw out any suspicion
against the text as it now stands there. So that he can hardly be
acquitted from the charge of rashness, similar to that of which he
has certainly convicted Harduin. Yet the note of this critic on
the passage of Pliny raises a doubt of a different kind, which, as
it is connected with some historical questions, may deserve to be
stated. I must first transcribe the words of Pliny and his com
mentator. "Dein Cariae oppida Pitaium, Eutane, HaUcarnassus.
Sex oppida contributa ei sunt a Magno Alexandre, Theangela,
SIbde, Medmassa, Eurenium, Pedasum, Telmlssum." On this
Harduin remarks : " Theangela, Oea^YeAa ttoAi? Kapias Stephano.
Apud Athen. vi. p. 271. Philippus Gea/yyeXeus historiens.
Apud Plutarch, Alex. p. 691. 'Kapyjs WiaayyeKew pro QecuyyeXew.
Et apud Strab. xiii, p, 611, "EvvayeXa pro QeayyeXa." This

PHILIP OP THEANGELA, 125
proposed emendation of Strabo is perhaps stiU more mal d propos
than the one which Sainte-Croix censures. The reading ^vvayeXa
is indeed incorrect, but it required no other change than the sUght
one suggested by an article in Steph. Byz., who gives not only the
name of '^ova.yeXa, which is what Strabo probably wrote, but its
etymology. "SovayeXa ttoXk Kapt'a? ev6a 6 Ta^o? yv too Kapo^,
w? hfjXoi Kal Tovvojj.a. KaXovai, yap ol li.apev aovav toi^ Tucftov,
yeXav he toi^ ^aaiXia. '0 TroAmj? Soua/yeAeu?. This seems suffi
cient to place the reading in Strabo beyond dispute. The doubt
it suggests is, whether beside this town of "SiOvayeXa there was
another in Caria called Oea^'y^''^"- -^^ ^^ must, I think, be
admitted that the latter name, wonderful enough in itself, is
rendered doubly suspicious by the large portion it has in common
with one of barbarian derivation. It would be less surprising if
a word of better omen than (rova had been compounded with yeXa,
and I should therefore at any rate be inclined to prefer QeayeXa
and QecvyeXevs. But Pliny's words raise another question. None
of his commentators, so far as I know, has expressed any doubt
about the accuracy of his statement ; yet to a reader who is
famiUar with the history of Alexander it must appear on several
grounds extremely suspicious. Alexander, according to Arrian,
Strabo, and DIodorus, after razing HaUcarnassus to the ground,
left Ada, as queen or satrapess of Caria, to effect the reduction of
the two fortresses, and afterward to rule over the whole province.
PUny is, I believe, the only author who has related that the Con
queror ever concerned himself about the restoration of the city
which had cost him so much valuable time ; and during his life
there seems to have been no motive to induce Ada to transfer her
residence thither from Alinda. But if Pliny has made a mistake
in this passage, which he may very easUy have done by mixing
together two extracts, one relating to the destruction of the city
by Alexander, and the other to its enlargement or restoration by
some other person. It remains to be considered what the fact was
which he meant to have recorded. And here we seem to be
forced to halt between two opinions almost equaUy plausible. The
first is, that the six towns which he describes as contributa were

126 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
the same of which Strabo spoke, when, after mentioning that the
Leleges had occupied eight towns in Caria, he adds : tiHv h' oktio
77oXeiDv Ta? e^ Mauo-fflAor et? fiiav tyjv "^ AXiKapvaaaov avvyyayev,
«? KaAAtfffiei'ijs' laTopei' "^ovayeXa he Kal MiirSoj/ hie(j}vXa^e
(xiii. p. 611). If this were so, then Harduln's emendation of
Strabo would be false on a new ground : for there must have been
a town answering to Pliny's Theangela, different from Strabo's
"EovayeXa. But on the other hand, it would noi be a very extra
ordinary coincidence if, when HaUcarnassus was rebuilt and
repeopled, the same number of Carian towns had been made to
contribute their inhabitants to it ; and this at all events I take to
be the sense of Pliny's contributa, and not as Harduin explains it,
jura petere Halicarnassum eoacta. But in this case they were pro
bably not the same six which had been Incorporated with it by
Mausolus ; for these, we may conclude from Strabo's hie(f)vXa^e,
had shrunk into insignificant hamlets ; and therefore 'EovayeXa
may have been one of them, and have been miswritten in Pliny
or his author, and so may be concealed under the name of
Theangela. The name of Pedasum in Pliny's list of the six
towns may at first sight seem to determine the question ; for if it
was the same town with the Ui'paaa of Strabo, it must have been
one of the six consolidated by Mausolus. But on closer inspection
this argument fails ; for it is not only possible that one or more of
them may have risen again into importance, but it Is also uncer
tain whether PUny's Pedasum is really identical with Strabo's
Ylrjhacra ; sInce-Strabo also mentions a Ylfjhacrov in Caria, Ylr]ha<Tov
he Kol iv Ty vvv 'EiTpaToviKewv TfoXiy^vtov Icttiv (1. c.) ; and Pliny
himself had met with the names of two towns differing only in
their termination: the Pedasum in the list we are considering,
and a Pedasus : for I think there can be no doubt that this is the
true reading, v. 36, where at present the text stands : Nee procul
ab Salicarnasso Pidosus. If these ^are indeed two different towns,
of which I must confess I entertain great doubt, then Pliny's
Pedasus is Strabo's Yi^haaa, and his Pedasum was not one of
those that Mausolus used for the enlargement of his capital.
The restoration of HaUcarnassus was probably the work of the

PHILIP OP THEANGELA, 127
powerful chief who was invested with the government of Caria, on
the death of the conqueror, by Perdiccas, and confirmed in it at
the second partition by Antipater. The name of this person is
written sometimes Ka.aaavhpo9 or Katrai^S/joy, sometimes ^'Aaavhpo^.
WesseUng on Diodor, xviii. 39 observes very truly, that the
Kaaaavhpo? first mentioned in that chapter cannot be the son of
Antipater, though the argument he draws from the words of
Diodorus, Trape^ev^e he tw 'AvTiyovw -^iXiap^ov tov vlov
Kaaaavhpov, seems to me of very little weight, and it would have
been better simply to have referred to Diodorus, xix, 62, which is
decisive on that point. But this does not seem a sufficient reason
for preferring the reading "Aaavhpo^, though this satrap of Caria
is probably the same person who is mentioned by Arrian, iv, 7,
as "Aaavhpo?. Eor the latter does not appear to have been the
son of Philotas spoken of by Arrian, 1. 17, since DIodorus does not
describe the satrap by this relation. And on the other hand, he
seems studiously to distinguish between the two Cassanders, by
some adjunct to the name of one of them, as in xviii. 39, by tov
vlov, in XIX. 62, toj/ tj/t Kapt'as aaTpa.'rrrjv, and xix. 75, 6 tj/?
'A(7Mp Kvptevwv. Compare Justin, xiii. 4. And I am also
incUned to suspect that WesseUng is mistaken in considering the
Cassander, who is mentioned (xix. 68) as the coUeague of Prepe-
laus, as the same person with the satrap of Caria. Odd as it may
sound, I think it follows from the words of Diodorus, that Cas
sander, son of Antipater, sent his forces to the aid of Cassander the
satrap of Caria, under the command of a G-eneral Cassander. And
I conceive there is the less reason for holding the Cassander,
whose forces were engaged in the siege of Amisus (Died, xix.
57, 60), to be the Carian, as the son of Antipater had demanded
Cappadocia from Antigonus as the price of peace (Died, xix. 57),
But the most unfortunate of aU, conjectures on this subject is that
of Sainte-Croix, in his very valuable Memoire sur la Chronologie
des Bynasfes ou Princes de Carie et sur le Tombeau de Mausole
(Memoires de I'lnstitut Boyal, tom, ii. p. 524). He observes on
the name of "Aaavhpo9, " ce nom me paroit etre une alteration de
celui d' Alexandre, plutot que de celui de Cassandre, comme on

128
pourroit le penser d'apres le temoignage de quelques ecrivains. Si
Cassandre a eu la Carle dans le premier partage, il I'aura perdue
dans le second, puisqu' Antipater son pere le nom ma chiUarque,
adjoint d' Antigone, pour surveiUer de pres la conduite de ce
general. Ce fut done alors qu'Asandre, ou plutot Alexandre, fils
d'Ada, fut retabU dans son patrimoine, soit en quality de dynaste,
soit comme satrape, et en lui aurolt fini la race d'Hecatomne."
The whole of this passage Is a tissue of errors. The son of Anti
pater was most clearly not the person whom Perdiccas appointed
to the government of Caria, as WesseUng perceived (note to Died.
XVIII. 3), though by some mistake he is so described in the index.
If he had been satrap at the time of the second partition, he needed
not to have resigned that office when he was made yiXtapyo? to
Antigonus, any more than the latter found the post of aTpcvrrjyo^
incompatible with his government of Lycia. Salnte-Croix's notion,
that the name of the satrap of Caria was Alexander, and that he
was the son of Ada, Is grounded on a strange misconception,
which he explains in a note, where he says, " Cette conjecture
auroit encore plus de probabilite, si nous pouvions compter sur le
temoignage de I'abreviateur de Strabon. Cet ecrlvain dit qu'Ada
s'etant refuglee aupres d' Alexandre, ce prince adopta son fils et le
declara heritier du trone de Carie. LXOovto^ he tov ' AXe^avhpov,
KaTecj}vyev ttjoo? avTov t] ASa, Kal vlov OeTov tTvoLi^aev Kal KXrjpo-
vofxov, Kal ovTWi T'ijv JLaptJiiv a.p)(f]v aveXa^ev (Geog. Vet. Hudson,
II. p. 190). Cette phrase est tres-obscure ; mais je crols avoir saisi
la pensee de I'auteur, qui n'a pu dire qu'Ada adopta son propre
fils. Du reste, le fait de Th^redite ne se trouve ni dans Strabon,
ni dans Arrien." How useful a knowledge of grammar may often
be to a historian ! I shaU not insult the reader by translating
the Greek words which Sainte-Croix finds so obscure, but shall
just remark that Ada's adoption of Alexander the Great is most
distinctly mentioned by Arrian, i. 23.
It must depend on the opinion we form about the Ust of PUny,
containing the name of Theangela, whether we can oppose any
direct authority to another assertion of Sainte-Croix, in the same
Memoire (p. 546), that HaUcarnassus never entirely recovered

PHILIP OF THEANGELA. 129
from its last fall (in the time of Alexander). Strabo however,
whom he quotes (xiv, p, 656), says nothing to bear him out,
Caria, from its situation, probably suffered less than most other
provinces of Asia Minor in the wars of the successors of Alexander.
The satrap Cassander was a powerful prince, and assuredly did
not neglect the advantageous site of HaUcarnassus, But after the
battle of Ipsus Caria fell into the hands of Lysimachus,* who, as
he transplanted Ephesus to the seaside, and peopled it at the
expense of Colophon and Lebedos, may have adopted a similar
course for the restoration of the capital of Mausolus.
I must add an observation or two on the word elaayyeXev^,
which has had so great a share in suggesting the preceding dis
cussion. Sainte-Croix (Examen, p. 39) has explained it in a way
which, when it is considered as the title of the historian Chares,
tends I think to perplex or mislead the reader. He says : " Dio-
dore, en parlant du Perse Aristazane, dit : ovto^ h' yv elaayyeXew
TOV jSatrtAewr Kal TrtcrTOTaTo? tiLv ipiXwv /xeTct 3aywav. xvi. 47,
Hesychius nous a conserve le nom Perse de cette charge : 'A^apa-
TTttTety, Oi elaayyeXeK Tiapa Ylepaai^ ' vid, Wesseling ad Diodor. t. ii,
p. 118." Now though Chares is called 6 elaayyeXev^ by Plutarch,
I doubt very much whether he held the office which was described
by the Persian word explained by Hesychius. His gloss has
occasioned much controversy, as may be seen by the note in
Albertus. But a^apairaTeK seems to be one Greek way of writing
a word which occurs in Daniel HI. 2, and is there rendered In our
translation ^n'wces (See Gesenius' Lexicon, p. 29 [Thes. p. 74], and
Bertholdt on Daniel, p. 823). According to these learned orien
talists it is equivalent to arch-satrap, or governor-general. The title
eltrar^yeXevi does not Indeed correspond to It in meaning ; but yet
it is so far equivalent to it, that either might be properly used to
* See Niebuhr, Kleine Schriften, p. 291. [The Bishop adds in his own copy a
reference to Droysen, Hellen. ii. 423.] In a discussion relating to the geography
of Caria it may not be impertinent to remark that the Choice, near which Attains
defeated the Gauls, and which Niebuhr (p. 284) says he has searched for in vain,
and therefore suspects to be the scene of the last battle which Antiochus Hierax lost
in Caria, seems clearly to bo the XoXbr) mentioned by Ptolemy among the towns of
the Galatian Pontus. See Harduin on Pliny, vi. 3, where the true reading is pro
bably Coloene
VOL, HI, K

130 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
describe the same officer. But there was another Greek name for
this officer, expressive of other functions, and probably translated
from the Persian : this was viAtajOT^os. The passages of ^llan,
CorneUus Nepos, and Arrian which show the power and dignity
of the ¦^iXlap^m, and the identity of his office with that of the
elcrayyeXew, are collected by Wesseling on Died. vol. ii. p. 293. ;
but he makes a remark on the words of Arrian which seems to me
to be unfounded, and leads me to suspect that he did not under
stand the origin and history of the title. I am not aware that it
has ever been distinctly explained; but I believe] the following
account of it will not be far from the truth. The Persian general
who was entrusted with the command of the thousand horse guards,
the flower of the Persian cavalry (Herod, vii. 40, viii. 113, ti)v
'i-KTTov Ti'jv -^LXit-jv), was the king's most confidential servant, and
as such presented petitions, or in the Oriental style carried
messages to him, and received his answers, and also introduced
strangers into the royal presence. His functions were probably
not confined to ceremonies, but answered partly to those of a grand
vizier, and partly to those from which the office of chancellor took
its rise in the states of modern Europe. But there can be little
doubt that he had under him a number of officers, who without
any trust or power assisted him in the performance of his cere
monial functions : among these were some who might be properly
described as elacvyyeXei^. In the court of Alexander, as appears
from a comparison of Diodor. xviii. 3, 48, with Arrian, In Photius
BIbl. 92, the commander of the companion cavalry stepped into
the place of the Persian '^iXiapxo';. This Wesseling half per
ceived, and yet, after quoting ^lian and Nepos, he remarks on
the words of Arrian, HephtKKav yfXiap-^e^v y^iXLap-^ta^, fjs ypx^v
'HipaiaTiwV TO he yv e-TTiTpomi T]p oXy; jSactAeta?, Pules de eodem
munere Arrianum logui. At secus est. Sephaestio praefectus erat
alae equitum, quos eraipovs Macedones vocabant, quae dein praefectura
Perdiccae fuit mandata, Nostro indice hujus lib. b. 3. But If the
office of yjKiap)(o's was associated, as it seems to have been in the
court of Persia, with that of prime minister, it might weU be
described in the terms used by Arrian. After the death of Alex-

PHILIP OF THEANGELA, 131
ander it sank a step, or rather changed its character. The person
who held it was second in rank, not to the king, but to the com
mander-in-chief : as Cassander to Antigonus, and again to Poly-
sperchon. (Died, xviii, 39, 48.) But though the Persian ¦^iXiap)(pi
who fiUed this station (which is perhaps what ^schylus meant in
the case of the ¦^iXiap-)(p9 AaZaKy?, Persae, 309) were not only
elffayyeXei^, or ushers, but a^apaTrare'L^, or princes, I need scarcely
remark that the latter title might not apply to all persons who
bore the former, and that Chares of Mitylen6 assuredly never held
the same office with Hephasstion and Perdiccas. Between his
and theirs there was probably at least as wide a difference as
between a gold stick and the baton of a commander-in-chief:
though the same hand which has wielded the latter in the field
may carry the former at court without detriment to the pubUc, the
converse would have been as false in the days of Alexander, had
there been such things then, as it is in our own.

K 2

DEATH OF PACHES.

In Niebuhr's essay on Xenophon's HeUenlcs, translated in the last
number of this Museum,* there is an allusion to the fate of Paches
(p. 495), which I would have explained to the reader if I had
remembered from what source it was drawn. But the manner in
which it was mentioned led me to imagine that what Niebuhr had
found was something tlU then undiscovered, and thus deterred me
from searching for it in any of the books to which I have access,
and stiU more from attempting to recollect whether I had before
seen or heard of it. Otherwise it might possibly have occurred
to me that the anecdote is mentioned by Schneider in a note to
Aristotle's Polit. v. 3. My attention was accidentally drawn to
this fact by a remark in an exceUent little book, Plehn's Lesbiaca,
where Schneider is censured for giving too much credit to the
story. Perhaps I cannot better make amends for my oversight
than by laying before the reader the original authorities and some
of the opinions which modern critics have expressed upon them.
The passage to which Niebuhr evidently refers, and which his
edition of the Byzantine Historians had recently brought under
his notice, is an epigram of Agathlas (57 in Niebuhr's ed. Anthol.
Gr. Jacobs, tom. iv. p. 34),
'EAAai/t? TpijiliKaipa, kol a yapieaaa Aa/xa^f?
ojaTyv fxev nraTpa^ cpeyyea Aecr^iaho^.
OKKCi c' AQyvairjcn avv oXkcloiv evOahe KeXcra^
Ttti' l^LiTvXyvaiav 'yai' aXava^e Ua.'^ip,
Tttv Kovpav ahiKws ypaaaaro, tw? he avvevvw^
eicTavev, wr Trjvas Tyhe ^lytrofxevov.
* Philological Museum, i. 485,

DEATH OF PACHES. 133
Tttt he KWT Alyaloio poov TrAaTu XaiTpia (jyepeaOijv,
Kal TTOTt Tav Kpavaav Mo-\|ro7rtai' hpajjieTi]v'
hufxw 8' a'y7S''^£'''''7'-' clXltyijiovo? epya Ila^ijTo?,
fieatpa fxiv et? oXoyv Kypa avvrfXaaaTyv .
TOM jjLcv, w Kovpa, TreTTovfjKaTOV ' cr^ 8' eizl iraTpav
r/KeTOV, ev 8 avTo. KeiaOov a7to(j)6ifj,evai '
ev he TTOvwv a-Kovaadov, errtel hotI aafUL avvevvwv
evheTov, e? KXeiva^ fxvapLa aao(^poavva^'
vjxvevaiv h eTi -navTe^ bfio^pova^ ypailvw!,
•KaTpav Kal 'Koaiwv "Ky/jiaTa Tiaafieva^.
Mr. Jacobs remarks on this epigram (Animadv. vol. Hi. 1,
p. Il2), Paches, cujus amores et suppliclum in hoc epigr.
enarrantur, missus est adversus Mitylenaeos anno quinto beUi
Peloponnesiaci 01. 88. 2. Ejus in Mitylenaeis tractandis leni-
tatem et moderationem laudat Thucyd. iii. 28. Cf. Diodor,
Sic. t. i. p. 515 (xii. 55). Nee omnino quidquam est apud
historlcos quod historiae in hoc epig. narratae fidem faciat,
nisi fortasse quod Aristoteles tradit Polit. v. 4. (Schneid. 3.)
beUum illud Mitylenaeorum adversus Athenienses a mulieiibus
i-rriKXi'ipoK originem cepisse. Becte igitur Beiskius, p. 220.
banc historiam ad veteres fabellas amatorias, quas Milesias
appeUant, referendam esse censet. In the passage referred to
Aristotle says : Kal -nepl M.iTvXi'ivyv he e^ k-niKXypwv o-Tacrew?
yevofievf]? ttoXXwv eyeveTO ap'^y KaKwv, Kal tou itoXefxov
TOV TTpo^ ' AOyvatov^, ev u> Ila^j;? eXa^e ti}v ttoXiv avTuJv'
Tijiotpavov^ yap tmv evnopwv tivos KaTcCXmovTov hvo 6vya-
Tepa^, o TrepiwaOeh Kal ov Aa/3tt)i/ to4? vlecriv avTov Ao^-
avhpo9 yp^£ Ti/? OTaaeioi, Kal tous- AOrjvaiovs "Trapw^vve,
itpo^evo^ wv Tj/? ¦noXeivs. Schneider's note is : " Thucydides
III. 2, ubi narrat beUum a Pachete gestum et Mitylenen
captam originem referens obiter haec posuit : Kal avTwv M.itv-
Xyvaliav Ihia avhpe^ KaTa OTaatv 'npo^evot ' AOyvaiuiv jxijvvTal
yiyvovTai TO?? ' AQyvaioK. In Agathiae Epigr. Analectorum
HI. p. 64, narratur Pachetem in amorem incidisse duarum
Mitylenaearum mulierum, Lamaxidis et HeUenidis, quarum

134 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
maritos cum occidisset, eos secum abduxit, deinde ipse ab
iis occisus. Forte hae sunt Ulae ipsae duae ImKXypoi vir-
gines de quibus noster narrat." Mr. Plehn, in the work above-
quoted, p. 61, observes: "Schneiderus Agathiae narrationi plus
quam par est tribuere videtur. Merito Beiskius et Jacobsius
historiam Ulam ad veteres fabeUas amatorias, MUesIarum nomine
appeUatas, referendam esse exlstimant."
If I venture to interpose a word in this discussion, it is certainly
not because I attach any importance to the question, whether the
story in Agathlas is anything more than an idle fiction arbitrarily
connected with a historical name. Few unprejudiced persons
wiU think either much better of the Athenians, if they condemned
their general for an atrocious crime committed for his own private-
ends, or much worse of them, if they did not accept his public
services as a sufficient defence against a charge of misconduct
which appeared to them clearly proved. But still, as the behaviour
of the Athenians towards Paches has been made a ground of severe
censure on them by some writers, both ancient and modern, the
question deserves to be placed on a right footing, which, it seems ta
me, none of the critics whose remarks I have quoted have done.
In the first place, the story in Agathlas certainly does not gain
the slightest degree of credibility by being compared with the fact
mentioned by Aristotle ; for that the two daughters of Timophanes
should have been the same women who became the victims of the
lust of Paches, would be a most extraordinary coincidence, which
it would be arbitrary beyond measure to assume without any
authority ; so that I can scarcely believe that this was Schneider's
meaning. On the contrary, it would be very easy to conceive
how the incident mentioned by Aristotle might in the course of
ages be combined with the violent death of the conqueror Paches,
and so worked up into the tale on which the epigram is founded,
which would not be a stranger perversion of history than we find
frequently occurring in Malalas. But this bare possibiUty is not
in itself an argument sufficient even to raise a presumption, and
surely wiU not justify us in pronouncing the Lesbian legend to be
no better than a Milesian story. The reasons given by Mr. Jacobs

DEATH OF PACHES. 135
for treating it with contempt are such as I should not have
expected from an intelligent critic. I lay no stress on the public
conduct of Paches, whom Mr. Mitford, not certainly without
reason, brands with the reproach of treachery and cruelty ; because
it does not foUow, though he looked upon all means as indifferent
in the service of the state, that he was equally reckless in his
private capacity. But, on the other hand, we should be as Uttle
at liberty to presume that, if he was capable of being transported
by the heat of his passions into an outrage against humanity, he
must therefore have been a monster of cruelty, who could find
pleasure in executing a commission to massacre the population of
a whole city In cold blood. We do not want the light of Profane
History to assure us that this would be a very erroneous inference.
No conclusion therefore can be drawn as to this point from the
character of Paches, so far as it is known to us from history. The
story of Agathlas, considered by itself, contains no improbable
circumstance, unless it be that Paches committed two crimes of
the same kind. Otherwise there is nothing in it that presents
any appearance even of exaggeration. It sounds like a simple
unvarnished narrative of a fact which was Ukely to live long in
the recollection of the Lesbians. The legitimate course therefore
would seem to be, to inquire whether this fact is inconsistent with
any other which has been transmitted to us on better authority.
Mr. Mitford's description of the end of Paches would lead the
reader to suppose that we have only to choose between Agathlas
and Plutarch ; and this would certainly reduce us to a painful
perplexity. But the passages to which Mr. Mitford refers in his
margin do not contain quite so much as he has stated in his text.
Neither in the life of Aristides, c. 26, nor in that of Nicias, c. 6,
where he alludes to the death of Paches, does Plutarch mention
the specific charge brought against him. This deficiency Mr.
Mitford has suppUed by relating that Paches was " called upon to
answer a charge of peculation," This term is undoubtedly well
adapted to raise a strong suspicion of sycophancy on the part of
the accusers, and of levity and ingratitude on the part of the
judges, who, perhaps, on very slight evidence, were excited by

136 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
"the virulent orators who conducted the accusation" against the
honest, plain-speaking soldier, and by their credulity " so raised
his indignation " that he stabbed himself to the heart in their
presence. Plutarch however only relates the issue of the cause ;
the rest of the scene is from the hand of Mr. Mitford. I do not
mean by this to impute to him a wilful fabrication, but only an
oversight, into which he was betrayed by the natural desire of
producing an additional illustration of his favourite thesis. But
when a history is written for the sake of a certain theory, there is
always a danger that the theory will every now and then become
the foundation of the history.
A different, but perhaps an equaUy instructive way of writing
a romance on the subject, would have been to suppose that in the
intoxication of his military success Paches had given way to a
strong temptation, and had been led to tarnish the honour of a
glorious Ufe by a base and cruel murder ; that he returned to
Athens to receive the reward of his services, but \vas followed by
the unhappy women whose peace he had destroyed ; that in the
presence of the assembled people they disclosed and proved his
giult ; and that when. Instead of congratulation and applause, he
heard nothing but the accents of horror and indignation from all
around him, shame and remorse and the avenging Furies stung
him to madness, and he turned his victorious sword against his
own breast.
This would indeed have been a romantic adventure for an
.Athenian or any other court of justice. Yet it must be remem
bered that the circumstance which sounds most romantic in it
is that which belongs equaUy to the other version of the story ;
and I will only add, that if the latter be the true one, if an
Athenian officer in the Peloponneslan war was unable to support
a verdict given against him on a charge of peculation, and was
excited by it to fall on his own sword, the case affords a new
illustration of a common remark, that things sometimes happen
in the world which would be thought too improbable for a
romance.

HANNIBAL'S PASSAGE OYER
THE ALPS.

The celebrated question of Hannibal's passage across the Alps has
now for some years been suffered to sleep in this country, and It
appears to be a pretty general persuasion that it has been finally
set at rest. The result of General MelviUe's personal observations,
iUustrated by De Luc's learning, and confirmed by the investiga
tions of an EngUsh traveUer (the author of the Oxford Bissertation
on the Passage of ITannibal across the Alps), was in 1825 repeated
in the Edinburgh Beview, and by the last writer (p. 182) is sup
posed to be placed beyond the reach of controversy. It is probable
that the Beviewer, though he has certainly contributed less of
argument to the cause than any of his predecessors, has produced
more effect on the mind of the pubUc than all of them put together,
and that he has the chief merit in estabUshing the general con
viction which seems at present to prevail, that Hannibal crossed
the Alps by the passage of the Little St. Bernard. If the repose
into which the controversy has subsided had been merely the
result of weariness on the part of the disputants or of the public,
we should have scrupled to add even a scrap to the enormous mass
of literature which has been already piled upon this theme. But
as those who have taken an interest in the question, and who are
not wedded to the opinion they may have embraced, may like
to know on what grounds arguments which to themselves had
appeared decisive have not satisfied others, and by what means
later inquirers have attempted to remove objections which they

138 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
had thought fatal to a different view of the subject, we make no
apology for reviving the discussion. Our design however Is not
to pursue the history of the controversy through the various works
in which it has been carried on abroad since it has been dropped
at home : an attempt for which we have neither space, means, nor
inclination : we shall confine ourselves to a brief notice of two
hypotheses different from that which now enjoys the monopoly of
public favour. One of these we are tempted to mention, rather
by its singularity than by Its intrinsic merit, or by the force of
the arguments employed in supporting It. The other deserves to-
be reconsidered, because it has been very lately defended with
great ablUty by a writer whose opinion on the subject carries with
it high authority, and in a work dedicated to the illustration of
ancient geography. We must presume the reader to be sufficiently
familiar with the principal points of the controversy to dispense
with a great deal of preliminary explanation which may be found
in a multitude of books, and which would detain us from the-
essential features of the question on which alone we have here
room to dwell.
The first of the two hypotheses we are about to consider was
proposed, we believe for the first time, in the Wiener Jahrbuccher
for 1823, by a writer named Arneth, who at the same time
examines at considerable length the opinions and arguments of
the principal authors who had discussed the question before him.
He recognises the authority of Polybius as supreme in this
inquiry, but contends that we cannot rely on the numbers which
express the distances in stadia according to the present text. He
quotes with approbation the remarks of the Oxford writer, who to
get rid of the objection raised by Strabo's enumeration of the
passes of the Alps according to Polybius, supposes, as Cluverius
had done before, that the words yv 'Avvi^a^ hirjXBev, which follow
the mention of the pass hia Tavptvwv, belong not to Polybius, but
to Strabo, and only express an opinion of the latter, which he had
probably adopted from Livy. But he rejects the argument which
De Luc draws from the later Roman roads across the Alps as
fallacious. He observes that De Luc himself appears to acknow-

Hannibal's passage over the alps. 139'
ledge its weakness, when he admits that most of these roads were
made in the time of the emperors. What inference, he asks, can
be drawn, as to an event about the circumstances of which authors-
disagreed even at the time, from the existence of roads made some
centuries later ? The Edinburgh Beviewer rests his whole argu
ment on this ground : for after mentioning the four roads which
Strabo enumerates from Polybius, though without noticing the
existence of the words, yv 'Avvi^a<; hiyXOev, he concludes that, as.
no one maintains that Hannibal crossed either by the Maritime or
the Bhaetian Alps, "the object of our search must ultimately be
found to coincide either with Mont Genevre or the Little St,
Bernard." It might have been asked : but why not with the
Mont Cenis ? De Luc repUes that this is out of the question,
because no Roman road passed over it. On which Arneth remarks,
that by similar reasoning it might be shown that it probably con
tinues untrodden to the present day : for why should the ancients
have adhered more constantly to the beaten tracks than the
moderns ? As Charlemagne led his armies across the Mont Cenis,
without inquiring about the Eoman roads, so the Romans might
carry a road over the Little St. Bernard, without troubling them
selves about Hannibal's route.
According to Arneth himself Hannibal crossed the Rhone near
Pont St. Esprit, and with the exception of the distance between
Vienne and Yenne, where he took the shortest cut, never quitted
the banks of that river till he reached the foot of the SImplon, by
which passage he crossed the Alps, and descended into the terri
tory of the Insubres near Milan, As this hypothesis diverges
from General MelviUe's stiU more widely than any that had pre
ceded it, we are naturally curious to hear the grounds on which
it rests. The author conceives that no other can be reconciled
either with the circumstances of Hannibal, or with the statements
of Polybius : in other words, the course it points out was the most
natural for Hannibal to take, and answers best to that which
Polybius describes. The first of these assertions depends chiefly
on a remark which had been made by the author of the Bisserta
tion, but which Arneth thinks he has not consistently pursued to

140 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
its legitimate consequences. The English writer observes : " The
most rational and easy way to penetrate through a very extended
chain of mountains is to trace the rivers which flow from them up
to their sources, for subsistence and population are generally to be
found on their banks, and the road is usuaUy more easy and the
ascent more gradual," &c. True ! exclaims the German reviewer,
but why did not this remark lead the author to follow the course
of the Rhone ? Here he conceives Is an insurmountable objection
to the hypothesis which leads Hannibal across the Little St. Ber
nard. It assigns no motive that should have Induced him to quit
the basin of the Bhone : and hence he considers the route of the
Great St. Bernard as one step nearer to the truth. The former
however labours under some other difficulties: as, the silence of
Polybius about the Isere, the names of the tribes into whose
territories it leads, which were not the Insubres, but either the
Salassi, or the Lai and Lebecae (Polyb. ii. 17). In the description
of Polybius there are two features which strike him as the most
Important, and as affording a decisive criterion which no other
hypothesis but his own will bear. In the first place, Polybius
describes the valley of the Bhone, and remarks that the plains of
the Po are separated from it by the chain of the Alps, and adds
that these were the mountains which Hannibal crossed from the
country on the Rhone to enter into Italy {aKpwpeiai, a? t66'
VTTepapas 'Avvij3a9 cltto twi/ KaTO, tov 'Yohavov tottmv ive^aXev
ek 'iraXiav). Hence It must have been from some point in the
Yalais that Hannibal effected his passage. This might indeed
have been Martigny, if there had been no other objection to the
Great St. Bernard. But beside that the distances and features of
the road do not correspond to the account of Polybius, and that
Strabo informs us that this track was impassable for beasts of
burden before the time of Augustus (Strabo says, iv. p. 205, y hia
tov Yloivrjvov Xeyojievov ^evyeaiv ov jSaTv) KaTO. Ta UKpa twv
'AXTTewv), it would have brought Hannibal down into a dif
ferent region from that which he sought, and found according
to Polybius, who expressly states that after having accomplished
the passage of the Alps in fifteen days, he came boldly down to

Hannibal's passage over the alps, 141
the plains on the Po, and to the nation of the Insubres. This
points to the neighbourhood of MUan, and thus confirms the con
clusion already drawn from the direction in which the nature of
the Transalpine regions tended to determine Hannibal's march.
But now the intelligent reader wiU naturaUy be tempted to
inquire, as the author takes Polybius for his guide, how he recon-
cUes his hypothesis with some other statements of the historian
no less precise than those just adduced, and apparently very diffi
cult to accommodate to the route here proposed. Polybius, after
relating the assistance which Hannibal gave to the elder of the
two brothers whom he found at war in the Island, proceeds to say
that he marched eight hundred stadia in ten days by the side
of the river, and then began the ascent of the Alps (iii. 50.
'AvvL^a^ ev yfiepais heKa TropevOeh itapa toj/ TcoTafjLov et? oKTa-
Koaiov^ aTahi'ov9 yp^aTO t>/? ttjoo? Ta? "AATret? ava^oXy^). The
German critic measures this ten days' march from Yienne, where
he conceives Hannibal arrived in four days after having crossed
the Bhone (Polybius, iii. 49, says that he came in that time to the
Island), and he makes it terminate somewhere near Thonon on the
Lake of Geneva. But unfortunately, satisfied with attempting to
show that on these suppositions the time occupied by the passage
of the SImplon would agree with the numbers in Polybius, he has
neglected to explain some other difficulties. For instance, it
seems extraordinary that Polybius should assign ten days as the
duration of Hannibal's march along the Bhone, if at the end of
that time he stUl continued for several days to keep by the side of
that river. And it is no less difficult to conceive why any point
on the Lake of Geneva should have been selected as a limit between
the first and the last part of this march. If however the historian
had wished to mark a difference in the nature of the coimtry,
¦without meaning to Imply that the road now quitted the Bhone,
one should rather have expected to be brought at the end of the
ten days to St. Jean Gingoulph, and to find a description of the
entrance of the Yalais, Polybius (iii. 60) contrasts the march
alon"- the plain with the ascent of the mountains in a manner
which clearly implies that the latter begins at the end of the ten

142 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
¦days' march. How can his description be adapted to the road
between Thonon and Bryg ? Arneth has neglected to answer this
question, and though he objects to General Melville's hypothesis,
that Polybius does not a second time mention the Isere, by the
side of which the road mounts toward the pass of the Little St.
Bernard, he has not thought it necessary himself to explain the
historian's silence as to the Lake of Geneva, which, if Hannibal
skirted its eastern shore, it would at any rate have been natural
to mention, and which, if the ten days' march ended there, it was
¦scarcely possible to omit noticing. Until these difficulties and
several others which we need not here point out are removed, this
hypothesis will probably gain few adherents ; and certainly the
objections which the author has raised to some of those which he
rejects are not so formidable that they need drive us to such
desperate expedients. If Indeed Hannibal had been without
guides or information about the country, there might be room to
ask why he did not follow the valley of the Rhone tlU he heard
of a pass which would lead him into the part of Italy which he
desired to reach. But If he had means of learning that by quitting
the Bhone at Yenne he could effect his object with less difficulty
and danger, the motive required is supplied. Still less weight can
be attached to the argument dra'wn from the words of Polybius
which describe Hannibal as crossing from the countries on the
Rhone into Italy. This description wUl surely apply to any one
point In the basin of the Rhone between its source and Its mouth,
or, as Polybius describes it, from the head of the Adriatic to Mar-
Bellles (ill. 47), as to another. The advantage which the pass of
the SImplon possesses, of bringing Hannibal immediately into the
territory of the Insubres, is of no moment until it is proved that
¦no other answers the same condition ; while the distance between
Milan and the capital of the Taurini renders the expedition which
he undertook against them less inteUigible than if he descended
and rested his army on the borders of their territory.
But we turn to another view of the subject, which has much
higher claims to our attention, both in the name of the author
•-and in the arguments with which he has supported his opinions.

Hannibal's passage over the alps, 143
It Is contained in an appendix which Uckert has annexed to the
third volume of his elaborate work {Geographic der Griechen und
Roemer, 1832). He has there defended a hypothesis which had
been adopted by many learned men, and within these few years
by a French author (Laranza, Histoire critique du Passage des
Alpes par Annibal, 1826) whose book I have not been able to
meet with : that Hannibal crossed the Mont Cenis. Uckert has
the advantage of coming last to the discussion of this question,
with a thorough knowledge of all that has been done by his pre
decessors, and with all the light that profound geographical learn
ing can throw upon it ; so that a re-view of his arguments may
exhibit, though not the history of the controversy, yet the latest
stage which it has reached.
There are, it is well known, four main points on which the whole
controversy depends, 1, The passage of the Bhone. 2. The posi
tion of the Island and Hannibal's movements in it. 3. His march
to the foot of the mountains. 4. The passage of the Alps. These
we wiU consider in their order, y^e must however premise that
Uckert takes a different view of the relative authority of Polybius
and Ll-vy from that which has been adopted by many, perhaps
by most, preceding writers, and particularly by the advocates of
General Melville's hypothesis. He observes that though the zeal
with which Polybius laboured to ascertain the truth is indis
putable, his means were not exactly proportioned to his good-wiU.
As the Alps in his time were inhabited by fierce and unconquered
tribes. It was not in his power to explore them with the same calm
ness and undivided attention as the modern traveUers who have
visited them with his book in their hands. The dangers and diffi
culties which these regions opposed to such researches in early times
are alluded to by Polybius himself, iii. 59, and are indicated by
Strabo, iv. c. 6, where he mentions repeatedly the ferocious
character and predatory habits of the Alpine tribes. Amongst
the rest he says of the Salassi, who inhabited the vaUey of Aosta,
that till lately they had maintained their Independence against
the Romans, and had been in the habit of doing much harm to
those who crossed the mountains through their country, IIoAAa.

144 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
KaTe^XaTTTOV tow 8t auTwi' VTfep^aXXovTa^ to. opi], KaTa to
XycTpiKOV e^o?. Notwithstanding his travels, the geographical
knowledge which Polybius had acquired was very imperfect ;
his conception of the direction of the Alps, and the course of
the Rhone, erroneous ; and his errors in this respect led him to
say that Hannibal, after crossing the Rhone, marched away from
the sea eastward, as if he had been making for the midland parts
of Europe (iii. 47) ; when. If he had been correctly informed, he
would have spoken of the north. With regard to LIvy's relation
to Polybius, Uckert observes, that though the Roman frequently
took the Greek author's description as the foundation of his own,
yet, as the countries of which Polybius wrote were much better
known in the time of Augustus, he also drew more accurate
accounts from other sources, with which he supplied the defects of
his predecessor, but sometimes without perceiving that he was
framing his narrative out of statements which were irreconcilably
discordant. We now proceed to notice the author's views on the
four above-mentioned questions.
1. The Passage of the Rhone. Instead of Pont St. Esprit, or
Roquemaure, the point selected by De Luc and his followers,
Uckert conceives that Hannibal crossed the river considerably
lower down, near Beaucaire. Polybius indeed says that the pas
sage took place at about the distance of four days' journey from the
sea. (iTi. 42, ayehov yp-epSv TeTTapwv ohov a'K€)((OV aTpaTOTrehtu
T)/? GaXaaay;. There Is no reason for rendering this four days'
'march. According to the other meaning the distance will be
somewhat greater ; but this will suit the actual distance between
Roquemaure and the mouth of the river perhaps better than
the four days' march.) Still this agreement can afford no
safe criterion until we have ascertained the point from which
Polybius began his measurement of the distance from the sea,
which, as the mouths of the Rhone have experienced great
changes, cannot now be determined, and also the direction in
which he measured it ; and this may have depended on the road
which the state of the waters near the mouth of the river left
practicable. When allowance is made for these considerations.

Hannibal's passage over the alps, 145
Uckert thinks that Beaucaire might not be too near the sea to be
so described. The motive for preferring it to other points higher
up is, that it lay on the Boman road from Spain, which passed
through Buscino and IlUberls, two points, as we learn from Livy,
in Hannibal's march. (Strabo, iv. p. 187. Ne'juauo-o? .... ccpv-
Tai KaTO. T-))!/ €«• T//? 'I^ypM^ et? t/}v 'iTaAtav . , , , hiexei 8' y
Ne/xaucTO? tou /xev 'Pohavov irepl eKaTov UTahLom Ka66 ev tP
-jrepata ¦noXi'^viov effTt TapaaKwv.) According to the present
text of Polybius (iii. 39), there was already in his time a measured
and marked Boman road from Carthagena, or even from Gades,
to the passage of the Bhone ; for after stating the distance, he
adds : TauTa yap vvv ^e^yfiwriaTai Kal aeayfielwTai Kara oTahlov^
OKTU) hia 'Vwp.aLniv eTTijieXm. But Uckert gives some strong
reasons for suspecting that these words are a marginal note,
which has been introduced Into the text. The fact they state
is itself, for the time of Polybius, highly improbable ; and if it
liad been so he would not have qualified his account of the dis
tance, as he does in two instances, with the particle Trepi. But
moreover, the length assigned in this remark to the Boman mile
is not the same at which, as Strabo informs us, Polybius esti
mated It. (vii. p. 322. IIoAiijSto? "rrpoaTiOeU tw oKTacTahiw
cmXeOpov, 6 ecTt TpiTov oTahiov.) Hence there is no reason to
suppose that In the time of Polybius the distances he mentions had
been precisely ascertained, nor can we safely draw any inference
from them as to the point at which Hannibal reached the river.
But on the other hand, it is highly probable that the track which
Hannibal pursued was the same along which the Roman road was
afterwards carried. If so, he had no motive for deviating from
it. As the arrival of the Roman army was unexpected, he could
not alter his course for the purpose of avoiding the enemy. Nor
Is it likely that he should have been influenced by the passage of
the Durance, which in the dry season presents no difficulties.
The Roman road to Lyons alwaj^s crossed this river, because the
inconvenience it might sometimes occasion was compensated by
the advantage of passing the Rhone lower down where its stream
was less rapid. That the distance of the place, where Hannibal
VOL. - III. L

146 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
crossed, from the sea was not so great as has been supposed by De
Luc, seems to f oUow from Sclplo's march to the Carthaginian camp
from the mouth of the river. He reached it in three days, if
indeed this is not the time spent both in going and returning to
his ships, as the language both of Polybius and Livy might be
construed. (Pol. iii. 49 ; Liv. xxi. 32.) We are not told that Ae
crossed the Durance, which proves either that it did not lie In his
way, or that It was not dangerous. Uckert also raises a question
whether the vessels (Ae';u|3oi) in which Hannibal transported his
troops, and which were such as the natives used for sea voyages,
could have ascended the river as high as Boquemaure. Poly
bius indeed remarks that Hannibal selected a part of the river
which was not broken by Islands for his passage, (iii. 42. eve')(elpei
iToiaaOai t?}i/ hia^aaiv KaTo. ti/i^ a7rA?/i' pvaiv.) But it is not
necessary on this account to seek for a place distant from every
island, nor to reject Beaucaire because it lies opposite one. All
that is Implied by the description is that Hannibal crossed either
above or below the island, most probably the former. The descrip
tion in Zonaras (^¦III. 23) implies that some islands were near.
2. The Island. From the place where he passed the Bhone,
Hannibal marched in four days to the Island. Livy explains the
direction he thus took by his wish to avoid the enemy. Polybius
does not seem to be aware that It was a circuitous route : this
Uckert ascribes to his incorrect conception of the course of the
Bhone. The real motive he supposes to have been the wish to
avoid the territories of hostile Ligurian tribes : the road was the
same which the Celtic envoys had taken for the same reason.
With respect to the position of the Island, Uckert admits it to be
the tract which Is bounded by the Rhone, the Isere, and the
intervening mountains ; but on almost every other point he is
completely at variance with the partisans of General MelviUe.
He does not aUow that any alteration is reqidred in the text either
of Polybius or Livy where they describe the Island. As to the
former, the assertion ¦which the Edinburgh Reviewer (p. 182)
repeats after De Luc — that General MelviUe read 'laa/ja? for
S^-a/ja? or S/cwjoa? in a Yatican MS. of Polybius — has been con-

Hannibal's passage over the alps. 147
tradicted by Male, who assured Laranza that he had examined all
the manuscripts of Polybius in that library, and had found no such
reading. Uckert thinks the change unnecessary, because he
believes that Polybius did not know the true name of the Isere,
and that he mistook it for the Rhone, and applied the name of
Scaras or Scoras to the real Rhone. Neither Livy nor Polybius
requires us to suppose that Hannibal entered the Island ; at least
with his whole army : he might have settled the dispute between
the brothers which was referred to his arbitration (Liv. xxi. 31.
Hujus seditionis disceptatio quum ad Hannibalem rejecta esset,
arbiter regni factus, quod ea senatus principumque sententia
fuerat, imperium majori restitult), either by his authority, or by
sending a small detachment of his army. (His personal presence
certainly seems to be implied by the words of Polybius, iii. 49.
ffOfeTTt^e/xei/o? Kal avveK^aXuiv toi' eTepov.) Hence it is not neces
sary to infer, from the expression yKe 7tp6^ tj/i/ Ni/croi/ (ibid.),
that in this four days' march the Carthaginian army even reached
the banks of the Isere ; and consequently the six hundred stadia,
which according to Polybius were traversed in this march, do not
compel us to fix the passage of the- Rhone north of the Durance,
though there were seven hundred stadia from that river to the
Isere. Polybius distinguishes the inhabitants of the Island, whom he
merely terms barbarians without naming them, from the AUo-
briges, through whose territory Hannibal marched to the foot of
the Alps, and from whose hostility the barbarians of the Island
protected him (c. 50). The AUobriges or AUobroges appear to
have been driven northward from their original seats. In which
they were kno-wn to ApoUodorus as a most powerful nation (Steph.
Byz, 'AAAojSjoirye?), and in the time of Livy to have been con
fined to the country north of the Isere, This state of things he
has transferred to the time of Hannibal. Mis AUobroges inhabit
the Island of the barbarians of Polybius, which is south of his own
Island : incolunt prope AUobroges. LIvy's Island, formed by the
Rhone and the Saone (Arar), is described in a manner which will
not apply to that of Polybius, even if the name Arar is altered to
l2

148 bishop THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
Isara, It is not a tract resembling the Delta of the Nile, but only
a considerable district (agri aliquautum). But the kingdom about
which the contest decided by Hannibal has arisen is that of the
AUobroges : they become Hannibal's friends and allies. It is not
however said that he marches through their territory : after he
has composed their dissensions, he turns to the left toward the
Tricastini, and meets with no obstacle until he reaches the Dru-
cntia : a description which, except with regard to tho Druentia,
agrees with that of Polybius, on the supposition that Hannibal did
not cross the Isere, and that Polybius took this river for the
Bhone. As an additional proof that Polybius did not conceive
Hannibal to have marched through the Island, L'ckert very saga
ciously refers to the description of those difficult and almost
Inaccessible mountains (opi] hvonrpoaoha Kal cvaef^^oXa kuI a-)(^eh6v
(o? eiTtelv a-Kpocvra) which formed its third side ; and compares this
with the vindication of Hannibal's prudence against those who
exaggerated the difficulties of his passage : {to. irepl t>/? toi;/xt'a?,
tTt 8' epvjxvoTyTOi Kal 8u(T^(H|0ta? to!)' tottwv, tKO}jXov Troie? to
•\^ei;8o? avTwv, c. 48.)
3. According to Polybius, Hannibal is conducted through the
territory of the AUobroges by the barbarians of the Island to the
foot of the Alps. He performs this march, a distance of eight
hundred stadia, In ten days, during which he kept by the side of
the river. On the supposition we are now explaining, as the river is
the Isere, there Is no necessity for doing any violence to the words
TTapd Toi/ TTOTajdov, whereas De Luc and his followers are forced
to suppose a deviation of several hundred stadia from the Rhone
between Yienne and Yenne. In the direction of the march, Ll-vy
coincides with Polybius, when he makes Hannibal bend his course
to the left toward the Tricastini, and then skirt the borders of the
Yocontii toward the Tricorli. It is the same road as Bellovesus
and his Gauls had formerly taken (Liv. v. 34). The expression,
ad lwva?n in Tricastinos flexit, must be understood with reference to
the previous words, cum jam Alpes peteret : when Hannibal had
turned his front toward the Alps, the Tricastini and the Isere lay
on his left. We have therefore only to measure the eight hundred

Hannibal's passage over the alps, 149
stadia along the Isere : they will bring us to MontraelUan, and
here, on leaving the river, we enter the mountains. But if this is
the road by which Livy also leads us, how do we come to the
Durance ? It is the mention of this river which has subjected
Livy to the charge, of Ignorance and carelessness from those
who believed that he led Hannibal across the Mont Genevre, and
yet adopted a description from Polybius which is only appli
cable to a different part of the Alps. Uckert thinks that this
imputation is unfounded, and that LIvy's Druentia is not the
Durance. He observes that Druentia, like Doria, may have been
the name of several Alpine streams, and that the Drac, which
Hannibal would have to cross on the road to MontmelUan, answers
perfectly to Livy's description of the Druentia. After this the
road follows the valley of the Arc toward Mont Cenis. It has been
urged that the valley of the Isere could alone supply the Cartha
ginian army ¦with the means of subsistence. To this objection
Uckert replies, that the Carthaginians in fact suffered from the
want of provisions (Pol. iii. 60. KaKm airyXXaTTe tij twv tTTiTy-
helwv aizavei), that according to Livy (c. 31) they brought a stock
with them, to which Polybius also alludes (iii. 60), suppUed them
selves for three daj^s from the plunder of the town (c. 33), and
afterwards received a fresh supply from the natives (c. 34). The
motive for quitting the Isere at MontmelUan Is sufficiently Indi
cated by the map, which shows that the road from hence to Turin,
compared with that by the Little St. Bernard, is the chord of a
great curve.
The combat with the mountaineers would take place in the
defile between Aiguebelle and Argentil ; the army encamped in the
plain by Argentil, and hereabouts lay the captured to^wn. On
the fifth day it would encamp near St. Jeaui de Maurlenne, in a
fruitful valley. But as our object is not to describe the march,
but to explain the nature of the arguments by which Uckert sup
ports his hypothesis, we need not enter into any further details on
this part of the subject, and will only add one or two remarks on
4, The Passage of the Alps. The XevKOTreTpov, which
General Melville beUeved he had discovered on the road of the

150 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
Little St. Bernard, appears to be stUl more strikingly represented
on that of the Mont Cenis, or rather, according to one of the latest
travellers who has visited the country with a view to this question
(Laranza), it is nowhere else to be found. Saussure had remarked
it as one of the most singular features in this passage : Le Mont
Cenis presente quelques singularltes que je ne dels pas omettre
de faire remarquer. D'abord ce grand amas de gypse du cote de la
Savole, &c. It is known by the name of Bocher blanc, or le plan
de roche blanche. Its form and its position, for it overhangs the
Arc on the right, while on the left the road passes by the foot of the
precipices down which the natives may have rolled great stones
on the Carthaginian army, exactly correspond to the historian's
description. The plateau of the Mont Cenis, where Hannibal would arrive
between the 25th and 30th of October, and where, if he passed
over It, he remained two days, is excellently suited for an encamp
ment : It is sheltered by the surrounding ridges, and affords good
pasture on the margin of its little lake. Snow had by this time
fallen for some weeks, and having been turned into ice by the
heat of the sun and the frost of the nights, might be taken for the-
remains of the former winter. (Polyb. iii. 55 ; Liv. xxi. 36.)
From the top of the ridge which encloses the basin of the Hospice,.
Hannibal might have pointed out the plains of Piedmont to a part
of his troops.
It was not to be expected that Livy should omit the opportunity
which his subject suppUed of a rhetorical description of the
horrors of the Alps. Accordingly he has painted them (xxi. 32)
in terms which as they are not applicable to the Mont Genevre,
which it has been supposed he meant to describe, have subjected
him to the reproach of Ignorance or Inconsistency. Uckert, on
the other hand, observes that it is Polybius who has exaggerated
the rigour of the climate at the top of the Alps, and that Livy,
more accurately Informed, has softened those features in his
description which are too highly charged. The former, after men
tioning that the elephants had suffered greatly from hunger before
the road was opened for them in that part of the descent which

Hannibal's passage over the alps, 151
detained the army for three days, adds, that the summits and the
topmost sides of the Alps are all utterly destitute of wood and herb
age (TeAew? uhevhpa Kal •\^(Aa), because the snow remains upon them
constantly both summer and winter. Livy, in describing the
descent, notices the existence of at least a scanty vegetation (c. 36,
virgulta ac stirpes circa eminentes — c. 37, nuda fere cacumlna sunt,
et, si quid est pabuli, obruunt nives). With respect also to the
celebrated expedient by which Livy represents Hannibal to have
opened a road down the precipice which stopped his march,
Uckert vindicates the Boman historian from the charge of gross
credulity which has frequently been brought against him ; by
none more confidently, or perhaps ¦with less knowledge of the
subject, than the Edinburgh Reviewer (p. 168), who in general
throughout the article seems to have thought it necessary to make
up for the want of originality by the dogmatical tone with which
he asserts the opinion he adopts, and the asperity with which he
censures those who either contradict it, or involuntarily give evi
dence against it. The real foundation of the account about the
fire and vinegar is still matter of controversy among competent
judges. The Reviewer, who does not seem to Imow that it was
even thought to have had any, has certainly not entitled
himself to pronounce that it was " doubtless intended as an
embelUshment." Still less is he justified, so far as Livy is concerned, in his
remark (p. 169), that " the radical error which has infected the
speculations of all those who have turned their attention to this
question, from the time of Livy to that of Mr. Whitaker, appears
to have consisted in their first adopting some hypothesis as to the
shortest and most practicable road from Gaul Into Italy, and then
betaking themselves to the ancient writers — not to ascertain what
road they fix upon, or, if they differ, to decide between them on the
best evidence that the case admits of, but — to hunt for authorities
in support of the hypotheses they had determined to maintain."
Whoever else may be liable to this charge, we cannot lay it upon
Livy without imputing wilful falsehood to him. He professes to
have been governed by the unanimous authority of all preceding

152 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
writers, who admitted that Hannibal came down into Italy among
the Taurini (In Taurinis in Itallam degressum quum inter omnes
constet, c. 38), and from this he infers that Hannibal's road cannot
have crossed either the Great or the Little St. Bernard, since in
each case he would have come down not among the Taurini, but
first among the Salassi, and then among the Libul. If Strabo has
not interposed his own opinion among the words of Polybius,
which is a mere suspicion raised by the interest of a hypothesis,
Polybius coincided with Livy's other authors on this point. But
it would not follow, as the Edinburgh Reviewer assumes (p. 171),
that he led Hannibal over Mont Genevre, nor, as we have seen,
is it certain that this was Livy's meaning.
Still there Is some difficulty in reconciling the statement which
Strabo seems to attribute to Polybius, T'/yi/ tta Tavpivwv yv
'Ai'vt'jSa? hirjXBev, with his extant words in the passage where,
after mentioning that Hannibal had spent flfteen days In crossing
the Alps, he adds, that he descended boldly upon the plains near
the Po, and among the nation of the Insubres (KaT)/pe ToX/uypHi^
et? Ttt Trepl toi^ IlaSoi' TreEta Kal to twv IffoiJLJipwv eOvoi). Uckert
supposes Polybius to have been considerably mistaken about the
course of the Po, to have placed it too far south, and to have
assigned the country at the foot of the Alps almost from Its
sources for a great extent eastward to the Insubres. Through
their territories Hannibal had to march Into those of the Taurini,
who are said to be tt^o? tij izaprnpela KaToiKovvTe?, where on his
descent from the mountains he encamped (vtt avTyv Tr/v Ttapwpetav
TaSi/ "AXTTeuiv) . This may be the correct view of the case ; but
it seems also possible that the mention of the Insubres was meant
in a less exact sense, and is to be qualified by the description of
the Taurini, so that in fact the latter Intervened for a short dis
tance between the foot of the Alps and the Insubres, though these
are named as Hannibal's most powerful ally.
A table of posts along the road between MontmelUan and
Bivoli gives very nearly the distance of 1,200 stadia, at which
Polybius vaguely estimates the march across the Alps (Trepl xfAt'oy?
8(aAO(TtoD?, c. 39).

Hannibal's passage over the alps, 153
This short sketch wiU, we hope, be sufficient to put the reader in
possession of the author's views, and it wiU scarcely be denied that
they deserve attention, and show that General Melville's hypo
thesis has not yet been placed beyond the reach of controversy.
On the other hand, it must be admitted that they involve some
propositions which are rather startling, and which ought not to be
admitted without great circumspection. If Livy's Druentia Is
the Drac, was he acquainted with the Durance, or did he think it
unnecessary to notice It? This however is a slight difficulty,
compared with the mistake attributed to Polybius about the Isere
and the Bhone. Was he led into this error by the information
he received, or by the sight of the two rivers ? Must it not have
been corrected if he had foUowed either of them up toward its
source ? These are some of the questions which will no doubt
suggest themselves to the reader, and which we must leave to
better judges to decide.

ON THE
ALLEGED CONNEXION BETWEEN THE
EAKLY HISTORY OF GREECE AND
ASSYRIA.*

The value of the discoveries which -have already unlocked so-
many authentic records of early Assyrian history can hardly be-
overrated, though it will probably be long before it can be fully
appreciated, as we may now be witnessing no more than the dawn
of that light which those discoveries are destined to shed in their
future progress on objects and epochs which have not yet been
brought within their range. It was to be expected that, even at
their present stage, they should give rise to manifold systems,
sometimes perhaps prematurely, or to an extent which will not
stand the test of critical investigation. The lively interest which
the Boyal Society of Literature has taken in the subject induces
me to draw its attention to an attempt which has been recently
made in Germany, and In a great measure grounded on those
discoveries, to connect the early history of Greece with that of
Assyria, and to establish the strictly historical character of events
which have been considered by some eminent modern critics as
purely mythical.
The work to which I refer is entitled, Geschichte der Assyrier
und Iranier vom 13ten bis zum 5ten Jahrhundert i)or Christus von
Jacob Kruger. The author belongs to that school of historical
criticism which maintains that an intercourse between Greece
and Asia may be traced through authentic records to the period
* Transactions of the Royal Society of Literature, vol. vi. (second series), p. 170.

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 155
in which his history begins ; and in his preface he speaks with
some asperity of those who take a different view, as deficient
either in knowledge or judgment, and is speciaUy severe on the
late Karl Otfried MuUer, as guilty of what he calls the " colossal
Folly" of attempting to enclose Greece with a "Chinese WaU,"
so as to exclude the influence of Eastern ci-villzatlon on the early
development of the Hellenic mind. One who so pronounces upon
others, challenges the strictest examination of his own conclu
sions; and if they should not prove satisfactory, those who reject
them will at least have had the benefit of all the light which he
has been able to throw upon them, and cannot be charged with
ignorance of the premises on which they rest. I should not be
doing justice to the hypothesis which I propose to discuss if I did
not first of all exhibit It in its broad outlines, so that it may have
the benefit of whatever speciousness it may claim on the score of
intrinsic coherency and compactness. But it will be seen that,
although I shall find myself obliged to cast a glance over a very
wide field of historical and chronological inquiry, the matters
with which this Paper Is properly concerned, and on which alone I
desire to be considered as expressing a decided opinion, lie within
a comparatively narrow compass. I am not able to say whether
M. Kruger's work, which was only published last year [1856], has
met with a favourable reception In Germany. I have reason to
believe that the subject itself is there regarded with some degree of
aversion in many philological circles; and there is much in his
book as to which I shoidd be surprised if It obtained the assent of
any whose judgment Is of much weight. But this Is of the less-
importance, as on one material point he has had the good fortune
unconsciously to coincide with an author for whose learning and
genius I entertain most profound respect ; and there are other
points in which his views appear to be in accordance ¦with some
which once prevailed very extensively among English scholars,
and as to which I do not know how far they have yet been aban
doned. It is not, then, the importance, either as to celebrity or
intrinsic merit, of the work itself that has induced me to select it
as a subject for criticism. Nor, indeed, is it my intention to deal

156 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
with it controversially, any further than may be absolutely neces
sary for my main object, which is neither polemical nor dog
matical, but is simply to inquire into the present limits of our
knowledge with regard to a certain period and field of ancient
history ; and for such an inquiry the statements which I am about
to consider may, perhaps, by their breadth and boldness, afford a
more convenient occasion than might have been the case If tho
subject had been treated by some more distinguished author.
Among all the events related in the great Persian epos, the Shah-
nameh, none is more memorable, or attended with more momentous
and far-reaching consequences, than the partition made by Feridun.
This powerful monarch, after having overcome the monstrous tyrant
Zohak, and chained him to a rock in the deepest cavern of Mount
Demawend, was still reigning in peace and prosperity when he
thought fit to divide his vast dominions, extending from India to
the Mediterranean, among his three sons, Tur, Selm, and Iredsh.
To Tur he assigned the provinces on the Oxus ; to Selm, those of
the extreme west; but the fairest, richest, noblest portion, the
land of heroes, Iran and Yemen, he bestowed on his favourite
j^oungest son, the virtuous and gentle Iredsh. The two elder
brothers, burning with envy and hatred, conspired against the
younger, slew him, and sent his head to Feridun, But an avenger
sprang up in the person of Minutshehr, the son of a posthumous
daughter of the murdered prince.* Minutshehr, -when he came
to man's estate, successively vanquished the two guilty brothers,
slew -each of them with his own hand, and sent each of their
heads to Feridun, who, sated but grieved with the vengeance
which he had sought, sank into the grave, leaving his great-
grandson lord of the whole realm.
So far, it must seem doubtful whether we have anything before
us but materials for poetry, as to which, judging from their own

* The name j^iii^X.* occurs again, more than 2,000 years later, as that of the
son of Kabus, who, alter fhe extinction of the Samanid dynasty, reigned in Ghilan,
Tabristan, and Kirlian (Hyrcania), and married a daughter of Mahmud of Ghazni.
— Mirchond, Jpp. ad Hist. Saman. ed. WHken, c. 20. His dominions thus appear
to have been the very theatre of the campaigns of the ancient Minutshehr.

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 157
appearance, we could not say whether they contain any real facts,
or are purely fictitious. We now come to our author's view of
them. M. Kruger believes that he can identify Firdusi's hero,
Minutshehr, with the founder of that Assyrian dynasty which is
stated by Herodotus to have borne rule in Upper Asia for five
hundred and twenty years before the revolt of the Modes. He
believes this to be the same personage who elsewhere appears
under the name of Ninus, of Calah (as founder of the capital so
called), and of Ashur-da-pal-il, or Sandapal, in Sir H. Bawlinson's
newly-discovered list of Assyrian kings. On the other hand, he
has satisfied himself that the land of Selm Is no other than the
kingdom of Tantalus, comprising not only the whole of Asia
Minor, but Syria and part of Northern Africa, with the ancient
Sipylus for its capital. But the sovereignty of this Selm dynasty
extended (as he undertakes to show) much further west. If not
to Italy, at all events to Greece, which acknowledged a kind
of feudal dependence on the House of Tantalus. The victorious
arms of Minutshehr forced the son of Tantalus to evacuate his
Asiatic provinces and retire to Greece, where, by a series of con
quests, he established his direct dominion not only in the peninsula
to which he gave his name, but In the north. But this new settle
ment of Pelops gave rise to fresh contests between his descendants
and their old Assyrian enemies. The Assyrians, still bent on
aggression, not content with the stronghold in which they had
placed a governor called Dardanus, built the new town of Ilion,
au "Assyrian Sebastopol," and "standing menace" to the Pelopid
princes. From this point they continued to infest the coasts of
Greece by piratical excursions, until the common sense of Insult
and danger united all the Grecian chiefs, under the command of
Agamemnon, in the expedition against Ilion. The auxiliaries
sent by the court of Assyria enabled the city to sustain a long
siege, and would, perhaps, have finally triumphed. If the Greek
stratagem of a feigned retreat had not induced them to withdraw ;
and, before they could be reassembled, the besiegers had left the
"Assyrian Sebastopol" a smoking ruin.
It can hardly be denied that, if the absence of poetry were

158 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
equivalent to the presence of historical truth, this narrative of tho
causes which led to the Trojan War would have a fairer claim to
credit than the preceding summary, dry as it is, from the Shah-
nameh. But while in this respect they reaUy stand on exactly
the same level, the one offering no better internal evidence than
the other, it will have been seen that they are most intimately
¦connected with one another In our author's -view, and with respect
to that must stand or faU together. And we have to consider, first,
the process by which he identifies the Shah Minutshehr with the
founder of the Assyrian djnuasty in the thirteenth century B.C.,
and then the nature of the superstructure which he rears upon
this basis. But it may not be out of place here to observe, that
nothing can be less warranted by the language of Firdusi himself,
nothing more clearly foreign to his conception of the events which
he relates, than the combination just described between his per
sonages and those of the heroic age of Greece. If indeed his lan
guage was to be pressed Into a literal construction, the empire of
Feridun would have reached from the shores of the Pacific to the
heart of Europe ; for the share assigned to Tur is described by the
names of Tshin and Turkestan ; oftener simply as Tshin. That of
Selm is said to have been composed of Boum and Khawer, and
there Is no doubt that the former of these names comprises the
territories subject to the Boman or Byzantine Empire. Khawer,
though properly signifying the west, Is thought to comprehend
some of the regions to the south. Including part of Northern
Africa. But the Persian poet, writing, it must be remembered,
at the court of the Ghaznevide Sultan, about one thousand years
after the Christian era, though he has been praised for his compa
rative sobriety of fancy, has never been asserted, even by his
warmest admirers, to have been wholly free from the Oriental
spirit of exaggeration, which indeed is sufficiently conspicuous In
all his narratives and descriptions. No doubt he did not trouble
himself much about the precise geographical Umits within which
his story moves. It was enough for his purpose to leave ample
scope in every direction for the imagination of his pubUc. But it
is certain that he no more thought of Roum as comprising the

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 159
whole Roman territory than of Tshin as the whole of China.
With what latitude the latter of these names was used by the
poet may be inferred from the fact, that when the forces of Tur
and Selm have crossed the Oxus and Minutshehr advances from
Ternish, the imperial residence, as it is supposed, in Tabristan,
his army is said to have extended its front from the forest of
Narve as far as Tshin, certainly very far west of the modern fron
tier of China. Again, after the death of Tur, we hear of a strong
hold In Alan-land, a castle of castles, standing in the sea, contain
ing great treasures, where Selm is expected to take refuge. It Is
taken by a stratagem before he reaches It, and when he comes to
the seashore, he finds no vessel to escape In, but is overtaken and
slain by Minutshehr. This sea is not the Mediterranean, but the
Caspian ; for when the conqueror returns in triumph to Ternish,
he is expressly said to come from the Sea of Ghilan. And there
is nothing to suggest a surmise that the poet himself entertained
even the faintest suspicion that Asia Minor ¦^as the real theatre
of events which he places near the southern shores of the Caspian.
But It must be admitted that his omission is amply supplied, or
his mistake — if such it be — clearly corrected, by one of the
Mahometan annalists in D'Ohsson's Tableau de I' Orient, by whom
the partition is described as follows : — " Thus Feridun gave to
Selm Asia Minor, called Khawer, and Khorasan to Toor. He
bestowed on Iredsh the throne of Istakhar, with all Persia, and
with the rights of suzerainty over the other two thrones. Selm
established himself at Sarsan or Sardis in Lydia." I must leave
it to competent judges to decide ¦R'hether this witness does not
prove too much, and whether his account, or that of Firdusi, bears
the plainer marks of a genuine native tradition. But It must be
added that, according to the same historian, Minutshehr, after the
conquest of Asia Minor, divided it into several departments, some
of which he disposed of in favour of the chUdren of Selm, a state
ment quite as much at variance with M. Kruger's view as those
of Firdusi, which, however, I beUeve to be much nearer the
truth. I now find myself confirmed in this view by some high
authorities, to which I had not access when the preceding remarks

160 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
were written. Sir H. Bawlinson, in his " Memoir on the Early
History of Babylonia,"* observes that "the relationship of the
Aryans, after their establishment in Central Persia, to the great
nations on their western frontier, is represented by the division of
the empire of Feridun between his three sons, Selm, Toor, and
Erij." Dr, Hang, in an Appendix on the Yendidad, inserted In
the last volume of Chevalier Bunsen's great work on Egypt, pub
lished this year, considers Selm as representing the land of the
Sarmatians, and believes that the partition, as described in the
Shah-nameh, points to an ancient historical groundwork. Sir H,
Bawlinson indeed identifies the name of Selm with a Semitic
word, which he says, in the Assyrian and Babylonian cuneiform
inscriptions, everywhere expresses the "west," or the "setting
sun ;" and he even believes that the name of Jerusalem signifies
nothing more than the " city of the west," and hence he concludes
that the name Selm denotes the geographical position of the
Semites in regard to the Aryans. All that I would venture to
remark upon this is that Dr. Haug's combination of Selm with
the land of the Sarmatians is much more in accordance with all
the Indications to which I have referred in the Shah-nameh as to the
proper country of Selm. Chevalier Bunsen observes (vol. vi. p. 97)
that the provinces of Ghilan and Mazenderan, with the Caspian
(Hyrcanlan) passes, formed the core of the Aryan possessions,
which subsequently comprehended the whole of Media and
Farslstan. It remains to be seen whether Firdusi can be made to serve as
an unconscious witness to the fact for which he is cited ; and this
will mainly depend on the possibility of ascertaining the historical
personality, and above all, the time of Minutshehr.
The difficulties which beset this subject are, I believe, best
known to those who have paid most attention to it, and have
endeavoured to make their way through them. The late eminent
orientalist, Yon Hammer-Purgstall, who, in his own department
of Arabic, Persian, and Turkish literature, has perhaps hardly
left a superior, and probably very few equals — discussed this
* Journal of the Boyal Asiatic Society, 1855, p. 252.

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 161
question in an elaborate article on the Shah-nameh in the Yienna
Jahrbiicher der Literatur, vol, ix, 1820, and he arrived at a result
¦widely different from that of M, Kruger, He conceived that the
line of sovereigns enumerated in the Shah-nameh is in striking
accordance, as to names and events, ¦with the list of Median kings
preserved by Ctesias on the one hand, and with the part of the
same succession which has been reported by Herodotus on the
other. He identifies Deioces with Djemshid, and supposes that
Herodotus passed over Zohak in silence, as only representing a
period of foreign, that is Assyrian, oppression, from which the
nation was delivered by Phraortes, who thus corresponds in all
respects with Feridun, and in name -with the Arbaces of Ctesias.
Minutshehr indeed, according to this comparison of the lists,
sinks from the conspicuous position which he occupies in the
Shah-nameh, into a very obscure and insignificant personage, the
Mandauces of Ctesias, and, as well as his successors, do'wn to Kei-
Kawus, is entirely unnoticed by Herodotus. But as the Shah-
nameh relates that, in the reign of Kei-Kawus, Iran was for eight-
and-twenty years under the yoke of Turan, this coincidence with
the period of the Scythian rule, in the time of Cyaxares I., seemed
to Yon Hammer to establish the identity of this Cyaxares with
Kei-Kawus, and with the Artibarnas of Ctesias, beyond a doubt.
It is remarkable that, though he lays so much stress on this coin
cidence, he does not take the slightest notice of any other chrono
logical datum of Shah-nameh. He evidently regarded those of
the earlier period as hopelessly unavailable for historical purposes.
And at first sight they certainly seem so. When we find a reign
of 700 years attributed to Djemshid, 1000 to Zohak, 500 to
Feridun, and 120 to Minutshehr, it is natural enough to conclude
that such a chronology can afford no materials for historical
investigation. But M, Kruger, foUowing D'Ohsson, Anquetil du
Perron, and others, points out that this is a hasty inference, and
that these portentous-looking numbers may very well be supposed
to express the duration of dynasties, which are represented each
by the name of a single sovereign ; and he undertakes to show that
the lists of Assyrian kings fit in so exactly to the chronological
VOL, III, M

162 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
framework of the Shah-nameh as to afford means of recovering
particulars in the corresponding portion of Assyrian history.
It would only lead me away from my present object if I were to
enter into the details of M. Kruger's computations. It wiU be
sufficient to mention that, starting from the death of Alexander,
in 323 B.C., he is brought, by the term of 732 years, uniformly
assigned to the Keianian dynasty in all the Persian systems of
chronology, to 1055 b.c, as the beginning of that series, or of the
reign of Kei-Kobad. In the preceding dynasty, the Pishdadlan,
which has commonly been considered as almost fabulous, there Is
a discrepancy in the sum of all the numbers between the chrono
logy of the Shah-nameh and of the sacred books, and that of the
annalists In D'Ohsson's Tableau de I' Orient, amounting to exactly
1200 years. The lower figures of what may be called the profane
chronology place the beginning of this dynasty, with Kelomors,
in 2308 b.c, and this epoch corresponds with a remarkably close
approximation both to the Chinese, and the received Mosaic date
of the Deluge. The difference of 1200 years falls almost entirely
in the periods assigned to Zohak and to Feridun ; the 1000 years
of Zohak being reduced by the annalists to 130, and the 500 of
Feridun to 220. Thus, the reign of Djemshid ends b.c, 1594,
that of Feridun B.C. 1244. According to all the systems, sacred
and profane, 120 years are assigned to Minutshehr, or the line
represented by his name, and thus the beginning of his reign
exactly coincides with the epoch fixed by Herodotus for that of
the Assyrian dominion in Upper Asia. (On this I would only
observe, by the way, that the exactness of this coincidence depends
on a calculation which differs by nine-and-twenty years from that
of Niebuhr, Bunsen, and Bawlinson, which the comparison with
Berosus seems to render very nearly certain, and according to
which Herodotus conceived the beginning of the Assyrian supre
macy to date from 1273 b.c. This, however, is, for our present
purpose, of little moment.) If then the conquests of Minutshehr
comprehended the territory subject to the Assyrian monarchy,
there could be no doubt that he must be regarded as its founder
or restorer. The synchronism is, at all events, remarkable, and

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 163
must be allowed naturally and strongly to suggest the surmise of
personal identity. But whether it is sufficient of itself to establish
that fact, without any other connecting link between Minutshehr
and Sandapal, is another question. Such a link, however,
M, Kruger conceives to be suppUed by the Greek lists of Assyrian
and Median kings. This is one of the most prominent and pecu
liar features in his system.
We have already seen something of Yon Hammer's attempt to
reconcile the Median list of Ctesias with Herodotus and the Shah-
nameh, That attempt can hardly be considered as satisfactory
with regard to either, A more probable opinion, which seems to
have been first proposed by Yolney, supposes the list of Ctesias to
contain that of Herodotus twice over. For the whole sum of the
reigns in Ctesias is only a little more than double of that in Hero
dotus, and the numbers given by Herodotus very nearly coincide
with those which are repeated, with very slight variations, by
Ctesias, This opinion has been adopted by Karl Mueller, in his
edition of the fragments of Ctesias, in the Paris Scrijitoruin Grm-
corum Bibliotheea, vol. xix, p, 43, and, with some modifications, by
Yon Gumpach, In his instructive work on the " Chronology of the
Babylonians and Assyrians,"* where he observes (p, 143) : —
" The repetitions in Ctesias are evidently derived from two different
sources, which enumerated the Median kings under different
names." And he exhibits the correspondence of the three lists as
foUows : — Herodotus. Ctesias.
Deioces . 53 yrs. Mandauces 50 yrs. Artyras . 50 yrs.
Phraortes . 22 „ Arbaces . 28 „ Arbianes . 22 „
Cj'axares . 40 „ Artoeus . 40 „ Astibaras . 40 „
Astyages . 35 „ Artynes (?) 22 „ Sosarmus (?) 30 „
150 yrs. 140 yrs. 142 yrs.
M. Kruger takes an entirely different course, in which, as far
as I know, he has at least the merit of originality. He imagines
that the list of Ctesias belongs, not to the period immediately pre
ceding the fall of the Assyrian Empire,^but to one earlier by many
centuries, anterior to the establishment of that empire in the thir-
* Die Zeitrechnung der Babylonier und Assyrier. Heidelberg. 1852.
M 2

164 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
teenth century b.c, and intervening between this event and the
downfaU of the old Assyrian monarchy, founded by the ancient
Ninus, and enlarged by Semiramis. And it may be right to
observe, by the way, that the existence of this ancient monarchy
appears now to have been placed beyond a doubt by the discovery
of the names of Assyria and of Nineveh on Egyptian monuments
of the eighteenth dynasty.* The catastrophe by which it was
overthrown M. Kruger refers to the year b.c, 1580, when, as he
states, " according to the chronographers, a revolution took place
In the Assyrian Empire, in which Belochus (who was then reign
ing) was dethroned by one Balatoras." This is the revolution of
which Sir H. Bawlinson observes, in The Outline of Assyrian
History, p. 14, that " It appears almost certain that the cata
strophe described by Ctesias, and also noticed by Polyhistor in
Agathlas, refers to the revolt of an officer of the court named
Sargon, who captured Nineveh and drove out the old family in
ji.c. 747 — this memorable epoch being accordingly adopted by the
Babylonians as the basis of their astronomical canon." According
to this view, Pul would be the Assyrian monarch who is repre
sented in the list of Ctesias under the name of Belochus. I find
another allusion to the same event in Moses of Chorene, who
observes (i. c. 1 9) of the Armenian King Aigag, that he is said to
have lived in the reign of Belochus, and to have died in the insur
rection which he fooUshly exclted.f In the Armenian list given
by Moses Chor., this Algag'is followed by an Ambag, who is con
temporary with Balatoras, the successor of Belochus. M. Kruger
appears to have found one of these names elsewhere .written
Arpag, which he identifles with the Median Arbaces of Ctesias.
He considers this Arbaces as the founder of a dynasty which was
long predominant in Upper Asia, though engaged in a fierce con
test with the Egyptian invaders, who are symboUzed (as he thinks)
by the Zohak (Sevek) of the Persian tradition, as well as with an
Aryan race which gained the ascendancy, until both were reduced
* See Layard's Nineveh and Babylon, p. 630.
t In the Italian translation of the Armenian monks, "Aigag, il quale viveva,
dicesi, sotto Beloco, mori nella sommossa stoltemente da lui soUevata."

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 165
imder the dominion of Minutshehr. It was remarked some time
ago by Mr, Birch, in a paper with which he favoured the society,*
that no reliance can be placed on the names of the Assyrian
monarchs of the first line, " What credence, for example," he
asks, " can we give to successions into which are introduced such
names as Xerxes (Persian), Sethos (Egyptian), Lamprides and Laos-
thenes (Greek) ? It is in vain that we should endeavour to detach
from such a mass the true elements of Assyrian history." Obser
vations to the same effect are made by Sir H. Bawlinson in the
Outline. M, Kruger however has not been deterred from such
an attempt. * He has an explanation for everything. The list of
Syncellus, beginning with Balatoras, was (according to him) drawn
up in Babylon bj' the priests ; and hence the name of Balatoras (the
Graecized form of Belasis, the ally of Arbaces in the war against
Nineveh) has been substituted for that of Arbaces. The Greek names,
Lamprides and Lamproeus — both nearly equivalent to illustrious or
glorious — have also taken the place of the genuine Median names,
Mandauces and Artyces. Otherwise, he finds a sufficient resemblance
to prove the identity of this list •with that of Ctesias ; and he
beUeves that, by culling from the various lists — from Ctesias,
Syncellus, and Eusebius in the canon — he can restore the true
succession of the kings who intervened between the end of the
first Assjrrlan monarchy and the beginning of the second. And
thus he arrives at a result which is certainly curious; for the
period fiUed by these reigns exactly covers the interval between
1580 B.C. (the fall of Belochus) and 1244 b.c (the date of the
accession of Minutshehr) ; and this seems to introduce another
not less striking coincidence. SynceUus has Inserted in his
Assyrian list four names — Arbelus, Chalaiis, Anebus, and Babius
— which were placed by Abydemus in the inverted order, at the
head of the whole Une. M. Kruger finds that the reign of Ara-
belus ended exactly in 1244 b.c, and that the sum of the years
of his three succpssors (45 -|- 38 -)- 37 ^ 120) precisely equals
the duration assigned by all the systems of Persian chronology to
the reign or dynasty of Minutshehr,
* Transactions of the Royal Society of Literature, vol. iii. p. 162.

166 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
- And this is not all. For as the Minutshehr period ends
1124 B.C., the sixty -nine years remaining to the beginning of the
Keianian line in 1055 B.C. are exactly filled up by the reigns of
the four immediate successors of Minutshehr, enumerated in the
Shah-nameh : — 1124— 1117 B.C.
, . 1117—1105 „
1105—1075 „
1075—1055 „
Finally, M, Kruger institutes a comparison between the lists
thus obtained and the six names which, according to the latest
discoveries of the cuneiform inscriptions, begin the series of
Assyrian kings : —

Nuder

, 7

Afrasiab

, 12

Sab .

, 30

Kershasp ,

. 20

Sandapal.
Ashur-da-pal-il.Mussaghil-Nebo.

Ashur-rish-ipan.
Tiglath-Pileser I.
Ashur-bani-pal I.

and he shows that the third of these, Mussaghil-Nebo, corresponds,
both in form and in date, with the Greek Anebus, or, as he may
be called, Minutshehr IL, leaving the two names Sandapal and
Ashur-da-pal-il, to be accounted for, either on the supposition that
both are represented by the single name of Chalaus, or that the
first may answer to his predecessor, Arbelus.
I am quite aware how very imperfect an appreciation can have
been convej^ed, by so brief a notice as that to which I have felt
it necessary to confine myself, of the merits of this chronological
scheme. I should wish it to be believed that, if in any point it
has appeared obscure or defective, this appearance is the effect of
that brevity, and would not be found in the author's own statements.
But to persons conversant with such inquiries, all such chronological
adjustments are apt to create a misgiving, nearly in proportion to
the nicety of the results. And Sir H. Bawlinson has observed : "It
is an ungracious task to attempt to extract dates from barren
catalogues of kings, or to qubte the results drained from such
catalogues by professed chronologers ; for even when the num*
hers come out satisfactorily, we have the consciousness that
much Is due to manipulation and systematic arrangement. This

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 167
remark appUes especiaUy to the Assyrian canon of Ctesias, and to
the use that has been made of it by his followers," * I am how
ever content to assume that they have been satisfactorily esta
bUshed, and I only wish to inquire how far they are capable of
supporting the historical superstructure which the author has
attempted to rear upon them.
It may seem a concession larger than would be sanctioned by
a rigorous criticism, if it is admitted that the synchronism which
M, Kruger has laboured to establish between Minutshehr and the
founder or restorer of the Assyrian monarchy in the thirteenth
century B.C., would imply the identity of the two persons. But
the question is, how far, when this identity is assumed. It may be
allowed to throw any new light on the extent of the new Assyrian
Empire, or warrants the belief that the Assyrian arms were carried
to the extreme verge of Western Asia. I need hardly observe
how feeble and precarious an argument for such a proposition is
afforded by the language of Firdusi, when he speaks of Boum as
included in the portion of Selm. But M. Kruger lays great stress
on a passage in which he makes Selm complain that his father had
cast him into the sea, an expression which Gorres supposes to
signify that the tribes subject to his rule would be forced, when
they required more room for their increased population, to migrate
to the other side of the Euxine and the Mediterranean. Here
however I have lighted upon a rather curious example of the
importance of verifying quotations. M. Kruger appears to have
placed too much reliance on the authority of Gorres and Yon
Schack, who do Indeed — the one in his prose abridgment, the
other in his excellent metrical version of the Shah-nameh — give
the above-mentioned sense to the words of Firdusi. But M.
Mohl's translation, which keeps as close to the original as French
prose can be expected to adhere to Persian poetry, exhibits one
totally different. The words which they render, " One thou didst
bind to the dragon's tail," he translates, " One thou hast over
whelmed with the dragon's breath ; " and the line which, accord-
ins to Gorres and Yon Schack, means " One thou hast cast into
* Journal of the Asiat. Soc, vol. xv. p. 224.

168 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
the sea," Mohl interprets, " One thou hast exalted to the clouds,"
Now, it is true that the sense given by Mohl's version of the
passage is not satisfactory ; for whereas the complaint of Selm
and Tur is, that three brothers of equal merit have received
unequal portions, that version only describes the manner in which
two out of the three have been treated by their father ; though,
as the three successive lines begin with the same word, " One,
one, one," it is quite clear that the poet meant to designate the
lot of each of the brothers. Also, it happens that the same
Persian word, dm, signifies either breath {dem), or taU {dum) ;
and ebr (cloud) has two letters out of three in common with bhr
(sea). This shows what might have been the origin of this
remarkable variation. But I have nowhere met with any intima
tion of a various reading in the MSS., and Mohl's text through
out this passage exactly agrees, as I have ascertained, with that of
Turner Macau's edition.
It seems clear, however, that even if the interpretation of Gorres
and Yon Schack is correct, it would prove nothing as to the extent
of territory immediately occupied. It appears to me that the state
ments of the chroniclers cited by D'Herbelot {Bibliotheque Orientate) ,
under the word "Feridoun," are entitled to quite as much credit as
those of the poet, or rather may be properly admitted to explain
the ambiguity of his language. D'Herbelot takes no notice of the
Shah-nameh, but he first reports the account given of Feridun's
partition by the author of the chronicle called the Lebtarikh. It
is this : — Feridun gave to Selm the western part of his territories,
which territories extended as far as Africa. The second son, Tur,
had the eastern part as far as the Gihon ; and the third, Iredsh,
was put in possession of the central provinces, with the prerogative
of the royal throne and the treasures amassed by his father.
Another writer, the author of the chronicle caUed the Tarikh
Cozldeh, related the transaction, with some variation of the cir
cumstances ; and this variation, as reported by D'Herbelot, chiefly
affected the geographical question, Feridun, this author said,
made a magnlflcent distrlbulion among his sons ; for to Selm he
gave the country named Magreb, tbat is, all tho pro-slnccs of the

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 169
¦v\ est, whether already conquered or yet to be conquered, ¦with
the title of Kaiser.* To his second son, Tur, he gave Eastern
Turkey, comprehending the country of the Turks, Tartars, and
Moguls, and all the vast extent of the country of Cathay and
China, with the title of Fagfour. The younger was left master of
Persia, the two Iraks, Syria, Arabia, and Khorasan, with their
dependencies, and took the title of Shah, The third author,
Khondemir, related that the smith, Kaweh, or Gao, after having
recovered for Feridun aU the adjacent provinces which had
revolted from Persia under the reign of Zohak, pushed his con
quests very far to the West, where he subdued all the nations
which did not acknowledge the majesty and power of the Persian
monarch, who then resided in Azerbeidjan ; a statement, by the
way, which agrees better with the^descriptions of the Shah-nameh,
as to the situation of Temish, than the conjecture of Gorres, who
supposes it to have stood on the Tigris, perhaps at Nineveh
itself. It is hard to believe that one of these writers was really better
informed on the subject than another. It was as easy to include
the whole of Western Asia in the dominions of Feridun as the
whole of China; and the second chronicler, who so greatly
enlarges the modest description given by the first, still leaves us
in doubt which were the provinces actually subjected to Selm,
and those over which he received a title which he had yet to
make good with his sword, I suspect, indeed, that M, Kruger
himself would not have placed any very confident reUance on the
Persian tradition if it had not been confirmed, as he beUeves, by
the concurrent testimony of Greek history and legend. For with
regard to every other point of the story, except the general geogra
phical outline, he supposes Firdusi to have used the largest poetical
license. He does not believe any such relation to have existed
between Minutshehr and Feridun as the poem describes, — or even
as that which is stated in the Bundehesh, where nine generations
are interposed, with the names of the successive princes, between
* D'Herbelot. "Sar. (query, Mar P) Titre que portoient autrefois les Prjnces de
Giorgian, Cost un diuiinutif de Caissar."

170 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
Feridun and Minutshehr, — but supposes it to have been a fiction,
analogous to that by which Alexander the Great was connected
with the Persian dynasty which he overthrew. He does not
believe In the personality of Selm ; the name of Selm, he says,
probably denotes a geographical relation. All that he insists-
upon is the dry fact, that the fragments Into which the old
Assyrian Empire had been broken up were reunited about the
middle of the thirteenth century B.C., under the sceptre of Minut
shehr, — the same conqueror who founded the new capital on the
Tigris, — and that the countries designated by the name of Selm
included not only Asia Minor, but dependencies lying beyond the
-^gean, and even the Adriatic ; and for these facts he appeals to-
Greek authoritJ^ I am thus at length enabled to meet him on
more familiar ground ; and, on a general survey of the evidence
which he has alleged, I am struck with one observation not
favourable to his conclusions. The evidence appears to grow
more definite and explicit as It is further removed from the time
to which it relates. But the only express testimony to the
supposed political connexion between Assyria and the states on
the north-west coast of Asia Minor is that of Ctesias. I must
endeavour briefly to explain and justify this assertion. I would
premise one remark.
The name of Homer does not occur among M. Kruger's Greek
authorities, and for an obvious reason. The Iliad recognises
Pelops as the ancestor of Agamemnon, but makes no allusion to
his Asiatic origin. I do not wish to lay any stress on this silence ;
for though it may seem to afford room for a conjecture that the
name of Pelops was first carried over from Greece into Asia by
the Greek colonists, and then connected with the legends about
Tantalus, I am quite convinced that this would be an erroneous
view, and that Pelops originally belonged to Sipylus as much as
Tantalus and Niobe, And though Homer is sUent as to their
mutual relations, the last book of the Iliad does aUude to one part
of the legend In a passage on which a very unexpected and most
interesting light has been thrown by recent discoveries ; for the
stone Niobe, on Mount Sipylus, which Achilles describes to Priam,

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 171
turns out to be not a poetical fiction, but a real sculpture, which
is still visible as it was seen by Pausanlas (r. 21, 3). It has
now been brought before our eyes by the plate published by
Mr. Stewart {Travels in Asia Minor). There still sits Niobe,
enthroned in a niche hewn out of the rocky side of Sipylus, one
hand folded over the other in the lap, and the head leaning on
the right shoulder. The whole conception, which is perfectly
intelligible, seems worthy of a great artist; and, as the most
ancient monument of Ionian art, it appears to Chevalier Bunsen
{Gott in der Geschichte, i. p. 283) to confirm his opinion, that
the spirit and freedom in which the Assyrian sculptures exhibit
such a marked superiority over those of Egypt were derived from
the Ionian school. This Niobe is still " all tears," for the water
trickles, as of old, over the face of the rock,* from the springs
of Achelous, by the couches of the Nymphs. And hence there is
the less room to doubt the parallel antiquity of the other local
monuments connected ¦with the story, seen by Pausanlas, tho
sepulchre of Tantalus, which he emphatically terms " worth
beholding," and the throne of Pelops on the mountain-top.
Among these local traces none is more remarkable than the lake,
called by Pausanlas the Lake of Tantalus, the origin of which he
refers to one of those subterraneous convulsions to which the
adjacent region of Asia Minor has been at all times subject, and
on account of which the houses of Sardis, as Herodotus relates,
were mostly built of reeds, and all thatched with that material.
The report of the country was, that the ruins of a city which had
been swallowed up by the earthquake had once been visible in the
lake (7, 24, 13). Writers cited by Strabo (i. c. 3) expressly
stated that this was the city of Sipylus, which was thus over
thrown in the reign of Tantalus. Its overthrow is ascribed by the
* Nvv Si TTOV iv niTpyatv, iv ovptaiv oiorroXoiaiv
'Ev y^nriiXip, 'oBi faal Btdbiv ippivai tirvdg
Nvju0awv air dpip' 'AxtXitiiov ippiiiaavro
'EvBa, XiBog Trtp tovaa, BtiJv tK KrjSta iriaati. (a. 614.)
These lines are indeed, as appars from the Villoison Scholiast, an interpolation,
but clearly a very ancient one. The Scholiast observes that they have the Hesioi
dean character.

172 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
Scholiast on the Odyssey (xi. 581, Buttmann) to the wrath of
Zeus, It was one of the numberless legends to be found in aU
parts of the world, from Ireland to Abyssinia, one of which still
lingers in the mouths of the peasantry round Albano, about ancient
cities covered by lakes, and commonly, as there, connected ¦with
some story of divine retribution for impious pride, such as was
imputed to Tantalus, It remains to be seen whether there is any
better authority for referring the ruin of the House of Tantalus to
a political than to a physical convulsion.
The earliest author however cited by M. Kruger in support of
his hypothesis is Herodotus. That in the time of Herodotus the
migration of Pelops into Greece was a universally received fact Is
unquestionable ; but as to the causes of that event Herodotus is
silent : he only alludes to it in a speech which he put into the mouth
of Xerxes, whom he makes to speak of Pelops as the subject of his
ancestors ; on which Mr. Blakesley remarks that, " in the mind of
the authority followed by Herodotus, Xerxes was regarded as the
lineal descendant of the Assyrian dynasties." I doubt very much
that Herodotus was here following any authority. I suspect he is
only giving a little touch of character. It was natural for Xerxes
to treat aU the countries which he actually ruled as having been
from time immemorial subject to his predecessors. Another pas
sage of Herodotus, in which not only M. Kruger but other writers
have found an indication that the kingdom of Pelops was once a
province of Assyria, is that in which he gives an account of the
three dynasties which had reigned in Lydia. The first descended
from Lydus, son of Atys, who gave his name to the nation ; the
second had traced its origin to Hercules, through Ninus and Belus,
Agron, son of Ninus, having been the first king of this line. M.
Kruger says it is clear th3.t the kingdom of Atys means that
of Pelops and Tantalus, because, according to Herodotus, Ninus
appointed his son Agron as his viceroy or feudatory king in
Lydia,* Nevertheless Herodotus reaUy says no such thing ; and
* The same statement is made by Roth, Geschichte unserer abendldndischen Rhi-
Ipsophie, i. p. 97, ¦where the name of Ninyas ia substituted, apparently through an
oversight, for Agron.

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 173
not only does he not say this, but what he does say is directly at
variance with it. For, according to him (i. 7), the government
was committed to the Heracleid princes by those of the preceding
dynasty themselves, in compUance with an oracle. Neither in this
passage nor anywhere else does Herodotus give any intimation
that he had ever heard of Assyrian intervention in the affairs of
Lydia. He afterwards (i. 95) speaks of the Assyrians as having
ruled for five hundred and twenty years in Upper Asia. He may
have known much more than he has said. He may have reserved
the fuller information which he possessed on the subject for his
lost or unexecuted work on Assyrian history,* M, Kruger's
account of the change of dynasty may be more accurate, but cer
tainly it Is not that of Herodotus.
I need hardly observe that it would be vain to look for more
distinct evidence of the fact in Thucydides, who, while he assumes
the migration of Pelops from Asia as notorious and indisputable,
only adds, as a probable opinion of the best authorities, that he
had estabUshed his power in Greece chiefly by means of the trea
sures which he brought over with him. It is Ctesias who flrst speaks
plainly to the point. He had discovered, during his residence at
the Persian court, that the war of Troy took place in the reign of
Teutamus, the twentieth in succession from Ninyas ; that Priam,
being a vassal of the King of Assyria, applied to him for succour ;
and that Memnon was sent with an army composed of ten thousand
Ethiopians and as many Susians, or, according to the reading of
the Armenian Eusebius (i. p. 88), Nusians, to his aid. Nothing
can be clearer or more to the purpose, and the only question is,
how far it is to be believjed.
Opinions have been much divided, both in ancient and modern
times, on the qualifications of Ctesias as' a reporter of historical
* It has sometimes been supposed that an allusion to this work is to be found
in Aristotle, Hist. An. viii. 18. But the reading 'UpoSorog is very uncertain.
Some MSS. give 'HuioJoc, and Bekker has admitted this into his text. Yet it is
difficult to believe that Hesiod described the siege of Nineveh. Schbll [XTebcr Hero-
dots Lebenszeit, in Philologus, 1854, p. 209) conjectures that Krijo-mg -was the original
reading, -which, having been partly effaced in the earUest MS., was exchanged by
one transcriber for 'B.p6toTog, by another for 'Hffi'oJoj.

174 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
facts, on the character of the sources of information to which he
had access, and on the degree of judgment and fidelity with which
he drew from them. Not to speak of Henry Stevens, who vindi
cated his credit in an express apology, both the modern editors of
his fragments, Baehr and C. Mueller, maintain that with regard to
Persian history he is more trustworthy than Herodotus. Mueller
{p. 5), admitting that in both writers there Is much that is fabu
lous, thinks that there is more of it in Herodotus than in Ctesias.
And, as to Assyrian matters, Baehr contends (p. 35) that Ctesias
is entitled to at least as much credit as Berosus, or any of the
other writers who differ from him in their accounts of the same
transactions. In the affairs of Persia and India he mighf^Baehr
thinks) have had motives for exaggeration. But what temptation
could he have found to Indulge in it as to the early history of
Assyria ? On the other hand, a later critic, Yon Gumpach {u. s.
p. 84), entirely dissents from this view, and observes that, although
Ctesias certainly drew from Persian authorities, the very nature
of this source required an eminent degree of circumspection and
critical sagacity for a proper use of it, — qualities In which, he
observes, Ctesias was signally deficient. But Mueller himself
cannot go along with Baehr in putting Ctesias on a level with
Berosus. In his opinion the Persian annals consulted by Ctesias
were not very ancient, nor translated, as some have supposed,
from the Assyrian into the Persian language. And the reason
which Mueller assigns for questioning their authenticity is the
mixture of Greek with Assyrian fables which appears to have
been contained in them. And in the instance which he cites, as
the most palpable he could produce of such a mixture, is no other
than the very story, which is a main prop of M. Kruger's hypo
thesis, about the famous expedition sent by Teutamus, under the
command of Memnon, for the relief of Troy, Sir H. Rawlinson *
goes stIU farther. He declares thai he puts no faith either in the
Median history of Ctesias, or in that of Herodotus, so far as
regards the Median revolt and the first two kings, Dejoces and
Phraortes. He doubts (p. 226) whether Ctesias, "independently
* Journal of the Asiat. Soc, xv. p. 244.

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 17
of all adjustment of his numbers to the first Olympiad, reaUy
placed the era of Ninus at an interval of one thousand years above
the Trojan expedition," And he believes " that the many rela
tive dates in the canon of Ctesias, which connect Greek and
Assyrian history, were obtained by Ctesias or his copyists from
the simple calculation of the numbers arbitrarily assigned to the
reigns of the kings of Nineveh, as compared with the standard
epochal dates of Greece,"
But even this opinion is not more damaging to the authority of
Ctesias than M, Kruger's own. It should be observed that, if we
analyze the statement in question, we find it to contain two dis
tinct elements. There is the synchronism between the reign of
Teutamus and the siege of Troy ; and there is the event recorded
under this date. It seems to me that if Ctesias had satisfied him
self about the synchronism, he might with perfect good faith have
subjoined the historical statement, though he had not found a
syllable about it in the Persian archives. He knew from other
sources of the expedition led by Memnon to Troy. How (he
would reason) could this have been done without the orders of the
Great King? And why should he have taken part in the wui',
if Priam had not be4n one of his vassals ? It was interesting to a
Greek thus to point out the real magnitude of the struggle, which
Homer himself never seemed to have suspected. The feeling
which must have animated Ctesias is curiously Illustrated by Moses
of Chorene, who, at the end of his first book, having previously
passed very hastily over the affairs of Ilion, repeats and enlarges
his former statement in these words : " Which can be the most
notable of these events, but those which are related by Homer
about the Trojan War under the reign of Teutamus, King of
Assyria: specially that our Zarmair, who was subject to Assyria,
went with a little band along with the Ethiopian army to the aid
of Priam ? And there he died, wounded by the valiant Greeks.
But by Achilles himself, I say, and not by any other hero " (ma da
AchiUe stesso, vogllo io, e non da altro eroe). The not less
patriotic Armenian translator — a monk of the Mechitarist commu
nity of S. Lazzaro, at Yenice— remarks in his note ; " And who

176 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
knows that Zarmair is not the famous Memnon, who came from
the East, to the aid of Priam, at the head of the Ethiopian army
of Teutamus, King of Assyria ? supposing that by the Ethiopians
we ought to understand the inhabitants of Colchis, or the Chal
deans of the Caucasus." On the other hand, I should be quite
ready to admit that Ctesias had found the whole story in the
Persian chronicles, without beUeving it at all the more on that
account. Ctesias was not the first Greek physician who had prac
tised at the court of Persia. Democedes was probably not less
versed in the Homeric poems, and in those of the epic Cyclus, and
might well have furnished such a supplement to the royal annals
as that which Mueller calls a mixture of Greek with Assyrian
fables. But M. Kruger, as I have said, damages the credit of his
own witness. For the synchronism, which is at least as credible
as the narrative, he utterly rejects. Teutamus, according to his
system, was not the king in whose reign the Trojan War took
place ; and represents, not the Minutshehr, but the Feridun of
Shah-nameh. This seems to me a very arbitrary apportionment
of credit ; and if I was obUged to choose between the two, I would
rather retain the synchronism, and reject the narrative.
Whatever may be the authority of Ctesias, it is, I believe, the
sole foundation which the story has to rest upon. M, Kruger,
indeed, adds what he considers as, if possible, a still graver testi
mony, proceeding, as he says, from a man who, for his critical
judgment and his familiarity with Oriental antiquity, must be
acknowledged as an authority of the first order, — In short, no less
a writer than Plato. Plato confirms the evidence of Ctesias to
the fuUest extent. One of the speakers in the Dialogues on the
Laws observes, that the settlement of Peloponnesus made by
Heracleid conquerors was designed by them as a security against
any such aggression of the barbarians as had been committed by
the Trojans, when, relying on the power of the Assyrians esta
blished by Ninus, they provoked the war against Troy. For as,
at the time of the return of the Heracleids, the Assyrian Empire
still presented an imposing aspect, it then excited like apprehen
sions to those which, in Plato's day, were felt of the power of the

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 177
Great King, For, he adds, there had been given great matters of
complaint in the repeated capture of Troy, inasmuch as it was a
part of the Assyrian Empire, I do not wish to dispute Plato's
title to the qualities which M, Kruger ascribes to him, though they
are not those which appear to me so conspicuous as to elevate him
into an authority of the first order on such points. But what I
question in this case is, the right to produce him as an inde
pendent witness. There can be little doubt that he was acquainted
¦with the writings of Ctesias, who probably returned to Greece
about 398 b,c., not, as Mr, Clinton supposes, so late as seventeen
years after the battle of Cunaxa ; and I think it far more likely
that he was availing himself of the information supplied by Ctesias,
than that he was stating the result of his own researches.
Here however the direct e-vidence, such as it is, comes to an end.
To M. Kruger's mind indeed it is strongly confirmed by the
ancient names of Ilus, Assaracus, and Dardanus. For the name
of Dardanus he considers as an official title, the Tartan of the
Old Testament ; II, or, in the Greek form, Ilus, he regards as the
representative of the Assyrian monarchy, and thus is enabled to
interpret the building of lUon and the expulsion of Pelops, both
of which are ascribed to Hus, according to his system, as signifying
the Assyrian conquest of Asia Minor, and the founding of a city
for the purpose of securing and extending that conquest. I do
not feel convinced even that Ilus and Dardanus are Assyrian
names ; stIU less that, if so, they would warrant such a large
inference. The hostUity between the Houses of Bus and of Tan
talus, reported by so many of the later Greek writers, was very
naturally supposed to have arisen in Asia, before the migration of
Pelops. But the name of Assaracus I fully admit to present a
very decided appearance of an Assyrian origin, carrying us to some
kind of connexion between Assyria and the western coast of Asia
Minor long before the time of Homer. I do not profess to explain
the nature of that connexion ; to say whether it was political or
reUgious, or had only a purely imaginary ground. I leave it to
every one to make what he ¦will and can of the fact. But I cannot
accept any surmise founded upon it as a portion of real history,
VOL, m, N

178 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
It ¦will have been seen that the Assyrian conquest of the
kingdom of Pelops is an integral part of M. Kruger's hypothesis.
Without it, his whole story of the Trojan War must fall te
pieces. But that conquest might very weU be admitted, and
yet afford no basis for such a structure as he has pUed upon
it. In his ¦view, the siege of Troy, provoked by the Assyrian
aggressions, was undertaken by the Greeks, as the invasion of the
Crimea by the AlUes, in self-defence. But the Assyrian con
queror was bent upon the subjection of Greece, because it had
been a dependency of the realm of Pelops, who, when expeUed
from his Asiatic dominions, had established his direct authority in
the states which had before only acknowledged his suzerainty,
perhaps with little diminution of their practical independence.
But if we ask for evidence of this supposed vassalage, we are
transported altogether from historical to mythical ground, and are
required to believe that this is the real meaning of the suit and
service which Hercules is fabled to have paid to the Lydian queen,
Omphale. The wanderings of the Tyrrhenian Pelasgians in
Greece, and the Lydian colony in Etruria, are also alleged as
indications of the same fact. Such conjectures are alike incapable
of refutation and of proof, M, Kruger, in his Preface, speaks of a
peculiar organ as needed for the reception of certain ideas ; it may
be the want of this organ which prevents me from perceiving the
slightest force in this part of his argument.
Authority of a much higher order than that of either Ctesias or
Plato seems to me, if not absolutely irreconcUable with this hypo
thesis, to be at least apparently adverse to it. Whatever else
may be surmised with regard to the history of this period, we
know of one event which took place in it, and which throws some
light on the relations in which the states of Western Asia stood
to the Assyrian Empire, The first potentate who established his
dominion over the IsraeUtes after their settlement in Palestine
was Chushan-Rishathaim, King of Mesopotamia, The eight years
of his rule over them are placed by M, Kruger between 1231 and
1223 B.C. The Israelites shook off his yoke, and for many cen
turies, notwithstanding their internal weakness, suffered no fresh

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 179
molestations from the same quarter. Chushan is termed by
Josephus {Ant. v. 3, 2) — who writes his name Chusarthus — ^king of
the Assyrians, as Ewald observes,* only according to a usage preva
lent in the age of the Jewish historian ; but the language of Scrip
ture would lead us to suppose that he reigned in the western part
of Mesopotamia. M. Kruger feels that the existence of such an
independent sovereign in that part of Asia, at the period when he
represents the King of Assyria as master of Asia Minor, and as
aiming at the conquest of Greece and Italy, would be fatal to his
hypothesis. Yet he does not venture to identify Chushan ¦with the
"victorious founder of the Assyrian Empire, but thinks that he may
have been a vassal of the Great King, and hints at a resemblance
between the name Rishathaim and that of the Persian hero Rus-
tem. I would only observe that even this supposition, arbitrary as
it seems, wiU only shift the difficulty, and not remove it. If it is
incredible that the Assyrian conqueror should have carried his
arms to the western coast of Asia, leaving an independent and
powerful state in Mesopotamia, it is not less hard to beUeve that
the same conqueror, whose successor sent the great army to the
relief of lUon, should have made no attempt to re-establish his
dominion in Palestine. This is the point to which I aUuded, as
one in which M. Kruger has the good fortune to coincide with a
much higher authority. ChevaUer Bunsen, as I became aware
after the preceding remarks were written, has arrived, by a
totally different process, at the same conclusion. The depressed
state of Egypt in the thirteenth century b.c appears to him only
to admit of explanation as the effect of the Assyrian ascendancy,
and to warrant the belief that the conquest of Egypt and Ethiopia,
attributed to Semiramis, actually took place at this period. To
the same cause he ascribes the reverses which foUowed the first
rapid conquests of the Israelites in Palestine ; and hence he infers
that Chushan-Bishathaim can only have been an Assyrian satrap
of Mesopotamia, which indeed, according to his ingenious deriva
tion, is the exact meaning of the puzzUng name. And he further
believes that it could have been only under the shelter of the
* Gesch. des Volkes Israel, ii. p. 311.
N 2

180 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
Assyrian power that the various neighbouring nations were
enabled, from time to time, to reduce Israel under their yoke.
Here, no doubt, we have a clear and coherent sequence of events.
StiU I must o^wn that I cannot feel the same confidence in these
conclusions as is expressed by the author. Speaking generaUy, I
cannot repress a Uttle misgiving about the possibUIty of recon
structing the history of a remote period out of logical inferences ;
and in the present case I find it difficult to conceive that such an
event as the passage of Semiramis through Palestine should have
left no deeper trace in Jewish history. Nor am I satisfied as to
the probability that the Assyrian power would have been so kept
in the background, and that no attempt should have been made to
avenge the defeat of Chushan-Bishathaim, and to restore the direct
sovereignty of the Assyrian crown. Altogether, the impression
left on my mind by the whole tenor of the Sacred History during
the period of the Judges is one which I cannot easily reconcUe
with the supposition of such a state of things as Chevalier Bunsen
describes ; and I think it will be safer to wait for some further
documentary or monumental evidence before we consider it as
sufficiently ascertained.
It may be disagreeable to remain in darkness broken by such
very faint rays of uncertain light as now fall on the history of
Europe and Asia, in their poUtlcal relations with one another dur
ing the period which has come under our re-view ; but I hold it
better that we should resign ourselves to the consciousness of our
ignorance than trust to the guidance offered by such a hypothesis
as that of M. Kruger. If we are destined to know anything more
than we now do on the subject, I believe that it must be by the
discovery of new data, not by any new combinations of those
which we already possess.
I fully agree ^with most of what has lately been so admirably said
by one of the most eloquent of living statesmen, who has devoted his
leisure to one of the noblest of Uterary studies, as to the paramount
and peculiar authority of Homer as the exponent of the Greek
heroic life. In substance, indeed, it is what I endeavoured,
according to the measure of my far inferior ability, to express and

GREECE AND ASSYRIA, 181
illustrate long ago. But I must leave it to others who are gifted
with a faculty, or organ, which has been denied to me, to under
take the operation — one, I must own, scarcely more beyond my
powers than it Is uncongenial to my taste — of disentangUng the
golden thread of historic truth, which they beUeve to run through
the poet's web. Be it curtain, or be it picture, I must be content
¦with admiring its brilUant hues and glorious groups of figures as
they present themselves to my eye. I cannot pretend to analyze
the contents of his magic cup ; I can only enjoy the richness of
their flavour, as it strikes my unscientific sense, without distin
guishing the elements of which they are composed. I leave it to
Mr, Gladstone and M. Kruger to settle their respective differences
with Chevalier Bunsen, who, on the other hand, while he beUeves
in the reality of the Trojan War, is no less firmly convinced that
the earliest date assigned by the Greek chronologers to that
event is some centuries too late ; and that this, its hitherto unsus
pected remoteness, is proved by the character of the Homeric
poems,* in which Mr. Gladstone sees the clearest evidence both of
its reality and of its proximity to the poet's Ufetime ; and who,
on the other hand, asserting with M. Kruger, — though, as far as
I can see, only on the authority of Herodotus, — that the Assyrian
dominion was established over the whole of Asia Minor, in the
thirteenth and twelfth centuries before our era, infers from this
fact that the Trojan War could not have taken place ¦within the
same period. When this dispute shaU have been composed, it
¦wiU be time for me, who am at present unhappily embroiled with
all three, to consider how I may best make my peace with them.
In the meanwhile I may perhaps be permitted to take this
opportunity of observing, that Mr. Gladstone's criticism, in the
Oxford Essay, on some remarks which I made in my History of
Greece on the personality of Helen, appears to me to miss the
point of the question. Homer (II. iii. 144) introduces ^thra, the
daughter of Pittheus, among the attendants of Helen at Troy, I
had assumed the identity of this ^thra with the mother of
Theseus, and thence inferred that the abduction of Helen attributed
• JEg. VI. p. 446.

182 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
to Theseus was known to Homer. No doubt it would have been
extremely iUogical to assume that identity as a ground for impugn
ing Homer's historical accuracy. But prima facie the presumption
is in favour of that identity ; nor has it ever been questioned, but
on account of the difficulty of reconciling it with the received
chronology of the heroic ages. Mr. Gladstone has a right to
reject it as inconsistent with his theory, but, according to my view
of the authority of Homer as a historian, there is nothing to
reb,ut the presumption, and I am therefore bound to admit it.
But my argument, drawn from the Attic and Messenian legends
of the abduction of Helen, does not depend on that identity, and
would be just as strong if the line containing the name of
.^ilthra was struck out of the Iliad. I should still be able to
claim the authority of Homer for the antiquity of those legends
which Mr. Gladstone Is constrained by his theory to treat as of
late invention. For just in proportion to the weight of that
authority appears to me the improbabiUty that a story which it is
so hard to reconcile, even by the wildest fictions, with that which
Homer had made universally current, should have been forged at
a later period ; whereas, if, as I believe, it sprang up out of the
religions of a remote antiquity, it would be easy to conceive that,
though keeping its ground in its native soU, it should have
remained comparativel}'^ obscure and unheeded. How, " as a late
invention," it can be " regarded," according to Mr. Gladstone's
surmises, " as a witness to the fame of the Homeric personages,"
I am quite unable to understand. The natural effect of that fame
would have been, as it appears to me, to prevent such an invention
from occurring to any one's mind.
But to return from this digression. It Is possible that future
researches among Assyrian or Persian monuments may throw
some light even on the historical nucleus of the tale of Troy.
Who knows that some yet burled stone may not be found to con
tain a copy of the letter preserved by Cephalion, in which Priam,
after the death of Hector, implored succour from his liege lord.
King Teutamus ? I should not need it to satisfy me as to the real
groundwork of the Iliad. I am convinced that there must have

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 183
been more than one Trojan war before the earliest Greek colonists
gained a permanent footing on the coast of Asia Minor. For I
beUeve that Strabo correctly describes the state of things which
preceded that event, when he says that "the earUer period was
one of continual flux and reflux, of invasions and migrations,
between Europe and Asia." *
That statement, as I beUeve, contains pretty nearly the sum of
all our present knowledge on that head, and It affords an ample
framework for that whole world of poetical creations with which
it has been flUed up. I am not sure that we should be great
gainers if their place was to be supplied by more authentic
detaUs, But the most unfortunate of all exchanges would be, to
substitute for them something which is neither history nor poetry,
which can neither charm nor instruct, but wearies only to mislead.
StiU, I must own that I am not sanguine about the discovery of
any monumental evidence which will ascertain the western limits
of the Assyrian Empire in the thirteenth century before our era.
Whenever any such shall have been brought to light, it will need
to be very cautiously examined. The material on which events
are recorded affords no sure warrant of the accuracy with which
they are related. We know of a city where at least one inscribed
pillar, " like a tall buUy, lifts its head and lies." RoselUni and
Bunsen acknowledge and deplore the pompous inanity of the
Egyptian monumental style, in which the few grains of real infor
mation lie thinly scattered in a vast mass of what is better
expressed by a French than an English ¦wori^-verbiagc. And
Colonel Mure remarks : f — " Much of the amplification that might
otherwise have formed the advantage of the Asiatic records con
sists of hyperboUcal, and probably in great part fabulous, eulogies
of the virtues and exploits of the vain-glorious despots who ruled
those countries, and who, in furtherance of the same object of per
sonal glorification, were in the habit of expunging or correcting
* XIII. p. 572. TifdXiara piv oiiv Kara rd TpbiiKd Kai ptrd raHra ytviaBai rdg
iipoSovg Kal rdg ptravaardatig avvij3ri, rdv re J3apj3dpbiv tipa Kal rbiv 'EXXijj/aii'
oppy rivi xpijiTflfjIvwi' Trpbg rrjv Trjg dXXorpiag KaraKTijaiv aXXd Kal Trpb rilv
tpbiiKiSv fjv raira.
t Hist, of the Lit. of Anc. Greece, iv. p. 331.

184 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
the annals of their predecessors." The Assyrian monarchs, who
took such pains to transmit their achievements to posterity, might
easily be tempted to indulge in a little exaggeration about them.
As an argumentum ad hominem against M. Kruger, I. might not
unfairly refer to a passage which he himself cites from the Shah-
nameh, in which Kei-Khosreu — whom he identifies with the
Tiglath-Pileser of the Bible^is made to speak of his kingdom as
extending from China and India to distant Roum, and is addressed
by one of his grandees as the most powerful of all the princes who
had fiUed the throne, from Minutshehr to Kei-Kobad. This must
be quite as authentic as the description of Minutshehr' s con
quests in the same poem, only we are better able to appreciate the
accuracy of the statement. Sennacherib may not have been at
all exceeding the bounds of truth when he boasted (according to
Sir H. Rawlinson, Outline, p. 18) of having "reduced under
his yoke all the kings of Asia from the upper forest, which is
under the setting sun (Lebanon), to the lower ocean, which is
under the rising sun (the Persian Gulf)." Indeed, when we
remember his campaign in CiUcIa, signalized by the building or
restoration of Tarsus, this appears to be hardly an adequate
account of his achievements. But this language certainly suggests
the belief that he meant to claim the glory of having extended the
empire in these directions beyond the limits which it had ever
before reached ; and I find It difficult to conceive that he would
have expressed himself In such terms if there had been inscriptions
extant in any of his palaces from which it appeared that one of his
predecessors had ruled from the Indus to the ^gean. M. Kruger
thinks that the provinces west of the Halys were lost to Assyria
toward the beginning of the twelfth century B.C. (1119 — 1105),
when the great Lydian monarchy with which Agron had been
invested was enabled, through the weakness of the prince (the
Nuder of the Shah-nameh) who followed the last Minutshehr, to
assert its independence. But If so, this Lydian kingdom must
itself shortly after have undergone some great loss of territory,
through causes no trace of which has been preserved in history ;
for it seems clear that the Greek colonists In Asia Minor did not

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 185
find it occupying the coast on which they settled ; and according
to Herodotus their independence was first threatened by Gyges.
That the Lydian power had pre^viously suffered any check which
compelled it to tolerate the encroachments of the Greeks, appears
to have been whoUy unknown to Herodotus. His idea plainly
was, that it had been constantly growing. I must, however,
observe, in justice to M. Kruger, that in Castor's epochs of the
maritime states, as they have now been elucidated and determined
with admirable learning and acuteness by Chevalier Bunsen
(^(/. VI. p. 439), the naval power of the Lydians, or as it would
seem more properly the Mseonians, dates from 1150 b.c, a date
which might very weU coincide with the supposed recovery of the
national independence.
I wIU only add two remarks, which may be necessary to guard
against misapprehension.
The object of the foregoing observations has been simply to
examine the evidence which has lately been adduced to prove the
existence of a poUtical connexion between Greece and Assyria in
the thirteenth century B.C. The result to my own conviction has
been to show that the e^vIdence is quite inconclusive. I have also
pointed out that there is evidence — quite as well entitled to credit
as any that has been produced on the other side — which apparently
tends to the opposite conclusion. But I do not mean to deny the
fact. I am quite ready to admit it, as soon as it shall be established
by satisfactory proof. I only contend that at present it is no
more than matter of very questionable surmise. A negative dog
matism on such a subject would be still more presumptuous than
a positive assertion resting on insufficient grounds. Mr. Layard
has observed,* with judicious caution : " To the west the Assyrians
may have penetrated into Syria, and perhaps Lydia." If indeed
we were speaking, not of a permanent estabUshment, but of a mere
temporary inroad, it would be rash to assign any limit to their
advance in this or any other direction. There is even what has
been accepted by very eminent critics as satisfactory evidence,
¦that the Assyrian arms were carried still farther westward in the
* Nineveh and Babylon, p. 633.

186 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
later times of the monarchy. For in a fragment of Abydenus,
preserved in the Armenian Eusebius (i. p. 63), we are informed
that the avenger of Sennacherib, Assarhaddon — there called
Axerdis — after slaying the assassin Adrammelech, pursued his army
and shut it up, or forced it to take refuge, in the city of the
Byzantians. Niebuhr, In his celebrated disquisition, " On the
Gain which has accrued to History from the Armenian Translation
of Eusebius," takes no offence at this statement, and reports it as
if Abydenus had said that Axerdis had " marched through
Western Asia as far as Byzantium, ¦with an army of mercenaries."
But this is not quite correct. The fragment first relates the pursuit
of Adrammelech's army, and then states that Axerdis was the first
(of the Assyrian kings) who collected mercenary troops. But as to
the march of Axerdis to Byzantium, in the first place, this seems
to be more than is distinctly affirmed in the Armenian text,* the
Latin translation being " Exercitum persecutus in Byzantinorum
urbem includit." The term of the retreat might have exceeded
that of the pursuit. But I must own that I cannot help suspect
ing some mistake in the name of the Byzantians, not on account
of the strangeness of the occurrence, or the absence of all con
firmative and illustrative testimony, but because the whole account
seems to be at variance with the Scripture narrative. Abydenus
appears not to have been correctly informed as to the death of
Adrammelech, who in the Bible is related to have escaped, together
with his brother Sharezer (of whom Abydenus takes no notice)
into Armenia. And the Armenian historian, Moses of Chorene,
describes (i. 23) the districts of Armenia which were aUotted by
the king Sgalorti for the residence of the two brothers. It would
seem to follow that the pursuit must have taken place, and have
been arrested, somewhere or other in that direction.
The other remark which I have to make refers to a point on which
I touched at the outset. The author of the work which has given
occasion to these observations speaks as if one of his main objects
was to help to break down the partition by which the school to
which he is opposed has endeavoured to exclude the influence of
* Kl. Schr., p. 206.

GREECE AND ASSYRIA. 187
Oriental culture on the development of the Hellenic mind. But
I think it must be evident that the questions which I have been
discussing have scarcely any bearing on that controversy.
Whether he has succeeded or failed in his attempt to restore a
chapter in the poUtical history of Greece in the thirteenth cen
tury B.c, the result ¦wiU not affect any views that may be enter
tained as to the original character of the earliest population of
Greece, or the degree in which it was subjected to foreign influ
ences. These are questions which manifestly go back into a far
higher antiquity than he himself assigns to the migration of
Pelops. According to all accounts, that event affected the relations
of the ruling families in Greece, rather than the condition of the
people ; but it can reflect no Ught whatever on their previous his
tory. It may be admitted or rejected, without the compromise of
any opinion as to the nature of the elements which composed the
Greek nationality, or the processes by which they were fused
together. The author has enriched the controversy about the
name of the Pelasgians with a new hypothesis, by which it is
derived from the god Bel, But whether we adopt this, or prefer
that of a different Semitic root, which connects it more immediately
¦with Palestine, or that which traces it to the Sclavonic, more par
ticularly the PoUsh branch of the family, or fall back upon a
Greek derivation — aU which hypotheses have been recently maln-^
tained ¦with a great show of erudition * — we shall not be the more
tied to any conclusion as to the fortunes of Pelops or the history
of the Trojan War. And though every serious attempt to let in a
" The Semitic origin of the name and people is strenuously asserted by Roth
{Gesch. unserer Abendldndischen Philosophic, i. p. 91, and Notes 17 and 25). His
opinion as to the connexion between the Philistines and the Egyptian shepherd
Philitis is shared by Bunsen (JEgypten' s Stclle, i. d. W. iii. p. 49, and v. p. 21), and
by Lepsius, to the surprise of Gutschmid (Be Rer. JEg. Scrip. H. Grmcis, in Philo
logus, 1856, p. 651), who thinks the conjecture both phHologicaUy and chrono
logically untenable. The Sclavonic hypothesis, which was advocated in very general
terms by Dr. Donaldson (New Cratylus, p. 90 f.), has been since reproduced, ¦with
special reference to the Poles, in a little essay by Jocher, entitled Pelasgia. A
paper in the same number of the Philologus, by Moritz Grain, contains an elaborate
proof that the name IltXaayoi is formed by correct analogy out of purely Greek
¦elements, though not exactly in the way commonly supposed. And see, above all,
the Appendix (2) in Bunsen, JEgypten, vi. p. 444 ; Bie lonische Tfrzeit in Kleinasien,
and Die lonier vor der Ionise/ten Wanderung, von Ernst Curtius (Berlin, 1855).

188 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
beam of the dry light of historical truth on the heroic age of
Greece may awaken a natural and reasonable curiosity, the chief
interest of the whole Inquiry in which we have been engaged
belongs rather to Asia than to Europe, as it is, I believe, only to
the East that we can look with a weU-grounded hope, however
faint, of such an accession to our knowledge of that period as
would enable us in a single point to distinguish with certainty
between fiction and reality.

ON SOME
TEADITIONS EELATING TO THE SUB
MERSION OF ANCIENT CITIES.*

I DO not, think it necessary to offer any apology for the character
of the stories which will be considered in this paper, as if they
might appear beneath the notice of a learned society. No doubt,
if they were to be looked upon as the invention of individuals,
they would be quite unworthy of any serious attention, but when
viewed as the spontaneous utterances of the impression made on
the popular imagination, in a rude state of society, by certain
natural phenomena, they rank among the facts which have always
been justly regarded as materials of no sUght value for the history
of the human mind, and which, as such, have been carefully pre
served by inteUigent travellers and brought together, under
various aspects, by writers on mythology. Such legends acquire
a peculiar interest when we find a resemblance, even in very
minute features, between those which have sprung up at long
intervals of time, and which belong to regions very remote from
one another, so that it is hardly conceivable that there should have
been a traditional connexion between them. I think I shaU be
able to' produce some rather curious instances of such resemblance,
and this ¦wUl, I trust, be a sufficient excuse for bringing them
before the Society. But to myself the chief attraction of the sub
ject has consisted in the affinity which I thought I could perceive
among the legends of one very large class, and which appeared
'Sufficiently to account for that resemblance where otherwise it might
seem to countenance the hypothesis of a historical transmission.
* Transactions of the Royal Soc. of Literature, vol. vi. (second series) p. 387.

190 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
Even an unsuccessful attempt at such an explanation, as it may
suggest one more satisfactory, may not be wholly worthless.
In a Paper which I read to the Society last year, I remarked on
one of the accounts given of the destruction of Sipylus, that " it
was one of the numberless legends to be found in all parts of the
world, from Ireland to Abyssinia, one of which stiU Ungers in
the mouths of the peasantry round Albano, about ancient cities
covered by lakes, and commonly, as there, connected with some
story of divine retribution for impious pride, such as was imputed
to Tantalus." I will now give some of the examples to which I
alluded ; but before I bring forward the Italian, African, and
Irish legends, I wiU notice some which belong to Greece, and
which, though they do not Ulustrate exactly the same side of the
subject to which that remark referred, are important for the more
general view which I am about to take of it.
It is well known that in several places of Greece, especiaUy in
Boeotia and Arcadia, where there are plains entirely surrounded
by hiUs without any opening on the surface, the cultivation of
the ground, and even the safety of the inhabitants, depend on the
subterraneous passages by which the waters, which would other
wise rise to a great height, find an issue. Whenever these pas
sages are choked, a more or less disastrous inundation is the
Ine^vitable consequence. I wiU only mention the lake Copals as
perhaps the most signal and familiar example of the physical phe
nomenon. But I must dweU for a few moments on the legends
of Pheneus and Stymphalus. From time immemorial the little
valley of Pheneus has been subject to inundations, which convert
the lower part into a lake. The height to which the waters have
risen appears to be marked by the colour of the rocks, " along
which," according to Colonel Leake's description {Morea, ui.
147), " at a height of about fifty feet above the level of the
plain, there is a line, seeming to mark the depth of the water when
aU this plain was a lake ; aU below the mark being of a Ughter
colour than the rest of the mountain." Most traveUers, ancient and
modern, have adopted this explanation of the appearance of the
rocks. Colonel Leake, who in 1806 found the plain drained and

SUBMERSION OP ANCIENT CITIES, 191
well cultivated, thought the indication doubtful, and believed that
it might be better accounted for as the effect of evaporation, con-
cei^ving that " all the waters which flow into the Pheneatic basin
would be insufficient to raise the water to half the height of the
discoloured line," But fifteen years after Colonel Leake's visit,
as I learn from the work of Curtius on the Peloponnesus (i. 189),
some obstruction occurred in the Kat^bothra through which the
waters find their way into the Alpheus, and, in 1828, caused an
inundation which covered the whole plain, in some places to the
depth of 150 feet. Had the waters continued to rise, Curtius
observes, they would have overflowed the ridge of Guiozo, and
have poured down into the vale of Orchomenus. But the obstruc
tion suddenly gave way ; a happy omen, it was thought, as the
King of Greece was just mounting the throne ; and the flood sub
sided as rapidly as it had risen. The consequence, however, was
that while the vaUey of Pheneus was restored to cultivation,
though in the lower part covered with a deep deposit of fresh soU,
the plain of Olympia was laid under water by the sweUing of the
Ladon and the Alpheus.
There can be no doubt that similar events took place from time
to time in remote ages, and they have left their trace, if not on
the rocks, in the legends of the country. The subjugation of Ells,
effected by Hercules in an expedition which he made from
Pheneus, is considered by Curtius as the mythical expression for
an occurrence Uke that of 1828, and to the like origin he would
refer the story of Ulysses finding his stray horses — the horse
being the familiar symbol of a gushing spring or rapid stream —
at Pheneus, through the help of Artemis, to whom, in gratitude
for this favour and for the excellent pasture which his horses found
in the valley, he dedicated a temple with the title Heurippe, the
Finder of Horses, What is certain is that in the ancient local
legends Hercules was represented as the author, not only of the
canal which confined the course of the Aroanlus through the
plain, but of the subterraneous passage, whUe the inundation was
attributed to the -wrath of ApoUo for the loss of the tripod which
the hero had carried from Delphi to Pheneus, The chasm itself

192 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
was viewed with awe by the ancient inhabitants of the vaUey as
one of the avenues to the realm of Hades; and I am strongly
incUned to believe that the grotesque story which Colonel Leake
found current among the modern peasantry of a conflict between
two demons who possessed the lake, in which the one who was
worsted made his escape through the mountain, and thus opened
a passage for the waters, is merely the modern version of the
highly significant classical fable preserved by Conon {Narr. 15)
of Pluto's carrying off Proserpine by the same way, and of
Demeter's rewarding the people of Pheneus, who showed her the
chasm, with manifold blessings.
At Stymphalus we find exactly similar physical phenomena,
a lake which discharges its waters through a like subterraneous
channel, only in the opposite direction, so as to reappear in the
Erasmus, and be carried Into the Gulf of Argolls. Curtius states
that in ordinary seasons the water rises and faUs periodicaUy, and
after a rainy winter usuaUy covers about a third of the lower
plain ; whUe, as it has but one outlet, any obstruction causes an
inundation. Such a calamity befeU the Stymphalians in the time
of Pausanlas. It was attributed to the wrath of the Stymphalian
Artemis, provoked by some neglect of her rites. The obstruction
was removed when a deer pursued by a hunter took to the
water, and both man and beast went down into the chasm.
Curtius interprets this story as founded on a human sacrifice
offered to propitiate the goddess, and would explain the deer as
a symbol equivalent to the horse in the legend of Ulysses at
Pheneus. I doubt about this. But the material point is that
we have here another Artemis, who is distinctly connected with
the lake, as the power to whom it was immediately subject, and
to whom it belonged to regulate its level for the weal or woe of
Stymphalus. The image of the famous Stymphalian birds — a
symbol of the noxious exhalations which arose from the stagnant
waters, so as to caU for a labour of Hercules sinular to that which
he accomplished at Pheneus — in wood and In marble, were among
the ornaments of her ancient temple in Stymphalus, Welcker
observes {Gricchische Gotterlehre, i, 586), that the Stymphalian

SUBMERSION OF ANCIENT CITIES, 193
Artemis was probably worshipped as an Artemis Limnasa, or
Limnatis, though not expressly designated by that epithet. For
she was the goddess of fountains, rivers, and lakes, considered as
supplying nourishment to vegetable and animal life ; and this, as
we have seen, was probably the meaning of her title, Heurippe, at
Pheneus. I now pass on to Albano, and I must transcribe a few sentences
from Niebuhr's History, with a note which I append to the
translation. " The surface of the lake," Niebuhr says (I. p. 197),
" now Ues far below the ancient city : when Alba was standing,
and before the waters swelled to a ruinous height in consequence
of some obstructions in the outlets, it must have lain much lower ;
for in the age of Diodorus and Dionysius, during extraordinary
droughts, the remains of some spacious buildings might be seen
at the bottom, and the common people took them for the palace
of an impious king, which had been swaUowed up." I must here
observe that I very much doubt that this supposed original Alba
ever existed, or that any such remains of buildings were ever
visible. The grounds of this doubt wIU be assigned by-and-by.
But the passage reminded me of a legend which I had heard a
few years before from my young guide at Albano, and which I
recorded in the note, "Where the lake now lies there once
stood a great city. Here, when Jesus Christ came into Italy, he
begged alms. None took compassion on Him but an old woman,
who gave Him two handfuls of meal. He bade her leave the
city : she obeyed ; the city Instantly sank, and the lake rose in
its place." Here again, as at Pheneus, I venture to believe that
we have the Christian version of a Pagan legend, but I do not
beUeve that there Is a particle more of historical truth in the one
form of it than in the other.
Let us now compare the modern legend with one which is
recorded by Major Harris in the following passage of his Travels
in the Highlands of Ethiopia (u. p, 343), "Of yore, when the
spot now inundated (by the lake Alobar) was terra firma, the
Yirgin Mary is said to have appeared in the house of the wealthiest
cultivator residing in the many flourishing viUages that then
VOL. Ill, o

194 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
existed, and to have addressed herself to t^e mistress, saying, ' I
am hungry, and have nothing to eat ; give me corn, and I wUl
grind for wages.' A vast heap of grain was pointed out, sufficient
for a week's labour, but no sooner had the Yirgin touched it, than
it was miraculously converted Into meal. The Inhospitable
master of the house now refused the pittance claimed, nor would
the 'Four Chairs,' before whom the complaint was carried, give
redress, until a poor shepherd had become mediator. As a mark'
of the displeasure of Heaven, the scene of this offence against the
Mother of Christ was forthwith converted Into a lake, which has
since formed the abode of the lord of all the gins and evil spirits
In the land."
The coincidence between the Ethiopian and the Italian legend
would be curious enough in itself, but it becomes still more inte
resting if we compare them both with a third, which is related by
Dr. Livingstone In his travels, being the account which he heard'
from the natives of the origin of Lake Dilolo, The lake itself
Is so remarkable that it wiU be worth while to quote a few of the
particulars reported by Dr. Livingstone, of its physical conflgura-
tion. It is situate between the 11th and 12th degree of south
latitude, and is between seven and eight miles in length, and
about three in breadth. It is the watershed between the river
systems that flow to the east and west. The river Lotembwa
flows out of it in opposite directions. "We forded," he says,
" the southern branch of Lake Dilolo, We found it a mile and a
quarter broad, and as it flows into the Lotembwa, the lake would
seem to be a drain of the surrounding flats, and to partake of the
character of a fountain. Going to the eastward about three miles,
we came to the southern Lotembwa itself, running in a vaUey two
miles broad. It Is here eighty or ninety yards wide, and contains
numerous islands covered with dense sylvan vegetation. In the
rainy season the vaUey is flooded, and as the waters dry up, great
multitudes of fish are caught. This happens very extensively over
the country, and fishing-weirs are met with everywhere." These
facts will be found to have a material bearing on the character of
the legend which I now give in the author's words. " When asked

SUBMERSION OP ANCIENT CITIES, 195
the meaning of the name Dilolo, Shakatwala gave the following
account of the formation of the lake, A female chief, caUed
Mo^na (lord) Mon^nga, came one evening to the village of
Mosogo, a man who lived in the vicinity, but who had gone to
hunt with his dogs. She asked for a supply of food, and Mosogo's
wife gave her a sufficient quantity. Proceeding to another vil
lage, standing on the spot now occupied by the water, she pre
ferred the same demand, but when she uttered a threat for their
niggardliness, was taunted with the question, ' What could she
do, though she were thus treated ? ' In order to show what she
could do, she began a song in slow time, and uttered her own
name, Monenga woo. As she prolonged the last note, the
"village, people, fowls, and dogs sank into the space now caUed
Dilolo. When Kasimakata, the head man of the village, came
home, and found out the catastrophe, he cast himself into the
lake, and is supposed to be in it still. The name is derived from
Dilolo, despair, because this man gave up all hope when his
family was destroyed. Monenga was put to death. This may be
a faint tradition of the Deluge, and it is remarkable as the only
one I have met with in this country."
On this last conjecture I wiU only observe that it does not seem
to me more needed, or more available for the explanation of the
South African than of the Ethiopian or the Italian legend. But
it deserves to be noted, that although the origin of Lake DUolo is
referred to the agency of a hostile enchantress, I was informed by
Dr. Livingstone, in a conversation which I had the pleasure of
enjoying with him a short time before his departure on his pre
sent expedition, that the lake is decidedly a blessing to the
country, which without it would be a barren desert ; and even the
occasional inundations are, as we have seen, attended with some
substantial advantages. I note this fact because it marks the
essential differences between this legend and those of Arcadia,
which we have just had before us. In them the rising of the
waters was attributed to the wrath of _ Artemis ; but this was
because it was justly regarded as a sure cause of a public calamity.
As to the signification of the name. Dr. Li^vingstone himself con-
o 2

196 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
sldered it as purely conjectural ; and I think It must be evident
to any one who wiU look at the names of the rivers in the circum
jacent region, that the coincidence Is quite as likely to have been
accidental : but the meaning of the word may have had something
to do with the peculiar form of the legend.
The prominent feature which is common to all those which
we have been considering, is a supernatural visitation. Incurred
through some transgression : pride, impiety, injustice, or inhu
manity. This, however, is a feature which they have in common
with a vast mass of mediaeval traditions, several of which are
collected In the twelfth volume of Soheible's curious compUa-
tion entitled Bas Kloster. It Is true that for the most part they
simply relate the disappearance of a city, village, castle, convent,
or church, which once stood where the lake or pool is now seen,
without assigning any cause for the event.* But that, in the
popular feeling, it was always connected with some moral ground,
and was regarded as a judgment, may, where the general pro
bability is so strong, be pretty safely inferred from the instances
in which such a cause is expressly mentioned. Thus we are
informed that near the vlUage of HelUgensee on the Havel, is a
little lake, from which the viUage took its name. The legend
runs, that a castle once stood on the same site, inhabited by a
princess who lay under a curse. The castle sank, and the lake rose
in its place.
Elsewhere, In East Prussia, in the first struggle between the
Wendlsh Paganism and Christianity, a convent was built by pious
monks ; but the half- converted natives were instigated by a heathen
priest to attack it. The assault was made on a MIdsummer's-day,
as the convent bell rang for matins, which was the preconcerted
signal. The building was set on fire, and the monks massacred ;
when a fearful tempest arose, accompanied with lightning, which
ran along the ground, so as to prevent the escape of the murderers.
They sank into the earth along with the ruins of the convent,
and its place was fiUed by a lake, which, from the fatal signal
* So in the legend of the Arendsee, Grimm, JD. S. Ill, and the Ochsenberg,
ibid. 112.

SUBMERSION OP ANCIENT CITIES, 197
{Loosung), was caUed the Loossee. And out of its depths the
sound of a bell Is supposed to be stIU audible every MIdsummer's-
day. A still better sample of this class of legends occurs in a book
where one would hardly have looked for it ; the Danish poet
Andersen's 0. T. It belongs to the little Danish township of
Yissenberg, and is thus reported, I have no doubt quite falthfuUy,
by the author : — " Where we now see a reedy pond once stood a
church ; but it sank when profaned by ungodly men, and their
sighs and penitential psalms are still heard at midnight."* This
may remind us that Kasimakata is supposed to be still living in
Lake Dilolo. Our own ecclesiastical annals furnish a similar
example. When the Bishops Germanus and Lupus came over to
combat the Pelagian heresy, they were resisted and re^vlled by a
wealthy man in the neighbourhood of Oswestry. But shortly
after his stately mansion was swallowed up in a pool, which pre
served a record of the event in its name.t Nork, the author of
the twelfth volume in Soheible's Collection, which treats of the
" manners and customs of the Germans and their neighbours,
with reference to the popular traditions which have sprung out
of their ecclesiastical superstitions and forensic usages," — finds
the clue to all these legends of preternatural submersions in the
custom of offering human sacrifices at certain critical seasons of
the year, such as Midsummer, by the drowning of the victims in
lakes or pools. He believes, and certainly not -without strong
evidence of facts pointing that way, that the custom kept its
ground after the introduction of Christianity, and intimates, what
I should be loath to admit without clearer proof, that it was sanc
tioned at least by the passive connivance, if not by the active con
currence, of the clergy. The legends would then have taken
their present shape, after the horrible superstition had been com
pletely abolished.
It would be foreign to my purpose to dweU on the offerings,
* Foersta Deel, p. 104: — "Hvor vi nu see en Dam med Siv og Roedder, laas
engang en Kirke, men den sank, da Ugudehge, vanhelligede den ; endnu hoere vi
ved Midnat deres Suk og Pcenitenoe-Psahner."
t Llynclys. TheophUus Evans, Bryoh y Prif Oesoedd, p. 144.

198 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
whether of this or any other kind, which have been paid to stand
ing or flowing waters most probably in every part of the world.
The ancient prevalence of the usage in the East is indicated by
the sacriflce of a white horse, with which the Magians sought to
propitiate the Strymon at the passage of Xerxes, And, for my
own part, I am strongly persuaded that it is to a Uke propitiatory
offering that AchiUes alludes in the Twenty-flrst Iliad (v, 132),
where he speaks of the horses which, besides the sacrifice of bulls,
the Trojans were used to throw alive into the Scamander. Mr.
Gladstone indeed {Studies on Homer, ui. p. 155) thinks it possible
that the true explanation may be, that the river " carried away, in
sudden spates, many of the horses that were pastured on its banks." *
I must own that I am quite unable to reconcUe this explanation
either with the language of the verse itself or ¦with the context. I
do not understand how the ravages of the river could be described
as the act of the Trojans themselves, nor how the loss of their
horses, which they suffered on such occasions, could be represented
as one of the grounds on which they might hope that the river-god
would protect them from the wra,th of AchUles. We have already
seen, when we were considering the Arcadian legends, that the sym-
boUcal character of the horse rendered this animal, even more than
the buU, — which we know is similarly significant of the might of
rushing streams, t — an appropriate sacrifice for such a purpose.
But to return to the Magians. Their sacrifice of the nine boys
and as many girls, whom they buried alive in the Nine Ways
{evvea ohoi), an island formed by the. branches of the river, was
probably intended for it, no less than for the land. And I am
inclined to surmise that the lock of the hair of Achilles which
Peleus vowed to the Spercheius on the event of his son's return
from Troy, and which was to be accompanied ¦with a hecatomb,
and the sacrifice of fifty rams, at the spring where the river-god
had his grove and altar, was, no less than the hair with which
the corpse of Patroclus was covered by his comrades, the symbol
* ovS' vpXv TTOrapbg ivl>poog dpyvpoSiv7]g
dpKtati, ip 5?) SrjBd TroXiag itptvaart ravpovg
i^oiovg S' iv Sivgai KaQiirt piiiwxag 'imrovg.
t Soph. Trach. 11, and the Scholiast.

SUBMERSION OF ANCIENT CITIES, 199
of a dedication which at an earlier period was sometimes accom-
pUshed in a more real and less innocent manner. It may not be
uninteresting to compare the form which this worship took among
the aboriginal inhabitants of Spanish America, as it appears in a
very curious Spanish work, published for the first time last year at
Yienna, from a manuscript found by the editor, Dr. Scherzer, in
the library of the University of Guatemala, being a translation of
an ancient chronicle of Guatemala out of the Quiche language into
the Castillan, together with some scholia or notes {escolios) by the
translator, Father Ximenez, relating to the social condition of the
primitive race.* One of these scholia is headed, " Of the places
where they of Guatemala used to sacrifice, as at fountains, rocks,
caves, and under trees." There we read, among other things
— "Likewise they used to sacrifice under trees of very thick
foUage, under which it was their custom to shed blood from
various parts of their bodies ; Ukewise they used to sacrifice at
fountains, especially when they were seeking to obtain children ;
and if they found any very thick-headed tree that had a fountain
under it, they held that place to be divine, because there two deities
met, he of the tree, and he of the fountain, "f
When we hear that the first cuttings of the chUd's hair were
burnt with incense, we may be reminded partly of the vow of
Peleus, and partly of the obsequies of Patroclus. But when it is
added that they used to sacrifice in caves and dark places, and in
the meetings of roads, and on the peaks of rocky hiUs ; and farther,
that in any great danger or strait, they were used sometimes to
* Las Historias del Origen de los Indies de esta Provincia de Guatemala ; traducidas
de la lengua Quiche al Castellano, para mas comodidad de los ministros del S. Evangelio,
por el R. P. P. Francisco Ximenez, Cura Doctrinero por el real patronato del Pueblo
de S. Thomas Chuela. Esactamente segun el Texto Espanol del Manuscripto
original que se haUa en la BibUoteca de la Universidad de Guatemala, publicado
por la primera vez, y aumentado con una Introduccion y Anotacionea por el Dr.
C. Scherzer, Viena, 1857).
t P. 189. "Si haUaban algun arbol muy espeso, que tu-viese debajo alguna
fuente, tenian por lugar di-vino aquel tal, porque concurrian dos divinidades, asi eu
el &rbol como en la fuente." So in the Iliad, ii. 305, the Greeks at Aulis offered
their sacrifices at a fountaia which was overshadowed by a beautiful plane-tree : —
r'lptXg S' dpijil wtpl Kptjvrjv 'itpqvg Kara jiupovg
'tpSoptv dBavdroiat rtXri'taaag tKarop^ag
KoXy iiTtb TrXaraviarip, 'oBtv pitv dyXaov vSbip,

200 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
vow the sacrifice of a son or a daughter, one cannot but remember
the prophet's description : — " Bnflaming yourselves with idols
under everj' green tree, slaying the children in the valleys under
the clifts of the rocks. Among the smooth stones of the stream
is thy portion ; they, they are thy lot : even to them hast thou
poured a drink offering, thou hast offered a meat offering. Upon
a lofty and high mountain hast thou set thy bed."
But returning from this little digression, in which, however, I
have not altogether lost sight of my main subject, to the point
from which I turned aside, I would observe, that the system of
what, in the largest sense of the word, may be termed water-
Avorship, in all the endless varieties of Its forms, springs from one
root — the universal experience of the value of water. But this
root sends out two branches, each of which bears its several fruit,
in a distinct set of usages and legends. On the one hand there is
the experience of the purifying, strengthening, refreshing, and
wholesome properties of water, in its Immediate application to the
human frame ; and on the other hand, the sense of dependence
upon It for the fruits of the earth, and the first conditions of
private and public well-being. Examples of both may be found,
though mixed up together under the one head of water, in Grimm's
Beutschc Mythologie. To the first division belongs the Hellawag-
water, drawn from a spring at certain seasons — more especially
at Christmas, Easter, and Midsummer (St. John Baptist's day) —
which was supposed to remain fresh aU the year round, and to
possess wonderful medicinal virtues. Also the numberless Hell-
bronns and Holywells, some of which were believed to restore not
only health, but youth to the bathers, and even to reunite severed
limbs to the mutilated body, and to change the sex. The eve of
St. John Baptist was, and is to this day at Copenhagen, the
season specially appropriated to such ablutions. On that day
Petrarch found a great concourse of women at Cologne, bathing
in the Bhine, and on inquiry was informed that it was a very
ancient usage, and, according to the "\Tilgar belief, a safeguard
against all calamity impending for the year to come. Petrarch
was not aware that any such custom existed in Italy. But Grimm

SUBMERSION OP ANCIENT CITIES. 201
produces an example from an Italian work of the sixteenth
century, where it is related that at Naples there was an ancient
usage, which even then was not whoUy abandoned, for men and
women to bathe in the sea on the eve of St. John Baptist,
under the persuasion that they were thereby purifled from their
sins ; and he quotes passages from St. Augustine, in which that
father speaks of the very same custom as prevailing In his day in
Africa, and condemns it as an unhappy remnant of Pagan super
stition. Peculiar efficacy for the like purpose was attributed to
water collected from the droppings of mUl-wheels.
To the other head must be referred the popular belief, that sea
sons of plenty or scarcity were foreshown, not only by ebbing
springs, but by the rise or fall of water kept in a vessel for that
purpose ; the horn in the right hand of the Sclavonic god, Swan-
tovit, in the Isle of Rugen, which was used as an instrument of
Uke predictions ; the custom, once prevalent in many parts of
Germany, and still subsisting in Servia, and among the modern
Greeks, of wrapping up a young maiden In grass, herbs, and
flowers, leading her about, and pouring a bucketful of water over
her, while her companions sang a supplication for rain ; the sin
gular Esthonlan legend of Lake Eim, which removed from a dis
trict in which the savage inhabitants neglected agriculture and
were given to robbery and bloodshed, and lifting itself with aU its
fish into the air, came down among an industrious and orderly
people, who prized its gifts, and made their whole land fruitful.
Both elements appear in the legend of Fran HoUe, whom we may
compare with the Greek Artemis Llmnsea, the lady of a small
pool or tarn, the HoUentelch in Mount Meissner, in Hesse.
Women seek health and fecundity in her waters, and she her
self goes round the land every year, bestowing fertUity on the
fields. But I now turn to another side of the subject, which is that to
which I most wish to invite attention. There appears to be suffi
cient evidence, if indeed any is needed for a fact which might be
safely assumed as an inevitable result of the constitution of the
human mind, that, independently of the material benefits derived

202 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
from the aqueous element, its various aspects, whether in springs
or rivers, sea or lakes, have made a deep impression on the popular
imagination. Mr. Atkinson, in his Travels in Siberia, ¦visited several sacred
lakes ; but is quite sUent as to any explanation of the sanctity
attributed to them, except that which is afforded by their outward
aspect. On the Aoush-Kool, he observes (p. 141) : — " This Holy
Lake of the Bashkirs is beautifuUy situated ; , , , , on its north
west side rises a conical hUl, named Aoushton, or Holy Mount."
Of the Baikal Itself he can only report (p. 596) : "The Baikal, or as
the natives call it, the Holy Sea, Is said by them to be unfathom
able, and subject to terrific storms." In both these cases, the
name is the only indication of the feeling it expresses. But of
the small and picturesque lake of Skeongoun, in the mountains of
Mongolia, he writes : — " It is held in great veneration by the
Kalkas, They have erected a smaU wooden temple on the shore,
and here they come to sacrifice ; offering up milk, butter, and the
fat of the animals, which they burn on the little altars. The large
rock In the lake Is with them a sacred stone, on which some rude
figures are traced ; and on the bank opposite, they place rods ¦with
smaU silk flags, having inscriptions printed on them." The only
legend connected with any of the lakes, which reached his ears,
was, that at the small lake Oulounjour Shaitan has his dwelling :
and in that Instance it is not clear, whether the abode of the Evil
One is to be referred to the lake (as in the Ethiopian Alobar), or
to the caverns on its shore.
On the whole, the practical barrenness of these lakes exhibits a
strong contrast to the wealth of legendary lore, which has been
gathered from sImUar objects among tribes, either gifted with a
larger measure of the Imaginative faculty, or placed in more favour
able conditions than those which have occupied or ranged over the
vast tracts of Siberia and Mongolia. The Greeks and Romans, the
Teutonic, Scandinavian, Sclavonic, and Celtic races, peopled the
depths of their waters with Nereids, Tritons, Naiads, River-gods,
Nixes, Elves, Water-sprites, and the like : beings not devoid of
human sympathies, but mostly taking an interest in the affairs of

SUBMERSION OP ANCIENT CITIES, 203
men, and, though quick to resent affronts, often connecting them
selves with mankind, both by domestic ties and by an interchange
of good offices. Their subaqueous abodes are described as beauti
ful, splendid, abounding in all kinds of good things. Homer
paints the glorious mansion of Neptune in the depths of the gulf
near^gae, as "golden, gUttering, ever exempt from decay."* And
I wish it to be noticed how the whole description in that passage
gUstens with gold. The god himself dons a suit of gold.f Of gold
are the manes of his horses, their reins, and even the fetters with
which he secures their feet when he leaves them in the submarine
cave to await his return from the Grecian camp. YirgU's con
ception of a central abyss, the common head of all the rivers of the
earth, is no doubt a mere poetical invention. But his description
of the shining palace there, in which Aristteus found his mother,
Cyrene, enjoying the society of her sister nymphs, and that of the
banquet at which he was entertained by them, is the classical
expression of a popular belief, which re-appears with substantial
identity, though In less elegant forms. In numberless legends.
Even Fran HoUenteich — though she properly belongs to a different
order of ideas — not only regales her favourites with flowers, fruit,
cakes, and the produce of her incomparable garden, — a paradise at
the bottom of her pool, — ^but has her pieces of silver for active and
cleanly servants, who flnd them at the bottom of their pails, if
they take them, well rinsed, to draw water betimes in the morn
ing. The prevailing notion of the sublacustrine domains is, that
they are fuU of countless treasures, especially in gold. In one of
Grimm's German legends,^ the water-spirit takes a peasant who
lived near his lake, and was on friendly terms with him, down
below. There the visitor found aU like a magnificent palace on
the earth, with rooms full of manifold riches and ornaments : and
in one small cabinet, many earthen pots standing upside down, ^
within which, as he Was informed, were confined the souls of
• H. xiii. 21 :— tvBa TB 01 kXvtu Smpara j3ivBeai Xipvrig
Xpi/aea, pappaipovra rtrtijxarai, dfBira aitl.
¦t" ;tpu(To*' S'avrbg iSvvt irtpl xpoi.
Z. No. 62. Der Waisermann und der Bauer.

204 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
those who had been drowned In the lake. On the Mummelsee,
near Baden, a sportsman, as he passed, saw a dwarf sitting on the
surface of the water, with his lap full of money, with which he
was playing. The sportsman fired at him, and he dived under ;
but was heard to declare that, if he had been requested, he could
easily have made the aggressor rich, whereas now he and his
descendants were doomed to poverty.* A woman is taken by
night down Into the Donges lake (in Hesse), to aid the Queen of
the Lake in childbirth. She sees many wonderful things, great
treasures and riches, but must swear not to say anything of them
to any man, and Is conducted back again the next night, richly
rewarded for her services.! It was not, however, generally
thought safe to carr)"- away any of these treasures, beyond at least
a moderate remuneration for any service rendered to the owners.
This is the point of two other legends, in each of which a spiteful
Nix offers a heap of gold with a malignant purpose.
The story of the priest EUdor, in GIraldus Cambrensis, illus
trates the same feeling. The schoolboy goes down into the water^
and finds a beautiful region, abounding in gold, and a king's
palace. But when he attempts to carry away the golden ball,
which was the plaything of the king's son. It slips from him just
as he reaches home, and is taken away by two dwarfs, who jeer
him as they depart, and he is never again able to find the way into
the happy land. GIraldus also relates of Llyn Safadwy, in Breck
nockshire, that it is sometimes seen by the inhabitants covered
and adorned with buildings, pastures, gardens, and orchards : and
we learn from Sir BIchard Hoare, in his annotations on the chap
ter, that this lake is to be added to the list of those in which
ancient cities have been submerged. " The ridiculous idea," he
says, "of its having swallowed up an ancient city, is not yet quite
exploded by the natives." The legend of the Cantref y Gwaelod
belongs to the same class and is more generaUy known.
Another, which I have not seen in any book, is connected with
the to^wn of Carmarthen, and to this day retains its hold on the
popular belief. Among the prophecies of Merlin, one which is
* Grimm, B. S. 59. f Ibid. 65, 69.

SUBMERSION OP ANCIENT CITIES. 205
stiU in the mouth of the Welsh peasantry is, " Caerfyrddin a
sudd, Abergwili a saif " (Carmarthen shaU sink, Aberg-wili shall
stand). So familiar is this prediction to the popular mind, that
the day on which It is to be fulfilled is generaUy understood to be
a 12th of August : and so deeply rooted is the belief, that not
long back, when that day happened to be a market-day at Car
marthen, and a storm of wind and rain came on, many of the
country-people hurried out of the town, under the persuasion that
the catastrophe was at hand.
This Information I have only received orally, though upon very
good authority, and I have not been able to ascertain the con
nexion of this prophecy with the history of MerUn ; but I have
doubt that the key must be sought in the legend reported by
Spenser in the Faery Queen, book lu. c. 3. The cave in the heart
of the rock there described, from which issued strange noises
of iron chains and brazen cauldrons, great groans and grievous
sounds, and oftentimes loud strokes and ringing sounds, as of
laborious sprites — audible. Indeed, only to persons of very quick
ear — is believed in the neighbourhood of Carmarthen to lie in a
hill called MerUn's Hill, close to the village of AbergwUi; and the
poet says : — " The cause some say is this : A little while
Before that Merlin died, he did intend
A brazen- wall in compass to compile
About Cayr-Merdin, and did it commend
Unto thoso sprights to bring to perfect end.
During which work the Ladj' ot the Lake,
Whom long he loved, for him in haste did tend,
Who thereby forced his workmen to foresake,
Them bound, till his return, their labour not to slake.
In the meanwhile, through that false lady's train,
' He was surprised, and buried under bare.
Never to his work returned again.
Nathless those fiends may not their work forbear,
So greatly his commandement they fear ;
But there do toil and travel day and night.
Until that brazen wall they up do rear."
It must be observed that, although Merlin is here said to be
dead and buried, he is found aUve, though underground, by Glance
and Britomart, to whom he reveals the future history of Britain :

206 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
and it is well kno^wn that some day or other both he and Arthur
are to appear again. I suspect that the submersion of Carmarthen
is to be regarded as the prelude to this return.
But the most significant and instructive of all such legends are
Irish. The Irish peasant would have no difficulty in believing
all that Pausanlas relates about the ruins of Sipylus, once visible
in the Lake of Tantalus, and Dionysius about the submersion of
Old Alba. Has not his own poet sung : —
" On Lough Neagh's bank, aa the fisherman strays.
When the clear cold eve 's declining.
He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining." — Moore.
At the bottom of the Lough, near Cork, are buildings and
gardens (as at Llyn Safadwy), far more beautiful than any now to
be seen. Long before Saxon foot pressed Irish ground, where the
Lough noAV is once stood the palace of the great King Core. In
the middle of the courtyard was a spring of fair water, wonder-
fuUy pure and clear. As crowds of people came to draw from it,
the king began to fear lest it should become dry, and had a high
wall built round it, with a door of which he kept the key. One
night, at a great banquet which he gave to his lords, he was told
that his guests wanted water, and sent his daughter (Flor Usga =
Spring- water) to draw from the spring with a golden vessel, which
he had caused to be made for the purpose. But the princess, as
she stooped over the spring, found the vessel so heavy that she
fell in, and the water rose until it filled the whole vaUey in which
the palace stood, and so was formed the present Lough of Cork.
Yet the king and his guests were not dro-wned, nor was the prin
cess : and the feasting and dancing stUl go on at the bottom of the
Lough, and are to do so until some one brings up the golden
vessel again.
The words with which Mr. Crofton Croker — from whose Fairy
Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland I have extracted
the pith of the story — concludes his narrative are so apposite to
my purpose, that I must simply transcribe them. " Nobody can
doubt that it was a judgment upon the king for his shutting up

SUBMERSION OP ANCIENT CITIES. 207
the well in the court-yard from the poor people ; and if there be
any who do not credit my story, they may go and see the Lough
at Cork, for there it is to be seen at this day : the road to Kinsale
passes at one side of it ; and, when its waters are low and clear,
the tops of towers and stately buUdings may be plainly viewed
in the bottom by those who have good eyesight, without the help
of spectacles."
Nobody will be taken in by the gravity of this assurance ; but
at least as good eyesight was probably required for those who-
would see the remains of Old Alba in the days of Dionysius.
StUl more remarkable is the legend of Linn-na-Payshtha, which
belongs to the lovely Lough GUI, near Sllgo, though the. scene is
laid not exactly in the lake itself, but in a deep pool (Linn-na-
Payshtha) in the river which flows out of it. Close by this pool
are the remains of the old haU of the O'Rourkes, and at the
bottom of the pool is the abode of a sprite, who keeps guard over
the gold and silver of the old family buried there in the wars.
Manus O'Rourke dives into the pool and obtains a view of the
treasure, the vessels of gold and silver, the sword set with
diamonds, and the ivory staff set with rubies and gold, which the
chief had been used to hold as he administered the Brehon laws
to his clan, together with the title-deeds of the family, which are
all carefully guarded against the time when the old stock shall
reign in glory again.
In general, according to Irish belief, there is under water a land
of perpetual youth, of uninterrupted delight, of perfect happiness.
It seems to me evident that there must be some thread
which runs through these legends, that they rest upon some
common basis ; and, further, that this basis is not either physical
or historical, but ideal, though it may well have happened in
some cases that physical or historical facts were combined and
amalgamated with it. A German writer, who has collected largely
and speculated much on popular legends, finds in those which
relate to the submersion of cities and castles the trace of a mys
tical dogma, which he entmciates thus : " The uprising of the
present world of sense was the downgoing of a higher ideal world.

208 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
and this downgoing, in the symbolical language of antiquity, was
a downgoing In water."* Now I should not deny that this dogma
is of considerable antiquity in oriental philosophy ; nor that it
may have been at an early period clothed in a fabulous form ; nor
that the fable might have travelled from east to west, leaving
behind it the thought from which it was originally intended to
iUustrate. But I am not even satisfied that there is any warrant
for the assumption on which this explanation rests, — that the
system to which the dogma belongs was really prior to the great
mass of the legends which are supposed to have sprung from it.
I must also consider It as a very unsatisfactory incident of this
hypothesis that, according to it, there would be no connexion
between the legend and any train of thought which was famUiar
to the popular mind, and to which it might unconsciously have
given this kind of utterance. And I think it must be admitted
that we should have a somewhat firmer ground to rest upon if we
could flnd such a train of thought, especially if it was universally
blended with a deep current of strong feeling, for which the
legends in question furnish an apt and natural expression. It
should be one which does not belong to one land, or clime, or
people more than to another, though there may be historical cir
cumstances which tend to call it forth, and to set it at work more
powerfully in one period than another. And such I conceive to
be the idea — whether derived from tradition or the projection of
an inward consciousness — of a good old time, a better order of
things, a golden age, which has disappeared from the face of the
earth, yet not so as to leave no hope of its return. It stUl exists,
but out of sight, beneath the water. There lies the happy land,
the realm of youth, beauty, and joy ; there dweUs the golden race
(gens aurea) ; there are preserved the treasures and glories of the
past. If it be asked. What was the cause of the disappearance ?
the answer is everywhere the same in substance, though varying
in form. It was the penalty of an offence which provoked the
* Daumer, Philosophic, Religion, und Alterthum, 1 Heft, p. 47: — "Die Entslehung
dieser Einnenwelt war der Untergang einer idealeu hohem, welcher Untergang
der Symbolik des Alterthums ein Untergang im Wasser war."^

SUBMERSION OF ANCIENT CITIES. 209
divine wrath. It was impious arrogance, or profanation of sacred
things, or wrongful coaling, or hardhearted selflshness. Still that
which has vanished is only hidden, not lost. Even now occasional
glimpses of it are vouchsafed to some favoured mortals ; and sooner
or later it shall be brought to light again. There is yet a good
time coming; when is it to be? 'When might shall cease to
trample upon right, and men shall learn to love one another as
•children of a Father in heaven. Then heroes and sages shaU
again find a home upon earth. Arthur and MerUn shall be
released from their dark prison. Even in Lake Despair Monega's
spell shall be broken, and Kasimakata shall come forth, to find a
renovated land, purged from the curse of slavery and war, of
tyranny and superstition ; an open field of beneficent enterprise,
of secure and friendly intercourse, enriched by the arts of peace,
transfigured in the light of a pure religion, the abode of a free,
civilised, industrious, and happy people.

Another example of legendary submersion, which only fell
in my way after the reading of this paper, occurs in Sir W.
H. Sleeman's Journey through the Kingdom of Oucle, vol. i.
p. 126. " The Bajah of Bulrampoor, and Ramdut Pandee, the
banker, rode with me and related the popular tradition regarding
the head of the Kulhuns famUy of Rajpoots, Achul Sing, who,
about a century and a quarter ago, reigned over the district
intervening between Gonda and Wuzeer Gunge, and resided at his
capital of Koorassa. The rajah had a dispute with one of his
landholders, whom he could not get into his power. He requested
Rutun Pandee, the banker, to mediate a reconciliation, and invite
the landholder to an amicable adjustment of accounts, on a pledge
of personal security. The banker consented, but made the rajah
swear by the River Sarjoo, which flowed near the to-wn, that he
should be received with courtesy and escorted back safely. The
landholder relied on the banker's pledge, and came ; but the rajah
no sooner got him into his power than he caused him to be put to
death. The banker could not consent to live under the dishonour
of a -violated pledge, and, abstaining from food, died in twenty-
VOL. III. P

210 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
one days, invoking the vengeance of the River Sarjoo on the head
of the perfidious prince. In his last hours fhe banker was visited
by one of the rajah's wives, who was then pregnant, and implored
him to desist from his purpose, in mercy to the child in her womb ;
but she was .told by the dying man that he could not consent to
survive the dishonour brought upon him by her perjured husband,
and that she had better quit the place and save herself and child,
since the incensed River Sarjoo would certainly not spare any one
who remained with the rajah. She did so. The banker died, and
his death was foUowed by a sudden rise of the river and tempest.
The town tvas submerged, and the rajah, loith all who remained with
him, perished. The ruins of the old toivn are said to be occasionally
visible, though at a great depth under the ivater, in the bed of the
Sarjoo, icliich forms a fine lake, near the present village of Koorassa,
midway between Gonda and Wuzeer Gunge"
I must yet add another legend, as reported by Mr. Carlyle in
his History of Frederick the Great, i. p. 101. He is speaking
of the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa. " German tradition thinks
he is not yet dead, but only sleeping, tlU the bad world reach its
worst, when he will re-appear. He sits within the hill near
Saltzburg yonder, says German tradition, its fancy kindled by the
strange noises in that hill (Limestone HUl) from hidden waters,
and by the grand rocky look of the place: — A peasant once,
stumbling into the interior, saw the Kaiser in his stone cavern.
Kaiser sat at a marble table, leaning on his elbow, winking, only
half asleep : beard had grown through the table, and streamed
out on the floor : he looked at the peasant one moment, asked him
something about the time it was, then drooped his eyeUds again.
Not yet time, but wIU be soon ! He is winldng, as if to awake.
To awake, and set his shield aloft by the Roncalic Fields again,
with : ' Ho, every one that is suffering wrong, or that has strayed
guideless, devil ward, and done wrong, which is far fataler.' "

SPEECHES AND ADDKESSES.

p2

THE DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS:
A Speech deliveked in the House op Lords on May 25th, 1848.

My Lords, If I should seem to have shown too strong a desire
to take precedence in the debate over the noble Earl (the Earl of
Winchelsea), who in every other respect Is so fully entitled to it,
I am sure that your Lordships will have done me the justice to
attribute this apparent forwardness to the true motive. As I had
reason to believe that the noble Earl was about to take the same
side of the question with the Most Reverend Prelate, I thought it
might be more convenient, both for your Lordships and for the
noble Earl himself, if he had an opportunity of answering a few
arguments which I shaU have to offer on the opposite side of the
question. But I do not at all regret that I gave way to the noble
Earl. I am glad that I had not spoken before I had listened to
the denunciations which he has thought proper to pour forth. It
has been my fate, on a former occasion, to accept a similar chal
lenge thrown out by the noble Earl, and I shaU not now shrink
from a like course. I am not blind to the dangers with which
we have been threatened by the noble Earl ; and I do not know
to what extent it may .be in his power to verify his own predic
tions. But I can only say. In the language of an infinitely greater
man, on a far more momentous occasion : " The Loed's will be
done; I must do my duty." My Lords, I should have felt it
necessary to say a few words on the subject of this debate, if it
had been only for the sake of a single remark ; and it is this :
Though the vote I am about to give wUl be in perfect harmony

214 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
with that which I gave several years ago when a simUar question
was brought under your Lordships' deliberation, and though I
have never looked back upon that vote — which happened to be
the first I had the honour of giving in your Lordships' House —
with any feeUng bordering upon regret, still I wish it to be
understood that I do not consider myself as bound in the
slightest degree by the course which I then felt it my duty to
pursue. As on that occasion I did not conceive that by the
vote I then gave, I was pledging myself to take a step
farther in the same direction, so now I conceive that I might,
without any breach of consistency, have adopted a different
conclusion from that at which I have actually arrived. And the
same Is probably the case with many of your Lordships. And as
your Lordships are unfettered in this respect, so it gives me plea
sure to think that you are under no external pressure or bias, to
prevent you from exercising your judgment upon this question
with perfect freedom. I rejoice that the sense of the country, so
far as it has been expressed by the petitions which have been laid
on the table of your Lordships' House, has been expressed in such
a manner as to remove all possibility of an appeal to any motives
foreign to your o^wn convictions, I am aware that this has been
treated by some of the adversaries of this measure as a ground of
hope ; but, with the ¦view which I take of the subject, I cannot
permit myself to consider it as a just cause for fear. But I must
confess that I do not feel quite so sure that your Lordships are
equaUy free from every other kind of bias. It has been asserted
— as I think, very rashly and groundlessly, but, at aU events,
without a possibility of verifying the assertion — that the present
measure proceeded from indifference to religion in those who pro
posed and sanctioned it. As to that I will only say, that, if such
was the case, we shoidd be led to some singular results. Looking
at the petitions which have emanated from various quarters on
both sides of the question, we should be obliged to conclude that
the spirit of religion was very unequally diffused over the surface
of the land : that it was at boUing heat in one congregation, and
at freezing point in another in the same neighbourhood. I must

THE DISABILITIES OP THE JEWS, 215
confess, my Lords, I have no confidence in the indications of such
a religious thermometer as this. But I am not hazarding a mere
surmise, or a rash or ungrounded assertion, when I say that the
class of persons for whose relief this measure is proposed, have not
yet ceased to be the objects of a very general, hereditary, unrea
soning prejudice, aversion, and contempt. Looking at the history
of past times, I think it is moraUy impossible that this should not
have been the case. Looking at the persecution and oppression
which that people suffered in past ages, I hold it to be absolutely
certain that, although that state of things has passed away, it must
have left deep traces In the habits and modes of thinking prevaU-
ing among the people of this country. Now, my Lords, I do not
presume to say that any of your Lordships are under the influence
of such a prejudice. All I wiU venture to say is, that If such be
the case, if none of your Lordships are, or ever have been, affected
by such a feeling, then I must acknowledge that I am the most
prejudiced and the most bigoted person in your Lordships' House.
For I must own that I have experienced it, and that I have had
some difficulty in resisting it. But it is one which I have felt it
to be my duty to resist, and which I should have been sorry to
have allowed to have any weight, so as to overpower my con-vic-
tion in favour of the conclusion I have come to. My Lords, I
have made this remark, not so much for its own sake, as by way
of introducing one of much greater importance, for which I would
bespeak your Lordships' indulgent attention. For, ample as is
the discussion which the subject has undergone, much as it has
been debated in print and speech, I have not observed that any
notice has been taken of the point I am now about to propose for
your consideration.
It has been constantly assumed, and hitherto without contra
diction, that it belongs to the very essence of the Jewish reUgion
to inspire feelings of the utmost aversion and abhorrence towards
that Person, who to us as Christians is the object of supreme love
and veneration. This opinion, your Lordships -will recoUect, was
the main point put forward in the petition presented by the noble
Earl opposite (the Earl of Galloway) from the General Assembly

216 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
of the Church of Scotland, and it has furnished the strongest
argument upon which the adversaries of the measure have founded
their opposition to it. It was adverted to by the Most Beverend
Prelate, and it was urged by the Most Reverend Prelate's lamented
predecessor, as the main ground on which he felt it impossible to
consent to any such measure as that which is now proposed.
Now, my Lords, I may seem to be advancing a paradox ; but I
am stating my earnest and sincere opinion, when I express my
belief that there Is no adequate foundation for that assertion. I
say no adequate foundation, for I do not mean to say that it has
absolutely no foundation at all. As a matter of fact, I am ready
to admit, that such bitter feelings may, and probably do exist, and
even prevail extensively among persons of the Jewish persuasion.
But then I wish to call your Lordships' attention to a most im
portant distinction. The question which I would beg your Lord
ships to put to yourselves is, whether this feeling, or this doctrine,
is essentially connected with the Jewish religion, or not : whether
it Is of the essence of that religion, or only an accident which
might be separated from It, so that the one might exist, and pro
bably has existed, and does exist, without the other. I will state
some of the reasons which strongly IncUne my own mind in favour
of the latter view of the subject. Let it be supposed for a moment
that this was the true view, and that there was no necessary con
nexion between the Jewish creed and that feeling of bitter hostility
towards our Saviour. StUl the actual prevalence of such a feeling,
if it does prevail, might most easily be accounted for. It would
be nothing more than the natural and inevitable consequence of
those long ages, flrst of fierce controversy, and then of oppression
and persecution, through which it has been the lot of the Jewish
people to pass. However foreign such an opinion may orlginaUy
have been to their reUgion, It was next to impossible that under
such circumstances it shordd not have grown up and clung to it.
Then if it were Inquired upon what ground such feelings are attri
buted to the Jews as something essential to their orthodox theo
logy, I know of none but this — that they deny the claim which
that Divine Person put forward with regard to his own character

THE DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS, 217
and office. But where, in this respect, is the difference between
the case of the Jew and the Unitarian ? Is it not equally true of
the Unitarian that he denies that which we conceive to be, accord
ing to the plain sense of Scripture, the undoubted assertion of that
Divine Person with regard to his own character and mission ?
And yet we know that the Unitarian is so far from. regarding
Him with any feeling of such a nature as that which on this
ground we Impute to the Jew, that he looks upon Him with a
veneration similar in kind. If not equal in degree to our own. I
do not wish to be understood to deny that there Is In other respects
a very great difference between the Jew and the Unitarian ; all
that I am concerned to maintain Is, that, in this respect, which is
the main ground on which the privilege which has been granted
to the one has been withheld from the other, they stand upon the
same footing. StUl I am aware that these arguments may appear
to be rather of a negative than a positive nature, and to rest rather
upon conjecture than on evidence of the fact ; and therefore I
proceed to another consideration, which has weighed most with
my own mind, and was what first led me to doubt the truth of the
assertion to which I have referred. And this is, that I find a
Jewish historian * speaking of our Blessed Lord, not in terms of
the slightest disrespect, but describing him as a teacher of
a pure morality, and as the victim of a cabal and a popular
outcry, raised by the Influence of the Jewish priests and rulers,
and as condemned by them to an unjust punishment. I find a
Jewish philosopher f who was most devoutly attached to the prin
ciples of his faith, representing Him as one who asserted the claims
of a spiritual religion in opposition to the hypocrisy and formality
which prevailed in high places in His time, I find the same phi
losopher assuming the possibUIty that a Jew might become a
Christian, and arguing that he would stiU remain bound as much
as ever by the Mosaic law. From aU this I think I am justifled
in drawing the inference, that feeUngs of aversion and abhorrence
toward our Blessed Redeemer are not universal among the Jewish
people, and that Jews who strenuously uphold their own creed
* Note (A), p. 229. f Note (A), p. 230.

218 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
may nevertheless regard Christianity without bitterness and
hatred : and I would remind your Lordships that there are
differences of opinion on religious matters among the Jews as
among ourselves.
I have perhaps dwelt too long on this part of the question, but
I considered it as one of so much importance as to deserve your
Lordships' special attention. If I have fallen Into error on this
point, I have no doubt that I shall be followed by those who are
able to correct It. Fortunately, however, the present question
does not depend on the correctness or Incorrectness of the opinion
I have ventured to propose. Indeed, had it not been for the dis
cussion which the question has undergone, and the variety of
arguments which have been raised upon It, I should have thought
it one of the simplest and plainest that could have been brought
before you. The measure now proposed is one of a remedial and
relieving character.* It is a measure for the removal of disabilities
under which a certain class of Her Majesty's subjects are labouring.
It is therefore one of a kind which is at all times entitled to your
Lordships' favour ; and, If you are caUed upon to reject It, I appre
hend it must be on some very plain, clear, and solid grounds.
You will not be contented with any flne airy speculations, which
we know may easUy be invested with a show of substance and
solidity by ingenious sophistry, and eloquent declamation. This
your Lordships would feel in any case. But the present measure
comes before you under very peculiar circumstances. As we have
already been reminded, a great constituency has made choice of a
representative from among the Jewish persuasion, and the House
of Commons has declared Its willingness to remove the only bar
which prevents that choice from being ratified and carried into
-effect. It now remains therefore for your Lordships to say,
whether you wiU tell that great constituency that they shaU not
have the representative of their choice, and whether you wUl teU
the House of Commons that they shall not have the member
whom they desire to see among them. Being caUed upon to do
that, I conceive that it behoves your Lordships to be quite sure
* Note (B), p. 232.

THE DISABILITIES OP THE JEWS. 219:
that there are some strong substantial grounds of public expe
diency which require you to reject such a measure as this, or some
clear inconvenience or danger which you would incur by adopting
it. For my own part, the more I inquire what the danger or
inconvenience is, the more I am at a loss to discover it. We have
been told, indeed, that this measure is inconsistent with the safety
of Christianity, and that It will be dangerous, and possibly
ruinous, to the interests of the Church. Now, when your Lord
ships are desired to reject this measure as injurious to Christianity,
I should be glad to know wherein the danger with which it Is
supposed to threaten the welfare of Christianity consists. Is it
that it belongs to the functions of the Legislature to regulate the
doctrines, or to guide the destinies of the Christian religion ? Or
is it that there is ground to apprehend that, through the new
influence which this measure may be the means of introducing
into the Legislature, Christianity may come to be persecuted and
proscribed ? I need only mention such a notion for your Lord
ships at once to repudiate it as utterly absurd ; and I cannot
conceive how any one can have seriously entertained it. But it
has been intimated that the effect of this measure may be to
expose Christianity to the danger, though not of any serious
injury, yet of insult and dishonour : as if It was likely that the
persons who may, through the operation of this Bill, be Introduced
Into the other House of ParUament, would be so forgetful of the
common decencies of life, so indifferent to the feelings of those
among whom they sat, and also, I beg your Lordships to observe,
to the feelings of the constituencies whom they would represent,
and therefore so unmindful of their own Interests, as to be willing,
when opportunity served, to offer an insult to the Christian religion.
There is indeed another kind of danger which has been repre
sented as Ukely to arise from this measure : that we may be
exposing ourselves to the Divine displeasure by such a mark of
respect for a people whom the noble Earl opposite (the Earl of
Winchelsea) would have your Lordships consider as only fit to
remain as a monument of Divine wrath. My Lords, I am very
loth to touch upon this topic, lest the feelings with which I regard

220 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
it as an argument, should by possibility appear to be transferred
to the sacred subject to which it relates ; and I will only venture
to observe, that If there is any reason to dread that , the Divine
vengeance may be impending over us. It would be rather on
account of the crimes of which this nation was guilty towards the
ancestors of this people In times past, than of any indulgence
which we may show to them in future. At aU events, I am sure,
that by our conduct in times past a heavy debt of guilt was
incurred, and I am by no means so sure that it has ever been
duly acqmtted. Then as to the dangers with which this measure
has been supposed to threaten the Church of England, I may
dismiss that part of the subject with a single remark. It is true,
that although it does not belong to the Legislature to deal with
Christianity as a spiritual religion, it has to deal with the temporal
interests and the social relations of the professors of that religion ;
and though a Jew, when admitted to be a member of Parliament,
would not have a voice on any subject really affecting the interests
of Christianity, he certainly might be called upon to vote on
questions of very great importance to the interests of the Church
of England. But the question is, not whether there is any
anomaly or Incongruity, or danger, in that, but whether any new
danger is introduced by this Bill which did not exist before and
without It. And as to this I entirely concur with the noble
Duke (the Duke of ArgyU), to whose speech we have listened
¦with so much pleasure, I must say, that If any question affecting
the interests of the Church of England is to be discussed in the
other House of Parliament, I for one should greatly prefer that it
should be submitted to the decision of a Jew rather than to that of a
Dissenter. I do not mean by this to imply the sUghtest disrespect
towards any Dissenting body which may have one of its members
seated in the House of Commons ; but, on the common principles of
human nature, I conceive that a Dissenter must be subject to a much
stronger bias on such questions, and must be much more hostilely
disposed towards the Church of England, than a Jew can possibly
be.* * Note (C), p. 233.

THE DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS, 221
My Lords, I shall not dweU any longer on the question of
expediency, the rather as I have scarcely ever seen a pamphlet on
the subject — and I have read a great many, especially on the
opposite side of the question — or a speech, in which it was not
stated that this is not so much a question of expediency as of
principle, I readily admit that it is a question of principle, and
I am tho last man in the world to undervalue the importance of
principle. But if I am to estimate the value of principle by the
kind of arguments to which that name has been given in the dis
cussion of this measure, I should be inclined to suppose that by
principle was meant something opposed to facts and experience.
If this is so, if principle is a thing of such a nature, that the more
you shut your eyes on the real circumstances of the case, the
firmer the grasp by which you lay hold on principle, then I must
admit that the weight of principle lies all on the other side of the
question. But, my Lords, I cannot attribute the dignity of a
principle to any of the arguments which I have seen adduced in
opposition to this measure. With the utmost respect for the
persons who have used them, I cannot consider them as anything
more than a tissue of sophisms and faUacies which have already
been so ably exposed that I am almost ashamed to advert to them
again. Some of them have been already repeated in the course of
the present debate, and I have no doubt that, as it proceeds, your
Lordships will hear a great many more. One of those arguments,
which has been produced in a great variety of forms, is, that this
measure tends to unchristianize the Legislature. How often has
this objection been confuted by the simple observation, that the
Legislature, after this measure shall have been passed, and shall
have been carried into actual operation, wIU remain Christian,
exactly in the same sense, and precisely in the same proportion, as
the country itself is Christian ! Your Lordships are not now, for
the first time, about to unchristianize the country. That was done
some two hundred years ago. It was done when the Jewish
element was introduced into the population of this country. And
I would beg your Lordships to recollect by whom that was done.
Perhaps I may be permitted to mention an anecdote which occurs

222 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
in a book with which it is possible that some of your Lordships
may not be familiar. It is related in Spence's " Anecdotes of
Books and Men," * and it rests on the authority of an eye-witness.
Sir Paul Eycant, who was present at a conference which took place
at WhitehaU, between the Protector and a body of the clergy of
London, whom he had called together to deliberate on the question,
whether the Jews should be permitted to buUd a synagogue in
London. I have an extract with me, but your lordships wUl
probably be satisfied with the substance. It is stated that on that
occasion the clergy inveighed against the Jews, as a cruel and
cursed race. The Protector did not deny It ; but he asked them,
in the first place, whether they did not hold the belief, that the
Jews were one day to be brought within the pale of the Christian
Church ? and next, whether they did not think that it was the
duty of every Christian to promote so desirable an end by aU the
means in his power ? The clergy, it may easily be supposed,
answered both these questions In the affirmative ; and then he
proceeded to ask if there was not a greater Ukelihood of such an
object being attained, if the Jews were brought into a country
where they would have the advantage of seeing the Christian
religion professed and practised In its purest form, than if they
were suffered to remain in other countries where it was disfigured
by numberless corruptions ? It Is added that this silenced the
clergy. Now, I do not expect that it will have the same effect at
this day with the opponents of this measure, nor have I quoted
the anecdote with any such view; but I wished to point out to
your Lordships, how little it can have entered into the mind of
that great man, that in the measure which he was then desirous
of introducing, though he must have known that he was about to
settle in this country a body of persons who would remain to all
time a constituent portion of its population, he was taking a step
which would have the effect of unchrlstianizing the country.
Perhaps It may be said — But what would Cromwell have thought
if it had been proposed to admit Jews into the Legislature ? My
Lords, I answer, that he never thought of that at all. Considering
* Note (D), p. 234.

THE DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS. 223
the difficulty which Cromwell found in persuading the clergy, and it
may be added, the merchants also, to consent to what he then pro
posed in favour of the Jews, it was morally impossible that the idea
of their admission into the Legislature could have entered into his
mind. That was a question which he left for posterity to solve.
But there is another point of view in which this argument has
sometimes been brought forward. It has been said that when we
admit Into the Legislature persons who profess a different religion
from our own, we are parting with the only security we possess
for the conscientious discharge of the duties of a legislator. It
is admitted that there can be no such security without a sense
of religion ; and It is assumed that religious principles must be
wanting in the Jew. Now, I wish your Lordships to see what is
the real point Involved in that multiplicity of phrases in which
this argument has been wrapt up. Nobody disputes the import
ance of a sense of religion in a member of the Legislature ; nobody
denies the influence of religion upon a man's views of morality,
and consequently upon his practice. I readily admit not only
that the professor of one religion will differ in most important
particulars, as to his moral sentiments, from the professor of
another : I even go further, and say that, within the circle of
Christianity itself, religious differences — as those of Catholic and
Protestant — will give a distinctive tinge and shape to a man's
notions of morality. But still it is clear that, after all, there
remains a large common ground, on which it would be an absurd
refinement to pretend that there is any difference between them
in their sense of right and wrong. Is it possible to contend that
a conscientious Jew would be prevented by his pecuUar feelings of
religion from doing his duty to the public in the capacity of a
legislator ? Do any of your Lordships consider it possible to draw
such a refined distinction as to say, that you could trace in the
vote that man would give upon any great public question the
effects of his particular views of religion ? I wiU only say that I
shall be content if your Lordships wIU only suspend your assent
to such a proposition as that, untU you are sure that you
thoroughly understand it.

224 Another objection equally faUacious and sophistical, which has
been brought against this measure, is that it is an innovation upon
the Constitution, because Christianity is part and parcel of the
Constitution. But I would ask. What kind of Christianity is
that in which this pja-i'l ^nd parcel consists ? And what is that
principle of the Constitution to which this measure is opposed ? I
freely admit that the old principle of the Constitution was one of
absolute exclusiveness. It proscribed and excluded from all places
of trust and authority, not only Jews, Turks, and Infidels, but
heretics and schismatics. It was only at a late period that
this principle has been relaxed. But the innovation took place
when that relaxation was admitted, and the principle which
this BUI is said to oppose ceased to form part of the British Con
stitution. The principle has been gradually relaxed, and at
length absolutely discarded. It is, therefore, not consistent with
the real state of the case to represent this measure as an innova
tion on the Constitution ; on the contrary, if there Is one thing
which has been more clearly proved than another on this question,
it is that the barrier which now happens to impede the admission
of Jews Into the Legislature Is the mere creature of accident —
that It was not raised by the Legislature for that purpose, but for
one totally different — and it now remains for your Lordships to
decide whether it shaU have an effect which it was never Intended
to produce. And therefore If your Lordships should reject this
measure. It wUl be you who wIU be making an Innovation upon
the Constitution, and introducing a principle which does not now
exist in it. The principle of this measure is in perfect harmony
with the most essential principle of the Constitution. It Is an
indication of that elastic vigour, flexibility, and expansiveness,
which are its glory and its strength. And It is to this very
quaUty — by virtue of which the Constitution is not a thing which
must be broken to pieces before it will admit of any change — that
this country is indebted for the immunity which it enjoj^s, and,
I hope, notwithstanding the denunciations of the noble Earl, ¦wiU
long continue to enjoy, from those convulsions by which elsewhere
society has been shaken to its centre.

THE DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS, 226
There is stiU another branch of the subject on which I •wish to
offer a few remarks before I sit down, more especially as it is one
on which I happen to flnd myself opposed to a person for whose
opinions I entertain the highest respect. I mean the natlonaUty
of the Jews. It has been contended that the Jew is essentially an
aUen, and, consequently, disqualified for a participation in the
privileges enjoyed by other subjects in this country. This opinion
is strongly asserted in the writings of Dr. Arnold, the author to
whom I have just alluded. It is there maintained that a Jew has
no more right to take a part in legislation for the people of this
country, than a lodger has to interfere in the management of a
house in which he happens to live.* Perhaps I might except to
the iUustration ; for cases may be conceived in which a lodger
would have a right to interfere in the affairs of the house in which
he lodged, according to the interest he might have In It. But
the justice of the comparison is a point of little importance.
There are other and stronger grounds on which I am obliged here
to dissent from Dr. Arnold. In the first place, his opinion was
evidently formed on the analogy of the Greek and Roman States,
rather than on the existing circumstances of this country. In the
history of those States he found a class which seemed to correspond
to the condition of the Jews ; and thus he was naturaUy led to
adopt the views taken by the ancient writers of the position and
relations of that class, and to apply them to the case of the Jews.
But there was another cause which operated stUl more strongly on
the mind of Dr. Arnold to give this direction to his opinions,
and It is one which I think should prevent your Lordships from
being much swayed by his authority on this question. Your
Lordships are probably aware of the extreme opinions held by
Dr. Arnold on the identity of Church and State, The admission
-of Jews to the Legislature appeared to him entirely irreconcilable
with his favourite theory, and he was, consequently, strongly
opposed to It. This I believe to be the ground to which his
opinions on the subject may be most distinctly traced. And not
only did they spring from a theory which few of your Lordships
* Note (E), p. 235.
VOL, III, Q

226 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
will be inclined to adopt, but they are carried to a length to which
you would hardly be prepared to go along with him ; for, in his
opinion. It would not be inconsistent with justice or humanity, if
the Government of this country should think proper to transport
all the Jews settled among us — as was done with the Morlscos in
Spain — to some other region. I do not know, if such a maxim
was generally admitted, where this unhappy race would find a
resting place for the soles of their feet, on the surface of the globe.
But I think your Lordships will allow that an opinion derived
from such an origin, and leading to such consequences, is not
entitled to all the weight which would otherwise belong to that
great and venerated name.
But this objection has been pushed still further. It has been
said that the Jew is not only an alien by descent, but that he is
incapable of those ties by which the feelings and Interests of
Englishmen are bound up with the prosperity of their country.
It is alleged that here he must always feel as In a foreign land :
that his heart must be in the birthplace of his religion, in
Palestine. Now, there is so far a foundation in fact for this
opinion, that the Jewish religion Is a religion of hope. It
encourages the Jews to look forward to a period more or less
remote, when he shall be restored to the land of his forefathers.
But, I must own, I cannot understand why on this account he
should in the meanwhile be less attached to the Interests of his
adopted country, or should less faithfully discharge his social
duties, than any other citizen.
Then it has been contended that no truly religious Jew can feel
any desire for the object of this measure. It Is asserted that the
Jews, as a body, are indifferent to It, and do not regard it as a
boon. There may be some truth in this ; but In no other sense
than a similar remark would apply to many bodies of Christians.
For many such there are who consider the Apostle's language,
"Here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to come,"
as still applicable to their own circumstances, and who are pre
vented by their religious scruples from taking an active part in
public Ufe.

THE DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS. 227
But, on the whole of this subject, I would observe, that the
argument from nationality reduces itself to the question of reli
gion.* It is clear that nothing but the difference of religion
has prevented the fusion of races from taking place In the case
of the Jews, as In that of the refugees who settled In this country
after the Edict of Nantes. Take away the religious difference, and
there would be no more reason for treating the Jews as aliens,
than any of the other races which compose the elements of our
mixed population. The people among whom I habitually reside
is separated from us by as great a difference, and one not only of
blood, but of language ; and In both respects feels itself to be
more closely connected with its brethren on the other side of the
Channel, than with Its fellow- citizens to the east of Offa's Dyke.
But this has not prevented them from being admitted to share
all the benefits of the British Constitution, and, I believe, that
nowhere in the kingdom are there to be found more loyal subjects.
My Lords, I am too thankful for the degree of attention with
which your Lordships have listened to me, to trespass any longer
on your time. The interest I feel In the subject has led me, per
haps, to dwell upon It at an excessive length. But I cannot say
that I look forward to the result of this discussion with any great
anxiety. I am a believer in the force of truth, in the power of
justice, and in the ultimate triumph of Christianity, and I am
firmly convinced that by passing this measure, as you will be con
sulting the interests of justice, so you will not be Impairing those
of the Christian faith, that you will not be retarding, but rather
hastening, the period of its final triumph. I believe that by
giving your assent to this Bill, you will be hastening the approach
of the time when the veU shall be taken away from the eyes of the
people for whose relief it Is designed ; because I believe that every
exclusion by which they are deprived of the rights enjoyed by
their fellow- subjects, lays an additional fold to the veil which
prevents them from discerning the truth. I am persuaded that by
such means you are weakening the strength and degrading the
dignity of Christianity. You are depriving it of its most essential
* Note (F), p. 235.
q2

228 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
character ; you are robbing it of its brightest attributes ; you are
identifying it with invidious and irritating distinctions, and pre
venting It from accomplishing Its great mission — that of promoting
the glory of God by diffusing peace and good-will among men.
The Bishop of St. David's afterwards observed, in explanation of
a part of his speech, which had been commented on by the Bishop
of Oxford, that he was aware he had been treading on delicate and
dangerous ground, and that he might be subjecting himself to
misrepresentation, but stiU he was surprised at the use which the
right rev. prelate who had just sat down had made of his observa
tions, and the construction he had put upon them. After all that
his right reverend friend'had said, he was unable to conceive how
his right reverend friend could have been led to such a conclusion
from his words : and the only explanation he could offer, which,
however, he believed would bo sufficient, was to state again what
he had already said. He had ventured to say that, in the possible
case which he had supposed, the feeling with which a Jew, such
as he had described, might regard the Founder of our religion,
might not essentially differ from the feeling with which He was
contemplated by the Unitarian. He could not understand how it
could be Inferred from this that he meant to diminish the amount
of difference between Judaism and Christianity. But certainly he
had not said that he considered Unitarlanism as a fair sample of
Christianity.

NOTES.

(A.)— p. 217.
The following passage is translated from Jest's " History of the Jews "
{Geschichte des Israelitischen Volkes, Berlin, 1832).
For the full understanding of it, it must be observed that the author
had been speaking, a few pages before, of a party which had been gaining
ground among the Jews in the reign of Herod, especially among the
Essenes, and which was alike opposed to the bigoted legalists, the party
of the Pharisees and doctors of the Law, and to the political fanatics who
were eager to restore the national independence by violent means. This
third party, consisting of persons who led a quiet, devout, contemplative
life, cherished hopes of a spiritual deliverance which should comprehend
both Jews and Gentiles. It was chiefly from this party that the first
converts were gained to Christianity. After a short summary of tho
earlier part of the Gospel history, as to which, however, he observes that
he does not pretend to form a judgment on the infinite variety of difierent
interpretations of the extant accounts and traditions, which would lead
him into the field of theological controversy, he proceeds as follows : —
" The Pharisees, who represented the Law as orally taught and tradi
tionally enlarged, and especially the hope of a glorious appearance of a
future Restorer of the kingdom, regarded his impugning the sanctity of
particular laws and their expiatory ¦virtue, and his announcement of the
principle that redemption is to be sought in spiritual conversion, as %
complete destruction of their doctrinal system. Though none of the
celebrated Jewish teachers engaged in controversy with him, he was,
forced to answer many captious questions, and to see his doctrines often
taxed with heresy. This was especially the case in Jerusalem, where
his adversaries took occasion, from certain expressions, to charge him
with treason, for which the circumstances of the times afibrded ready
means, A Sanhedrim, assembled under the Roman Governor, Pontius
Pilate, found him guilty, Pilate, urged by the excited populace, against.

230 NOTES,
his own conviction, caused him to be crucified. But the execution of the
decree of the Sanhedrim had an eifeot quite difi'erent from that which its
authors designed. This precipitate measure, which was not warranted
by the form of the procedure, gave vigour and unity to the disciples of
Jesus. They looked upon it not as the execution of an innocent man,
but as an outrage against the Godhead, which had filled him, and
animated by whose Spirit he had given up his body, for the salvation of
all men, to tortures and even to insult. "With the crucifixion of Christ
his followers cease to be Jews, and pass out of the field of history into
that of the Church of Christ."

Moses Mendelssohn : JerusaJem, "Wien, 1838, p. 287.
"Even if one of us goes over to the Christian religion, still I do not
understand how he can believe that by this step he sets his conscience at
liberty, and releases himself from the yoke of the Law. Jesus of
Nazareth never intimated that he was come to unbind the house of
Jacob from the Law. Indeed, so far from this, that he declared the
contrary in express words, and, what is more, he did the contrary him
self. Jesus of Nazareth observed, not only the law of Moses, but the
injunctions of the Rabbis ; and whatever appears to contradict this in his
record of discourses and actions, wear this appearance only at first sight.
When closely examined, all is perfectly in harmony, not only with
Scripture but with Tradition. If he came to stem the tide of hypocrisy
and sanctimoniousness, he will surely not have set the example of
sanctimoniousness, and have sanctioned, by his own example, a law
which was to be repealed and abolished. On the contrary, his whole
conduct, as well as that of his primitive disciples, evidently exhibits the
Rabbinical axiom : — One wlio is not horn in the Law need not bind himself
to the Law ; hut whosoever is born in tJie Law must live and die according
to the Law. If his followers in later times thought otherwise, and
believed that they could also release the Jews who adopted their
doctrine, this was certainly done without his sanction.
" And you, dear brothers and fellow-men, who follow the doctrine of
Jesus, can you take it amiss, if we do that which the founder of your
religion himself did and approved by his authority ? Are you to believe
it impossible that you can return the affection we feel for you as our
fellow-citizens, or unite yourselves with us by the ties of citizenship, so
long as we distinguish ourselves outwardly by the ceremonial law, and do
not eat or intermarry with you, which, so far as we' can see, the founder
of your religion neither did himself nor would have permitted us to do ?

NOTES. 231
Should this — a thing which we cannot suppose of men imbued with
Christian sentiments — be your genuine and abiding persuasion, if ¦we may
not be admitted into political union with you on any other terms than
¦deviation from the law which we hold to be still binding upon us, then
we are heartily sorry to be obliged to make such a declaration, but we must
rather renounce that political union. It does not rest with us to give way
on this point ; but it does rest with us, if we are right-minded men, to love
you nevertheless as brothers, and as brothers to implore you to make our
burdens as tolerable as you can. Consider us, if not as brothers and
fellow-citizens, at least as fellow-men and fellow-inhabitants of the land.
Show us ways, and supply us with means, of becoming better as such;
and allow us, as far as time and circumstances permit, to enjoy a share
of the rights of humanity. From the Law we cannot depart with a
good conscience, and what would you gain by fellow-citizens without a
<JonBcience ? "

I wiU not say that these extracts are decisive, though I do not see how
it is possible fairly to resist the inference I draw from them ; but I would
invite the reader's attention to two remarks. In the first place, one
passage of this kind appears to me to outweigh any number of such as
testify merely to the fact, or even to the opinion of Jews as to its
connexion with the essential doctrines of their faith. The other remark
is this : though I believe no one at all familiar with Mendelssohn's life
and writings would question his sincerity, still even this is not material
for my purpose. It is enough to see how a Jew, professedly orthodox,
might write on the subject without fear of being taxed with incon
sistency. It seems to have been thought that the preceding comparison between
Jews and Unitarians favours the former at the expense of the latter; though
I could not collect at the time, from the manner in which it was received,
whether I was supposed to have expressed myself too strongly for or
against the Unitarians ; and my uncertainty as to the precise nature of
the objection prevented me from meeting it with a satisfactory explana
tion. When the nature of my argument is considered, it will be seen that
the comparison was limited to a single point of coincidence, about which
there is no dispute, and was, therefore, perfectly inoffensive. The pith
of the argument was simply this : from the denial of the same doctrine
we are not at liberty, in the case of the Jew, to draw an inference which
is manifestly contradicted by experience, in the case of the Unitarian, I
did not overlook the distinction, which is, no doubt, very important in
other respects, that the Unitarian grounds his denial of a doctrine which.

232 NOTES,
to the great body of the Christian Church, is a main article of faith, on
his peculiar interpretation of Scripture, and rejects no claim which he
acknowledges to have been put forward by our Lord himself; whereas
the Jew would reject the doctrine, whether he admitted it to be contained
in our Scriptures or not. But the Jew is certainly still less bound than
the Unitarian to any particular interpretation of the New Testament : and
in general it seems clear that Judaism, in its relation to Christianity, is
simply negative, and independent of any hypothesis as to the human cha
racter of our LoED, and, consequentlj-, of any feelings which a particular
hjrpothesis might be likely to suggest. If any evidence was required for
such a proposition , I might refer to an exposition of the Jewish faith
contained in a Sermon recently published by Dr. Adler, Chief Rabbi of
the united congregations of the British Empire, (the Jewish Faith,) which,
professing to give an account of the fundamental articles of that faith,
makes no allusion whatever to Christianity or its Author. It is, there
fore, only by implication and construction that the views and feelings
which are commonly attributed to the Jews with regard to our religion,
can be shown to be inseparably connected with the essence of the Jewish
faith, I think that experience, within the history of Christianity itself,
ought to render us exceedinglj^ cautious about such processes of con
struction. The reader will not fail to observe that whatever is said on
this head in the Speech goes no further than an attempt to show that
the commonly received opinion — though seemingly justified by appear
ances which, however, admit, as was pointed out, of a different explanation
— is liable to serious doubt. I have, therefore, been somewhat surprised to
see that in certain quarters the mere raising of this question has been
solemnly denounced as not only an erroneous, but a highly dangerous
novelty. It is hard to understand, and does not seem very desirable to
establish, that a certain view of the Jewish view of Christianity belonga
to the fundamentals of our belief.

(B.)— P. 218.
The Question of Right.
The claim of the Jews to admission into the Legislature has never, I
believe, been represented as standing on the footing of absolute, uncon
ditional right, so as to involve- — as was emphatically asserted — the
principle of Chartism in its highest announcement. Any statements.
which may seem to go that length must in fairness be construed with

NOTES, 233
such a qualification as common sense requires and the argument itself
admits. Yet it has been constantly assumed that, unless the claim rests
on that ground, it can have no validity at all. And so it has been met
by a comparison with the case of clergymen, of females, of minors, and
of persons wanting the pecuniary qualification at present required by th&
law. But the fallacy of such a comparison is so glaring, as to be
characteristic of the spirit in which the question has been discussed.
The exclusion of clergymen and females, however it may be justified,
depends on reasons which are evidently quite inapplicable to the Jews.
On the other hand, the qualification of age and property is not an
absolute exclusion, but only a condition which every British subject, in the
one case must attain if he lives, and in the other may always hope to
attain. The religious impediment is a bar ^hich no effort of honest
industry can surmount.
It has been very justly observed, that a seat in Parliament is a trust,
conferred for the benefit, not of the representative, but of his constituents.
It is no less true that the elective franchise ought to be considered as
designed for the public good, not for the private advantage of the person
invested with it. But to infer that either is on this account the less an
object of legitimate ambition — which is nevertheless the point on which
the whole argument hinges — seems a strange oversight, not at all
indicating a higher tone of morality than is implied in the common
notions and practice, but rather one which is really far lower.

(C.)— P, 220.
Effect of the Admission of Jews on the Deliberations op the
Legislature.
Some pains have been taken to show that untoward consequences are to
be apprehended from the admission of Jews into Parliament, indepen
dently of the mode in which they may influence legislation by their votes.
So far as these attempts have succeeded in pointing out any real practical
inconvenience, it has been of so trifling a nature as hardly to bear a
serious discussion. But the argument from this topic was presented in a
more attenuated and refined form by some speakers in the House of
Lords, who expressed their dread that the introduction of a Jewish
member would lower the tone of debate. There is an advantage, or, as it
may be reckoned, a disadvantage attending such phrases : that they are
not capable of being strictly analyzed, and produce a deeper impression
as they are less distinctly understood. If the objection is, that after a

¦234 NOTES,
Jew has been admitted into the Legislature, it will be impossible any
longer to appeal to it as a body exclusively Christian, the fact cannot be
denied. But if we may judge from experience, a Christian will be no
more restrained from avowing his own religious convictions in the pre-
•sence of Jews, than Protestants in the presence of Roman Catholics.
And I cannot sympathize with the regret which was intimated by some
speakers at the kind of check .which has been imposed on the expression
of religious opinions in Parliament, by the presence of members whose
religious views diff'er from those of the majority. I doubt whether any
thing would be gained, if such explosions of religious zeal as this check
tends to repress were more frequent or more violent than they actually
are. To a calm and temperate, but frank and manly avowal of every
man's religious convictions, it certainly opposes no restraint whatsoever.
And perhaps it is as well always to speak on disputable matters as if in
the hearing of those who differ from us. But the main point is, that a
Christian member of the House of Commons, even if he had a Jew by his
side, would be able, with as much truth and propriety as ever, to address
that House as representing a Christian people.

(D.)— P. 221,
Spence, p, 77.

" The Jews had better success with OHver Cromwell, when they
desired leave to have a synagogue in London, They offered him, when
Protector, sixty thousand pounds for that privilege. Cromwell appointed
them a day for his giving them an answer. He then sent to some of the
most powerful among the clergy, and some of the chief merchants in the
-city, to be present at their meeting. It was in the long gallery at White
hall. Sir Paul Rycant, who was then a young man, pressed in among the
crowd, and said he never heard a man speak so well in his life, as Crom
well did on this occasion. When they were all met, he ordered the
Jews to speak for themselves. After that he turned to the clergy, who
inveighed much against the Jews as a cruel and cursed people. Crom
well, in his answer to the clergy, called them ' Men of God,' and
desired to be informed by them whether it was not their opinion that the
Jews were one day to be called into the church ? He then desired to
know, whether it was not every Christian man's duty to forward that
good end all he could ? Then he flourished a good deal on the religion
prevailing in this nation, the only place in the world where religion was

NOTES. 235
taught in its full purity : was it not then our duty, in particular, to
encourage them to settle here, where alone they could be taught the
truth ; and not to exclude them from the sight, and leave them among
idolaters ? This silenced the clergy."

(E.)— P. 225,
Stanley's Life of Arnold, ii, p. 32.
" The Jews are strangers in England, and have no more claim to legis
late for it than a lodger has to share with the landlord in the management
of his house. If we had brought them here by violence, and then kept
them in an inferior condition, they would have just cause to complain :
though even then, I think, we might lawfully deal with them on the
Liberia system, and remove them to a land where they might live by
themselves independent ; for England is the land of Englishmen, not of
Jews."

(F.)— P. 226,
Question of Nationality,
This is perhaps as rich a vein of fallacies as is to be found in the whole
field of the discussion ; and it has been very diligently worked. Vehe
ment astonishment — implying that I had fallen into an egregious logical
oversight — was excited by my remark, that the argument from nation
ality reduces itself to the question of religion, and by itself has no more
weight than in the case of other foreign races which share the soil of
our island with us. It seems to have been forgotten that I had
previously dwelt at considerable length on the question of religion, and
therefore might think that I had a right to examine the question of
nationality by itself, to see whether it afibrded any solid ground of
objection apart from the other. The peculiarity of the case of the
Jews is, that there is a difierence of blood as well as of religion ;
and no doubt it is the difference of religion that has preserved the
distinction of race. But if neither constitutes a valid objection bj'
itself, it would remain to prove, that nevertheless both combined do
so ; which, however, nobody attempted to show. Great stress was laid

236 NOTES,
on the term nation, and it seems to have been thought it could not
be applied to the Jews by the advocates of the BUI, without virtually
admitting the position of its opponents. But this was an advantage
taken — no doubt in perfect good faith, but without sufficient attention — ¦
of the ambiguity of the term. So far as nation is equivalent to race, it
may be said that the Jews scattered over the world are still a nation.
But then this would be of no avail for the purpose of the argument.
That requires that the further notion of political unity should be
connected with the word. But in this sense it is wholly untrue, and
never was admitted by any advocate of the Bill, that the Jews are still a
nation. There is no more political unity between the English Jews and
French Jews than between the natives of Wales and of Brittany. Nor
is there any closer religious connexion between English and foreign
Jews than between English and foreign Roman Catholics ; nor any better
reason in the one case than in the other, to suspect that the ties of
religion are so much stronger than those which bind the citizen to his
country, as to render these insecure. It may be added, that the Jews
are scarcely separated from the rest of the community more rigidly than
are the Quakers by their religious peculiarities, and hardly more dis
tinguished by a peculiar physiognomy, the result of that separation.
The admirable qualities and conduct of the Society of Friends make us
overlook the great anomalies in their social position created by their
reUgious opinions, and the extraordinary degree of independence which
they maintain, though it is such as on principle might have afibrded
as forcible arguments against their admission to political privileges as any
that have been advanced in the case of the Jews.

THE IRISH CHURCH:
A Speech delivered in the House of Loeds on Junk 15th, 1869.

The Bishop of St. David's : — I wish to say a few words on this
great question, as it is one on which it would be Impossible for me
to give a silent vote, because the vote which I shall feel it my
duty to give would inevitably be exposed to very grave miscon
struction if it were not preceded by some explanation of its mean
ing ; and I am the more anxious to avail myself of this opportunity
of addressing your Lordships, because I was not present at the
debate of last year on the Suspensory BIU. My Lords, I was very
much afraid that the view which I take of this subject is one that
was not likely to find much favour on either side of this House.
But the noble earl who moved the rejection of this BIU assured
your Lordships that there reaUy was a very general unanimity
among your Lordships upon this subject, which, I believe, no one
had before suspected to exist to such a degree. And therefore I
cherish the hope that I may be destined to the agreeable surprise
of finding myself in not quite so small a minority as I had at first
expected I should be. My Lords, before I state, as I intend to do
very briefly indeed, my position with regard to this BIU, I feel
myself bound to advert for a few moments to one or two points
which lie at the threshold of the whole subject, and to which I
believe persons who are entitled to the highest respect, both inside
and outside of your Lordships' House, attach very great Importance ;
and I feel, occupying the place which I do in your Lordships'
House, that I can hardly, consistently with the respect which I
owe to those persons and to many of my Bight Bev. brethren who

238 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
share their view, pass them over in silence. To those persons the
measure now proposed for our approval seems so plainly stamped
"with the character of a sacrilegious spoliation as to supersede the
necessity, and even to preclude the right, of entering upon the
discussion of the subject on any other grounds. The noble duke
who took part in the debate last night said : The property of the
Irish Church is not the property of the Boman Catholic Church ;
it is not the property of the Protestant Church ; It is the pro
perty of God. I do not attempt to bring over any one to my
own way of thinking on this point ; but I must own that I am
inclined to en-vy those who are able to satisfy themselves with
this summary way of settling the question. Of course there is a
sense in which the proposition of the noble duke is unques
tionable. We know that the earth is the Lord's and the fulness
thereof But It was not in that sense he meant the phrase, " the
property of God," to be understood. He used it as Involving an
argument which he conceived to bear with great weight on the
present question. And I must own that in this sense the phrase,
" robbery of God," grates upon my ear. It seems to me to corre
spond to a view of the Deity which is neither Christian nor even
Judalcal, but heathenish. When I open the Old Testament I find
several passages, familiar I have no doubt to your Lordships, in
which the Jewish people are severely reproved for cherishing the
vain and superstitious notion, common to the heathen nations
around them, that material offerings might be accepted by the
Most High as supplying some want of the Divine nature. My
Lords, when I read those passages, when I read others in the New
Testament In which the sacrifices with which God Is weU pleased
are described, together with the nature of a pure religion or
worship, I am led to the conclusion that no material offerings are
so acceptable to the Almighty as those which are most beneficial
to man. Let me suppose a case not wholly Imaginary to illustrate
my meaning. A wealthy and munificent gentleman builds a
magnificent cathedral in Dublin. A wealthy and munificent lady
builds a public market in London. My Lords, I believe that each
of those acts was in the intention of the donor an offering to God,

THE IRISH CHURCH, '^SQ"
and I beUeve each of them to be an equally acceptable offering to
Him. But let me suppose that a fund had been bequeathed to be
appropriated at the discretion of a trustee to one or the other of
those purposes, I should like to know on what principle the decision
of that trustee — if he were worthy to exercise so important a trust
— ought to depend. I think I shaU have the assent of your Lord
ships when I say that his decision ought to depend not on the
superior sanctity of the destination, but on the local need or the
general usefulness. It is not a question between God and man,
but between one kind of gift beneficial to society and another.
My Lords, the word " sacrilege " has been heard very often of
late in this House ; and I must say Its use reminds me of some
instructive pages in the history of the early Christian Church.
The cry of " sacrilege " was raised against St. Ambrose ; and it
was raised by a party with which I am sure neither any of my
Bight Bev. brethren nor the Noble Lord the chairman of com
mittees (Lord Eedesdale) feel the slightest sympathy — the Arians.
And on what ground was this cry raised ? Why, because St.
Ambrose had sold the sacred vessels of the Church of Milan in
order to apply the proceeds to the profane purpose of ransoming
prisoners who had fallen into the hands of the Goths. My Lords,
in my opinion that was not the least meritorious or the least holy
act of that holy man's life. And observe, what does it imply ?
It implies that. In the opinion of one who was undoubtedly a
very sincere Christian and not at all a Low Churchman, circum
stances might arise in which Church property, even while it con
tinued to be capable of serving its original purpose, might be
rightly and fitly diverted to another and a wholly different use.
I am not saying that in this case such circumstances have arisen,
but what I say is that the possibility of such circumstances arising,
if that be admitted, at once transfers the question to the broad
ground of general expediency and common utility. It shows that-
such expressions as " sacrUege " and " robbery of God " applied to
this subject are as irrelevant and misapplied as they are irritating
and offensive. There may be an error of judgment in the esti
mate of the circumstances, in the calculation of results, in the

240 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
comparison of advantages, but there is no fair room for the impu
tation of a sin or a crime.
My Lords, next to the reluctance I should feel to consent to
anything that In my opinion deserved the name of sacrilege, would
te that with which I should shrink from consenting to any mea
sure which in my opinion tended to strengthen the power of the
Pope or the influence of the Boman CathoUc clergy, more espe
cially in Ireland. My Lords, I venture to say that none of your
Lordships feel more strongly than I do on this subject. It Is true,
I do not sympathize with all the demonstrations of Protestant zeal
which are now so rife. I do not like, I utterly dislike and con
demn, those itinerant lecturers who kindle evil passions, provoke
breaches of the peace, and turn the streets of our great towns into
scenes of tumult and even bloodshed. And why do I dislike
them ? Not because they are adverse to Bome, but because I
think that they bring disgrace and damage on the cause which
they profess to serve. I also very much question the judgment of
continually holding up the Pope as a scarecrow. A scarecrow,
my Lords, Is most effective at first, but in course of time, I believe,
it is often found, if It holds Its place too long, the birds it was
meant to frighten learn to perch on Its shoulder, and even to build
their nests in its hat. But still I venture to say that not one of
these Protestant agitators is more strenuously opposed to the
power of the Pope — none more deeply convinced that that power
is in direct antagonism to the best interests of mankind — none
more ready to contend against it by all weapons of legitimate
warfare than I am. But, my Lords, I must say with regard
to myself, It is not enough to say that I am a friend of Protes
tant ascendancy — I am a great deal more than that. I am what
some of Its friends, I fear, are not in an equal degree with myself, I
am a believer in it. But the ascendancy I mean is an Intellectual,
moral, and religious ascendancy, the ascendancy of reason and
truth over superstition and error. That ascendancy is so different
from the physical ascendancy which is maintained by the cannon
and the bayonet, that they are almost incompatible with one
another. Of that true ascendancy, I hope and trust the Irish

THE IRISH CHURCH. 241
Church never wUl be deprived, as no act of the Legislature can
take it away.
It seems to me that there are persons and Protestants who
believe in the Pope, while they hate and fear him. I neither hate
nor fear him, but I utterly disbelieve in him. And their error is
that they measure the extent of his power by the arrogance and
extravagance of his pretensions, as if hectoring and swaggering
were sure proofs of strength and valour, I think the very extra
vagance of his pretensions is not only a sign but a cause of his
weakness. Of this I feel sure, that the Papal power is everywhere
on the wane. When I look at Austria, Italy, Spain, countries
once the most devoted to the authority of the See of Bome, I find
that in all these countries the power of the Pope is in a condition
of rapid decUne. But if I needed to be reassured against the
visionary terrors of Papal supremacy, it would be enough for me
to turn to the annals of our o^wn history. The Parliament of
this country was more than a match for the Pope even when this
island was subject to his spiritual dominion ; and can it be sup
posed that as the Parliament of a Protestant nation it wUl not be
too strong for him now ?
But as one exception to the universal decline of the power of
the Pope, I admit that in, Ireland he has a very formidable strong
hold, from which I should most earnestly wish to see him dislodged.
In that country the Boman Catholic priesthood possess a power
which I think is enormous and excessive independently of the
manner in which it is employed. It is greater than in any other
country in Europe ; it is so great that it hardly admits of an
increase ; it is such as ought not to belong to any priesthood in
any weU regulated State. I think that no priest ought to possess
the power of condemning a person to death at his pleasure by
denouncing him at the altar, and I quite agree with the Bight
Bev. Prelate (the Bishop of Derry), who addressed us -with so
much energy last night, that the system on which the Boman
CathoUc priesthood Uve in Ireland is not really a voluntary system
but entirely the reverse. They levy the means of their subsistence
by a kind of spiritual distraint, which is quite as effectual as any
VOL. III. K

242 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
legal process would be, but is attended, I believe, with most mis-
chievous and calamitous consequences. But that is a pecuUarity
of Ireland, which Is in so many respects an exceptional country,
and it has been found side by side with another exceptional phe
nomenon, which is the Established Church of Ireland ; and I
must say when I see these two singular phenomena in such close
juxtaposition, I cannot think It an unfair or unreasonable conclu
sion to draw that they stand to one another In the relation of
cause and effect. I reaUy think it hardly admits of a doubt that
this pernicious system has been the result of that false Protestant
ascendancy which it is the object of the BIU now before your
Lordships to aboUsh ; and I think there is room for hope that the
effect may not very long sur'vlve the extinction of the cause, and
that before long the time may come when the Irish peasant wiU
recover or gain his rightful freedom of thought and action ; that
he will become accessible to the pure light of the Gospel ; that he
¦will be able, without danger of insult or outrage, to avow and act
upon his convictions ; and that then It may turn out that the Irish
Protestant Church may find itself, for the first time, standing on
a reaUy broad and firm basis of popular sympathy and affection.
Having thus cleared the way for that which was my main
object in rising, I wiU now state very briefly the position I hold in
regard to the Bill ; and I think it wUl be most convenient if I
state first how far I am able to agree with the authors of the
measure, and then where and why I feel myself obUged to part
company with them. I have long been of opinion that the Irish
EstabUshed Church was not an institution weU suited to the cir
cumstances of Ireland ; and I have always believed that from the
moment the British Government changed its policy towards Ire
land, and entered on a course of concession and conciliation, the
settlement of the Irish Church question on an entirely new basis
became logically and practicaUy inevitable, and that it was only a
question of time when that settlement would be effected. I con
ceive that the course of events since the close of the American
Civil War has decided that question. It has brought the subject
of the settlement of the Irish Church to a prominence which it

THE IRISH CHURCH. 243
never before occupied, and has caused it to become, to use a com
mon expression, the question of the day. I must say that I can
not admire the equanimity of a statesman who, contemplating the
state of things since the American Civil War, can look on it with
composure, and can be content to trace It to the influences of the
stars or of the ocean, and to leave it to the chapter of accidents.
My Lords, the policy of laissez alter and the statu quo does not
seem to me to belong to a very high order of statesmanship at any
time. But In such a state of things as that through which we
have been passing, it amounts, in my opinion, to a positive abdica
tion of the duties of government. But it is said that we have
allowed ourselves to be needlessly frightened by a wretched and
contemptible conspiracy. My Lords, I am surprised it should not
have been observed that just because the Fenian conspiracy was
in itself so contemptible, did the sympathy it found among the
masses of the Irish people constitute a just ground of anxiety and
even of alarm. It is also said that it is vain to hope that this
measure will effect the pacification of Ireland. I quite agree that
this is not likely to be the immediate or very speedy result of the
measure ; but I would ask what right have we to expect that any
measure we may adopt will either immediately or speedily pro
duce the result of effacing the memory of centuries of misrule, and
of causing brotherly friendship at once to spring up In the room
of animosity, rancour, and revenge ?
I agree then with the authors of the present measure in think
ing that the object they had in view was a right one, and that it
was one of urgent necessity ; but there my entire agreement with
them ceases. The solution of the great problem which I find
embodied in the BIU before your Lordships is not the solution
which I have been used to consider as the best or the right one.
I have been In the habit of thinking that It is necessary that the
Irish Church should cease to be the Established Church, but not
that it should cease to be an Established Church. I think that it
ought not to engross the whole provision made for the reUgious
instruction of the people of Ireland, but that it ought not to be
totally disendowed. The eloquent argument we heard last night
R 2

244 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
from the Bight Bev. Prelate [the Bishop of Peterborough] was
not needed to satisfy my mind on that point. I should be very
sorry to see the Irish Church, or any Church, thrown on the
voluntary system, and launched in a boat on a troubled sea
without any provision for the voyage.
From this simple statement your Lordships will be able to see
in what respect and how far I differ from that which in one sense
may be caUed the general principle of the Bill. But there is an
important practical consideration which ought not to be kept out
of view, I apprehend that the first and most indispensable con
dition of a good Bill on any subject of legislation, is, that it can
be carried. A measure which does not fulfil that condition, how
ever admirably it may be framed in all other respects, can never
be worth more than waste paper. I cannot be a judge of the
political necessity which may have induced the authors of this
measure to believe that it not only justified but required them to
take the course they have done, and, therefore, though it is one
which differs widely from that which I should have thought desir
able, I do not reproach or condemn them on that account. Had
they taken a different course, they would, no doubt, have had to
contend with many obstacles. I find that at a conference of arch
bishops, bishops, and representatives of the clergy and laity, of
the Irish branch of the Established Church, held at Dublin last
April, it was declared that they protested against this measure of
disestablishment and disendowment ; and then they proceeded to
say that they distinctly repudiated what is commonly kno^wn as
the "leveUIng up" system. If that language is to be considered
as a legitimate exponent of the general feeling, what hope could
remain, I should like to know, of passing a measure of a totaUy
different kind from the present? I, therefore, think that no
course is left open but that recommended by the Most Bev,
Primate in the powerful speech he delivered yesterday — namely,
to make the most of what we have, and to get as much as we
can, I believe that in the detaUs of this Bill there are many
things open to most serious objection and capable of great
improvement, but aU this is an argument, not for rejecting but

THE IRISH CHURCH. 245
for accepting the measure, and making the best of it. I am
thankful to the noble Earl (Carnarvon) who addressed the House
last but one yesterday for relieving me from the necessity of touch
ing on another topic, which I should otherwise have been bound to
advert to — I mean the argument founded on the fancied analogy
of the case of Wales to that of Ireland. Far from there being an
analogy, there is the strongest contrast between the two, not only
in the fact that there Is no broad channel flowing between England
and Wales, but also in the circumstance that the whole population
of Wales are of one way of thinking on religion, and do not differ
from the EstabUshed Church In any essential point, in a greater
degree than the members of the EstabUshed Church differ from
one another.
Entertaining these mixed views, I have anxiously considered
whether it might be consistent with my duty to abstain from
voting on this question. There were several motives which would
have incUned me to adopt this course. But I remembered the
place and the doom assigned by the great ItaUan poet to that
" Setta del cattlvi " who, on momentous occasions, when great
questions were debated and high interests were at stake, sided
with neither party, but kept aloof and by themselves in a selfish
neutrality. I did not like to join myself to that company ; and I
felt that It was my duty to consider my vote as If It were the cast
ing vote on which the issue of the debate would depend. View
ing It in that light, I could not hesitate as to the side on which
my vote must be given. My Lords, for my own part I cannot
accept the responsibility of the consequences which In my opinion
would inevitably ensue, even on the least unhappy contingency,
if your Lordships were to fling this BUI at the face of the country.
This BIU will be as sure to come back to your Lordships' House
as a stone thrown up into the air is sure to come down to the
ground. It will return, itself unaltered, but it wUl not find your
Lordships as it left you. You ¦will receive It again, but not with
out a serious diminution to your dignity, your reputation, and
your legitimate influence in the country. These are precious
things. They are parts of a national treasure of which your

246 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
Lordships are the trustees, and it behoves you to watch over them
with a most jealous care. It is because I could not consent by
any act of mine to Impair or to imperil them, that I shall feel my
self compelled — not indeed without reluctance, but without the
slightest misgiving as to the propriety of the course I am taking
— to record my vote for the second reading of the Bill.

SPEECH ON THE ATHANASIAN
CREED,
Deliveeed in the Upfek House op Convocation, Febkuaby 9th, 1872.

I HOPE I shall not stand very long in the way of my Bight Bev.
brother.* I cannot say that I was impatient to begin the dis
cussion, but I believe that what I have to say wiU not be affected
by anything on the face of the report — that there ¦wUl be no reason
for delaying it, — and that it •wiU be rather more convenient that
I should now begin. There are some considerations which appear
to me of great importance which I wish to put before your Grace
and my Bight Bev, brethren, and my only anxiety is that I shall
not be able to do justice to the subject.
The speech which we heard yesterday afternoon from my
Bight Bev, brother the Bishop of Lincoln, whom I am extremely
sorry not to see in his place, although in itself, as might be ex
pected from such a person, very instructive, very interesting, very
learned, and one which we may hope hereafter to see in another
form, stiU seemed to me to furnish an additional example of that
which I have observed in the case of many who have written on
the subject — that the question, the practical question, has been
entirely overlooked, I do not mean in the sUghtest degree to dis
parage the value of the labours of Waterland, or of Mr. Harvey,
* The Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol, ¦who had moved the adjovirninent on the
pre-vious day, and said he wished to -waive his right in favour of the Bishop of St.
David's.

248 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
or of Mr. Ffoulkes, or of Mr. Brewer, or of the many other eminent
and re*spectable persons who have been discussing the vexed ques
tion of the 'authorship ; but I do say that if we keep in view that
which appears to me to be the real practical question before us, it
wUl be immediately seen that the inquiry, however interesting and
important in itself, is in this point of view utterly irrelevant, and
cannot affect our conclusions In the sUghtest degree. The single
practical question is this, — whether we are or are not to continue
the use of the Athanasian Creed in the public services of the
Church ; and I hold that with regard to this it is almost absurdly
irrelevant to dwell on the authorship of the Creed. For my own
part, I would say that if I were as firmly convinced that every
syUable came from the pen of St. Athanaslus as I am persuaded
of the contrary, that would not in the slightest degree affect my
objection to the continued use of the Creed in the services of the
Church. Then, again, a great deal has been said, and I think
in rather an invidious manner, something savouring of the dis-
ingenuousness of controversy, on the truth of the Creed, or the
soundness of the doctrine, — suggesting that any one who dis
approved of its continued use could only do so because of his
disbelief in the doctrines of the Creed. I think this a very unfair
suggestion. If the question was, whether we were to retain or
repudiate the Creed, no doubt that would be an inquiry of supreme
and vital importance ; but I am not aware that any one has sug
gested its removal, or that any one wishes to see it removed from
the monuments of the Church, or that it should not be held in as
much veneration and respect as ever. All that is desired is that
it should not form part of the public services of the Church, The
question before us is as to the value, the character — the intrinsic
value of the contents of this document ; and with regard to that I
am palnfuUy conscious that I have the great misfortune of differ
ing from many eminent persons — from those who were described
by the Bishop of Lincoln as the flower and ornament of the
Church of England ; and I am afraid I may be also found to differ
from some of my Bight Bev. brethren here present. I reaUy don't
know whether that be so or not. But I have one ground of com-

THE ATHANASIAN CREED, 249
fort, and that is that I know I have the countenance and support
of another very eminent person, who, although not living, yet
speaketh in his works and writings — I mean no less a man than
Bishop Jeremy Taylor ; and I must say with regard to him that
however eminent may be the persons who hold the contrary
opinion, I cannot believe they are so immeasurably superior to
Jeremy Taylor, either in learning, or in judgment, or in piety, or
in any quality of mind or character as to warrant their looking
down upon him with contempt, and either scouting, or Ignoring,
or forgetting that which he has written on this subject. Whether
if Jeremy Taylor was now living he would be considered as behind
or in advance of his age I really do not know. If he was to be
considered as behind it, I can only say that I for my own part am
content to be found lagging behind our present light and progress
in his company. I shall never be ashamed of it. No doubt he
was benighted or simple-minded enough to faU into what are now
considered great errors with regard to the sense of the Creed as it
now stands. He was simple enough to take the words of what
have hitherto been called the Damnatory Clauses, but which it
appears under our new light to be Improper so to call without the
qualification of " so-called " or " miscalled," in their plain natural
sense. He understood them to mean what they actuaUy appear
to say. Then, again, I find In the writings of Jeremy Taylor a
very wide discrepancy of opinion between his view of the value of
the contents of this Creed from those which are put forward by
the representatives of another school. In the memorial of the
English Church Fnion, which says — " We believe that any such
change would be dangerous to the best interests of the Church of
England, and a grave injury to the maintenance of dogmatic
principles, as to the most central truths of the faith." Jeremy
Taylor was so far from considering these truths in the light of
great central truths that he described them as speculative opinions,
curiosities of explication, minute particularities, with regard to
which he said — " If it were considered concerning Athanaslus's
Creed how many people understand it not, how contrary to natural
reason it seems, how little the Scripture says of these curiosities

'250 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
of expUcation, and how tradition was not clear on his side " — ^he
thinks that " considering all this it had not been amiss if the final
judgment had been left to Jesus Christ." * Now, my Lords, the
views of Jeremy Taylor on this subject are very remarkable in
this respect. If he had been now living and In this room, and
had taken part In the discussion of this question on which we are
now engaged, he could have said nothing more directly to the
purpose than he has said in his treatise on the Liberty of Prophesy
ing : and I would venture to beg your Lordships to bear with me
for a few moments while I read two or three sentences. He says,
" I am much pleased with the enlarging of the Creed which the
Cormcll of Nice made, because they enlarged it to my sense." t
Tour Lordships wIU observe that in Jeremy Taylor's view it was
a matter. open to very grave doubt whether the Council of Nicea
was justified in point of discretion in framing any new creed at
aU. He goes on to say — " But I am not sure that others are
satisfied with it. While we look upon the articles they did deter
mine, we see aU things well enough ; but there are some wise
personages who consider It In aU circumstances, and think the
Church had been more happy if she had not been in some sense
constrained to alter the simplicity of her faith, and make it more
curious and articulate, so much that he had need be a subtle man
to understand the very words of the new determinations." I would
observe that in this treatise of Jeremy Taylor — which, as your
Lordships know, Is comprised in three sections — it wUl be found
on examination that the headings of these sections are direct con
tradictions of much that has been advanced on this subject, and
that their contents afford a satisfactory refutation of those opinions,
one at least of which I have never yet seen answered, I wiU read
two or three sentences more, my Lords : — " Since," he says, " it
is necessary to rest somewhere, lest we should run to an Infinity,
it is best to rest there where the Apostles and the Churches apos-
toUcal rested, where not only they who are able to judge, but
others who are not, are equally satisfied of the certainty and of the
* Works (Eden's ed.), vol. v. p. 406, § 36.
t lb., p. 398, § 25.

THE ATHANASIAN CREED, 251
sufficiency of its explication. This I say, not that I beUeve it to
be unlawful or unsafe for the Church, or any wise man to extend
his own Creed to anything which may certainly follow from any
one of the Articles ; but I say that no such deduction is fit to be
pressed upon others as an article of faith." * A little later he
observes, with something of a touch of pathos — "Indeed, if the
Church, by declaring an article, can make that to be necessary
which before was not necessary, I do not see how it can stand with
the charity of the Church so to do." t In the second section he
deals, as I was remarking, expUcitly with the Athanasian Creed,
though I think there is not a word throughout the treatise which
does not apply to it. And here I must again be permitted to read
a sentence or two : — " Now, if I should be questioned concerning
the symbol of Athanaslus (for we see that the NIcene symbol was
the father of many more, some twelve or thirteen, in the space of
a hundred years), I confess I cannot see that moderate sentence
and gentleness of charity in his preface and conclusion that there
was in the NIcene Creed. Nothing there but damnation and perish
ing everlastingly, unless the Article of the Trinity be beUeved, as
it is there with curiosity and minute particularities explained," J
Then, in answer to those who think that such opinions cannot be
held by any who believe the contents of the Creed, let me call
your Lordships' attention to what foUows : — " For the Articles
themselves, I am most heartily persuaded of the truth of them ;
and yet I dare not say all that are not so are irrevocably damned."
And he says. If It were considered how many persons understand
it not, — perhaps we should rather say, how few understand it, how
contrary, to natural reason it seems — he thinks that it would not
be amiss if the final judgment were left to Jesus Christ. I wiU
only trouble your Lordships with one passage more, which is the
sum of this discourse upon heresy : — " The sum of this discourse
is this : if we take an estimate of the nature of things from the
dictates and promises evangelical and from the practice apostoUcal,
the nature of faith and its integrity consist in such propositions
» V. <,., p. 374, § 11. t P- 376, § 12. X P. 405, § 36,

252 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
which make the foundation of hope and charity, that which Is
sufficient to make us do honour to Christ, and to obey Him, and
to encourage us in both. And this is completed in the Apostles'
Creed." * These, then, are Jeremy Taylor's views on this matter.
Now, my Lords, I am far from setting up Jeremy Taylor or any
other person as an infallible authority ; but I do think that he is a
person whose opinions, being so decided, and supported with such
a weight of argument and reasoning, are entitled to very consider
able respect. StiU we must come to the question, which is inde
pendent of his authority or any other — the intrinsic value of this
document, and that with reference to the question on which I have
endeavoured to fix your attention, as to the propriety of retaining
it as a part of the pubUc services of the Church. Now, I submit
that this is not a question that depends upon sentiment or ima
gination, or on the effect of long association and usage, or anything
of that kind ; but that it is a thing which admits of being very
precisely determined by a simple, sober process of analysis ; and I
would respectfully Invite aU my Bight Bev. brethren to perform
that Uttle operation of analyzing the contents of the Creed each
for himself. I have on my part endeavoured so to do, and I will
very briefly state the conclusion to which I have been led. In the
first place, on trying to ascertain what might be the amount of
loss with respect to dogmatical teaching that the Church would
sustain, or would have sustained, if the Athanasian Creed had never
been composed, I was struck by the fact that the longest series of
propositions contained in the Creed are in that respect a mere
rhetorical amplification. They begin with the proposition, " Such
as the Father is, such is the Son, and such is the Holy Ghost ; the
Father uncreate, the Son uncreate, the Holy Ghost uncfeate, yet
not three uncreated, but one uncreated, and one incomprehensible,"
and so on. The plan, your Lordships see, is to enumerate a variety
of divine attributes, and then to make the assertion that the Father
is such, the Son is such, the Holy Ghost is such, and yet they are
not three, but one. I know of no reason whatever in the nature
of things why this should not have been prolonged to the extent
* P. 409, § 41.

THE ATHANASIAN CREED, 253
of the whole Creed ; because it seems to have been by pure acci
dent that the author, whoever he was, confined himself to these
particular iUustrations. He might have gone through the whole
range of the divine attributes : God Is holy, God is ¦wise, God is
just, God Is light, God Is love. He might have gone through the
whole of them, and left us in point of doctrine exactly where we
were before ; and if the whole of this were struck out of the Creed,
it would, as far as I see, make absolutely no more difference with
regard to the amount of the dogmatical loss that the Church would
have sustained than if It had never existed. This fills some thir
teen or fourteen verses out of the forty or forty-one of the Creed,
and that is a very considerable portion indeed. Well, deduct these
passages and those which are rightly or wrongly caUed Damnatory
or Minatory Clauses; deduct aU that is mere introduction and
recapitulation ; deduct all that it has simply In common ¦with the
preceding creeds, and I think your Lordships ¦will mostly find that
what remains of the Athanasian Creed, and which must be con
sidered as its essence, will be reduced to some seven or eight verses ;
not much more. There may be some little difference of opinion,
but, at any rate, it is not much more than that. Then observe
that these portions, which are the very essence of the Creed, are
just those to which the language of Bishop Jeremy Taylor most
directly and properly applies, as opinions speculative, curiosities
of expUcation, and minute particularities, things which ought never
to have been made articles of faith. Every objection that he has
urged against such teaching applies, above all, to those portions of
the Creed which wiU remain after that process has been performed.
My Lords, I wiU not dwell any longer upon that point ; but there
is stUl another point upon which I must trouble you ¦with a remark
or two, because I see that great stress has been laid by the EngUsh
Church Union and by others on our Eighth Article. What are
we to do with that ? That the Creeds ought to be thoroughly
received and believed, as proved by most certain warrants of Holy
Scripture, Now, my Lords, on that point I venture to make three
observations. The first is, that this must clearly be taken with
the necessary qualification arising from the profound mysterious-

254 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
ness of the subject, and the ine^vltable limitation of the faculties
of the human mind. When the word " certain " is used here, it
is used in a qualified sense ; not as the certainty of a mathematical
demonstration, but as that which may satisfy a reasonable mind.
Next, I would observe, as a general remark, that the more pro
foundly mysterious is the subject of a proposition to be proved
from Holy Writ the greater is the likelihood that it will be found
possible to prove by most certain warrant of Holy Scripture two
propositions which are in direct conflict one with the other. I
think we have sufficient examples of that in several doctrines. I
would ask — Can anything be capable of proof by more certain
warrant of Holy Scripture than the doctrine of human free will ?
I think not. Can anything be more clearly proved by warrant of
Holy Scripture than the doctrine of di'vlne foreknowledge and
predestination ? I trow not. Has any human intellect ever been
found capable of reconcUing those two doctrines with one another,
or do we wait for the future state to solve that great mystery ?
That is one Ulustration of the likelihood of our being brought to
opposite conclusions, derived from the language of Holy Scripture,
on a subject so profoundly mysterious ; and the practical lesson
which I should draw from that fact is that It would be much
wiser, much safer, much better not to pry into those mj-sterles at
all, but to keep ourselves in an attitude of faith and expectation
until we shall receive that light which we may hope hereafter to
have. I might make the same remark, I believe, with regard to
the doctrine of Transubstantiation. I do not beUeve that I should
be advancing a paradox If I say that It may be most clearly proved
by certain warrant of Holy Scripture. Yet I utterly disbeUeve It,
because I believe that the contrary also may be proved by most
certain warrant of Holy Scripture. But I know that different
minds take different views of the subject. Luther thought the
text of Scripture so plain and certain that the difficulty could only
be solved by adopting the theory of Consubstantlatlon. That, I
think, is another example of the facility with which we may find
proofs of directly opposite propositions in the language of Scrip
ture ; but I am not sure whether it was necessary even to dwell on

THE ATHANASIAN CREED, 255-
this point, because there is another, a third, observation which I
would submit to your Lordships, Although it were the fact that,.
by this Eighth Article, the clergy are bound to the adoption of
certain views on this subject, it must be remembered that the
laity are not bound by the Thirty-nine Articles, They are at
perfect liberty to hold an entirely different opinion with regard
to the warrant of Scripture, and the necessity of believing those
things. They are not bound to admit that they have any need of
the excuse so charitably provided for their Ignorance and infirmity
by the EngUsh Church Union — that the clauses in question can
only apply to those whom God knows to be misbelievers through
their own wilful ignorance, neglect, or default. They may say,.
Speak for yourselves. We do not admit that we are guilty of
¦wilful ignorance, neglect, or default. We are of opinion with a
highly-respected bishop of our o^wn Church, that these are matters
which It Is much better for us not to pry into at all, and that it is
an error, bordering on sinful presumption, for any one to pry Into
those mysteries, and above all to pretend to impose them as matters
of faith upon others who refuse so to pry into them. That, I think,
may be, and probably will be, the language or thought of a very
large majority of the enlightened and educated laity of the Church
of England. I regret having had to detain your Lordships so
long, and will only add one other remark as to the value of this
document. As I understand. Its value is supposed to consist In its
being an instrument for ensuring unanimity of belief among those
who accept it, and for preserving their rigid orthodoxy. Now, I
wish to ask whether it has really answered that purpose ? I very
much doubt It, and for this reason : — It appears to me, on such
reflection as I have been able to give to the subject, that there is
at this moment in the Church of England a very large amount of
heresy, quite latent and involuntary, and without the conscious
ness of those who are affected by it ; but still not the less real, and
in my opinion pernicious ApolUnarian and Eutychlan heresy, and
that this heresy is most rife among the most enthusiastic admirers
of the Athanasian Creed, and those who contend most earnestly for
its continued use In the public services of the Church. I could

256 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
not enter into my reasons for holding this opinion without saying
¦something that might savour of personal application, and I prefer
leaving the remark and its application to your Lordships' judg
ment. My Lords, I do not feel any great anxiety on this subject,
because I am a strong beUever In the ultimate triumph of truth
and justice ; and my firm beUef is that the more light is thrown
on the origin and the contents of the Athanasian Creed, the fewer
wiU be found to be its claims to that place which it now occupies
In the public ser^vlces of the Church. And to that I must add my
conviction that, whenever the laity of the Church come to have a
voice in this matter, from that time the use of this Creed In the
pubUc services of the Church wUl become more and more rare ;
and my hearty wish and hope is that that may soon be the case.
I have heard ¦with great sorrow and concern a report of a move
ment said to be on foot in America for the relntroductlon of the
Creed in the public services of the Church. I cannot say how
deeply I shoidd deplore any such measure as a lamentable retro-
g;rade movement ; but I feel convinced that it is one which will
not be imitated by the Church of England.

INAUGURAL ADDRESS
TO THE PHILOSOPHICAL INSTITUTION,
EDINBURGH, 186L

Ladies and Gentlemen, —
It is with much misgiving that I appear before you
this evening. I am aware, indeed, that whatever responsibUity I
incur in so doing is shared by those respected friends of your
Institution who did me the honour of inviting me to address you
on this occasion. But their good opinion, however gratifying to
myself, would not suffice to acquit me of extreme presumption, if
I was confident that anything I have to impart was worth bring
ing so far to set before such an audience as I see here assembled.
I am conscious that, as a stranger, left very much to my own con
jectures with regard to your intellectual tastes and habits, I may
not be happy in my selection of topics to suit them, or may only
remind you of that which you have heard better said by others.
But in this same character, and on this very account, I feel sure
that I may all the more safely reckon on your kindness. In accept
ing that which I have to offer, as at least a token of my goodwill.
I must, however, at the outset, disclaim any pretension of
increasing your stock of knowledge in any particular province of
thought. Wherever else I might be induced to present myself
with that view, it would not be in this renowned seat of science
and literature. That attempt I leave to those who will address
you in the course of the session we are now opening. My aim Is
VOL. Ill, s

258 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
more immediately practical. I do not propose to go in search of
a subject beyond the bounds of your Institution itself. I believe
that its objects, uses, and — may I add — Its possible misuses will
furnish matter sufficient to occupy us during the time for which
you may favour me with your attention.
Though I have the honour of addressing the Members of a
Philosophical Institution, few of them probably are ambitious of
the title of philosophers, or would care to hear it applied to them
selves individually. But the name chosen for the Institution may
not be the less appropriate, and it may be worth while to consider
what is really impUed In it. The dignity of a phUosopher Impresses
common minds with awe, as of something transcendant and tmap-
proachable. But it must not be forgotten that every man is a
philosopher, or has the philosopher In him, though he may be as
little conscious of it as was M. Jourdain that he had been speaking
prose all his life ; for, whether we look at the origin of the word,
or the nature of the thing, philosophy is not an attainment, but a
pursuit ; not a success, but an endeavour ; not a fruition, but a
craving. Of course I do not mean that it is a pursuit by which
nothing is attained, an endeavour which never succeeds, a craving-
whlch is in no degree gratified ; but the essence of the thing is-
the pursuit, the endeavour, the craving — for wisdom, knowledge,
truth ; and this craving is a universal characteristic of our race.
You see it bursting forth in the curiosity of the child and the
savage ; and If there are races or Individuals In whom it appears-
to be lacking, that is a sign of morbid imperfection or degeneracy.
There is indeed an immense difference between that childish Inqui-
sltlveness and the spirit of philosophical research, but the greatest
philosophical genius has its root In this common human element,
and Is but the development of it under peculiarly favourable inward
and outward conditions. It is often hard to say which class of
conditions has contributed most to the final result. If Newton
ascribed his scientific conquests not to any special gift, but to the
exercise of the simple faculty of attention, that was no doubt an
exaggeration ; the exaggeration, however, I think, not of a false
modesty, but rather of a noble pride. He claimed the largest

INAUGURAL ADDRESS, 259
share in his work for that which, though within the reach of all,
was most properly his own, the energy and constancy of his will ;
and though no effort of attention could have enabled an inferior
mind to accomplish the like achievements, the saying is full of
instruction and encouragement for those who are engaged in any
intellectual pursuit, . At all events, it is only by nurture and
discipline that the instinct, which is philosophy in embryo, can
be brought to maturity. That culture is the main intellectual
business of education, and such is apparently the object of your
Institution ; but this is not sufficient to mark its precise cha
racter. While to many ears the worA. philosophy is so high-sounding as
to check all aspirations after the thing, the word education, on the
contrary, too commonly suggests the notion of something which
is acknowledged indeed to be exceedingly useful, and for several
purposes indispensable, but which most persons who have reached
a certain age regard as belonging to their past, and as a subject
in which they would be ashamed to own that they have any pre
sent personal concern. So it is that one hears of an education
received, or perhaps finished, at a school or a coUege. The time
at which this consummation is usually said to take place is just
that at which the highest kind of education, that which is the
most truly liberal and manly, the only one which can ever yield
any reaUy precious fruits, may more properly be said to begin ;
for this Is that self- culture, the first condition of which Is perfect
freedom. In that preparatory stage of education, which is so-
often spoken and thought of as the whole, the youthful mind is
necessarily subject to guidance and constraint, which may not be
the less useful, as a part of moral discipline, because it is occa
sionally irksome. But the preparation has failed in its most
important end unless It has awakened the desire as well as fur
nished the instruments for that self-culture which is the great
business of a well-spent life ; and the highest end of your Institu
tion — that which is alone worthy of its name — is, I conceive, to
supply means and aids for this self-culture.
Perhaps I might very safely have taken it for granted that all

260 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
this Is familiar and present to the mind of every one who hears
me. My only apology for thus adverting to it is, on the one
hand, that things which are constantly before our eyes are com-
monlv those on which we reflect the least, and on the other hand
that the benefit derived from such an Institution as this must
depend very much on the light In which It is viewed by its mem
bers. And therefore I will venture to Invite your attention to
another of its aspects, which Is perhaps somewhat less obvious,
and very important for a right estimate of Its value — I mean the
relation In which It stands to other agencies, which are co-operat
ing simultaneously toward the same end. I was speaking just
now of school education as a beginning, a preparation for that
which is to be afterwards carried on by the student himself, when
he Is released from all restraint in the choice and prosecution of
his intellectual pursuits. In his state of pupilage he must be
always more or less dependent on the impulse and direction
which he receives from without ; at first entirely so, afterwards
perhaps less and less as his faculties ripen. He will then become
more and more accessible to motives of a higher order, which have
their spring In his better nature, a generous emulation, a noble
ambition, the desire to stand well in the judgment of those whom
he respects. Motives, no doubt, fine and liberal, and full of pro
mise, but yet entirely distinct from an Interest In the study Itself,
and quite consistent with a real Indifference and even distaste for
it. It is only when all such motives are wlthdra-wn, when he is
subject to no attraction but that of the pursuit Itself, disengaged
from those which had been combined with It, if they did not supply
Its place ; only when his exertions are animated by this purely
spontaneous and truly philosophical motive, can It be known, either
by himself or others, what is really In him. How often has It
happened that those who had won the most brilliant distinction
in a competitive career have sunk Into inaction and obscurity when
the immediate object was attained, while noiseless steps, sustained
by the pure love of knowledge, and in the face of the greatest
difficulties and discouragements, have unheedlngly and almost
unconsciously gained a suinmit of enduring fame !

INAUGURAL ADDRESS, 261
But what I wish further to remark Is, that when the student
has passed out of the cloister Into the world, he still finds himself
in a school. It was the wish of a philosopher that he might die
learning. A familiar proverb tells us that we must be learning as
long as we live. " Live," it says, " and learn." This indeed Is a
very different kind of learning from that which was the object of
the philosopher's wish. His desire was that he might never
cease to be employing his faculties in their noblest work. The
learning to which the proverb refers is that which Is gained from
the lessons of experience ; but the proverb admits of a larger
application. The learning it speaks of may be considered as com
prising the results of all the teaching and training received in the
High School of Life, a school indeed of manifold Instruction and
of severe discipline, holding out splendid prizes, imposing hard
tasks, exacting strict obedience to its rules under rigorous penal
ties. Not only have all men to pass through this school, but It Is
that to which the great mass of mankind are Indebted for their
whole stock of Intellectual acquirements. Among races of back
ward civilization this is manifestly the case without exception or
qualification. It Is not through any course of systematic study,
but in the commerce of daily life, that the savage unconsciously
amasses his whole fund of knowledge ; that knowledge Is In fact
the common property of the whole community. Every member of
the community enters Into full possession of It as his birthright.
Whatever distinctions of rank there may be in the tribe, all in
this respect are on the same level. If there is one who pretends
to the possession of secrets Into which the rest are not Initiated,
there is commonly ground for a shrewd suspicion that this is no
real knowledge, and that the best thing that could be said of It is
that it is something utterly useless.
But the state of things In this respect was not materially diffe
rent in the seats of the highest ancient civilization. In the great
Asiatic empires, in the Indian and Egyptian theocracies, the indi
vidual was altogether reared and moulded by the State, and drew
his intellectual nourishment from the society in which he Uved,
insensibly, as the plant the materials of Its growth from the soil

262 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REM.UNS,
and the atmosphere. And it was not far otherwise with the most
cultivated people of the ancient world. The Athenian's school-
education consisted mainly in what we should call elegant accom-
pUshments, some of which appeared to the hard practical Boman
unmanly, and would perhaps be looked upon as frivolous by the
graver students at a ladles' college in our day. It was when, as
we should say, he had finished his education, that he began to
acquire what we should call useful knowledge. It was in the
debates of the public assembly, in the proceedings of the law courts,
where he had not merely to listen as an unconcerned spectator,
but to give his vote or his verdict ; In the military or naval expe
dition, where he knew that the officers under whom he served
would, on their return, be responsible to him as a judge. And
when. In the decline of the commonwealth, he was no longer
summoned to the field, Avhen political discussion was silenced, and
litigation had lost almost all Its Interest, one school still remained
open, which he never failed to frequent. That was the public
newsroom, which they called the Agora or Gathering Place. I
think It may be properly described as the newsroom, though it
was not lighted ¦with gas, but open to the bluest of skies and the
purest of atmospheres ; and the news was not spread on a table,
but passed from mouth to ear, while the eye, whichever way It
might turn, could not fail to light on some masterpiece of art,
some monument of ancient glory ; but, abstracted from the circum
stances, the essence of the thing was the same. From the time of
Demosthenes to that of St. Paul, the chief business of those who
resorted to this place of concourse was to say and hear something
new. There was no doubt a great deal of Idle gossip, much of the
talk turned on the scandal of the day, food for a curiosity not more
refined than that which revels in the reports of the police or
divorce courts. But the successive arrivals in the Plrasus fre
quently brought up to the city, InteUIgence, commercial and poU
tical, not perhaps Inferior In interest to the advices of our special
correspondents. And though there arose no second Socrates, he
was probably not the last who gathered a group around him on
the same spot, to discuss questions of Uke Import to those which

INAUGURAL ADDRESS, 263
he used to moot at the staUs of the artizans. This I repeat, and
not that which you see represented in Baphael's Fresco, was the
real school of Athens — for the people. It is true the teaching
was very unmethodical, casual and fragmentary ; the object of the
scholars was not so much to learn as to be amused, to speed the
passage of the leaden-footed hours. Few, I am afraid, went with
any purpose of Improving their minds ; but yet the result was as
if they had. InteUIgence was quickened ; new ideas were con
stantly imbibed ; the circle of their knowledge, the range of their
thought, was enlarged.
It is by an analogous process, one equaUy indirect and unde
signed, that the greatest, if not the best, part of English educa
tion is carried on at this day. Notwithstanding the laudable
efforts which have been made for the general diffusion of know
ledge, it is very unequally distributed among the various classes of
society ; but the inequality is due, I believe, far more to differences
in position and occupations, than in the advantages of early
instruction. The intellectual horizon of an illiterate Englishman
may be much larger than that of an educated Greek. I was
speaking just now of that Athenian newsroom ; it was adorned
with manifold objects, exquisitely fitted to gratify a refined taste ;
but what source of knowledge did it open comparable to the dingy
wall of a mechanics' institute, hung with a map of the world ?
I am not, as may be perceived, at aU disposed to undervalue
this kind of insensible education ; it suffices for many very useful
purposes ; it enables many a one to fill a respectable station, to
attain the ends of an honourable ambition, to contribute to the
welfare of the community ; but, whatever else it may be or do, it
is not the same thing with self-culture, and can never supply Its
place. The two things are so far from necessarily concurring,
that the tendency of the one is rather to obstruct and exclude the
other. That is the ground of the poet's complaint : " The world is
too much with us ; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay
waste our powers," The more the faculties are absorbed in the
oxerclses of this world-school, however they may be sharpened
and strengthened for the work assigned to them, they become in

264 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
the same degree stiffened and disabled for any free play. Is It
possible to overrate the preclousness of the intervals of leisure,
which afford a temporary release from the daily task, and restore
the mind to Its self-possession, and to the consciousness of its
noblest powers and Its highest aims ? To one who is capable of
appreciating Its uses, every such pause is an emerging out of the
grosser element in which one Is carried on blindly by the current,
into the pure air and clear light, where the feet find a firm rest
ing place. It is an indispensable condition of every large outlook
on the world without, and of all true insight into the world
"within. A condition : — It Is that, but nothing more ; a golden
opportunity, but one which may prove worse than useless. In
many cases it would be, not wisdom but Imprudence, not kindness
but cruelty, to multiply such opportunities, unaccompanied by a
provision against the abuse to which they are exposed. But in
general, and on the whole. It is their scarcity that there seems to
be most reason to lament. This is an Inevitable incident of our
social development, which has an important bearing on our sub
ject. However one may be prepossessed with the superiority of
the present over the past, one can hardly think, without a sigh of
regret, of the greater amount of leisure enjoyed by former genera
tions, when there was no crowding or hurry In any of the paths of
life, and they were rather like the green lanes through which the
London citizen sauntered toward one of the neighbouring villages,
which are now some of the most densely peopled quarters of the
metropolis. Every one felt at liberty to take his time, to stop
every now and then, to pick a flower and look about him. Com
pare the duration and the business of a modern Session of Parlia
ment with one in those leisurely times. Think of the Courts at
Westminster habitually rising about noon, and the sages of the
law recreating themselves after their early meal, as by way of
dessert, with the mooting of imaginary cases, or executing a
solemn minuet in the hall of Lincoln's Inn, on the elevation of
some learned brother to the honours of the coif. Fit pastime for
an age when a shelf of very moderate length would hold both the:
statutes at large, and a complete coUectlon of the reports.

INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 265
One cannot dwell without a certain sense of refreshment on
these images of an almost Arcadian legislation and jurisprudence,
and on the state of society which they imply. I should be loth,
to be betrayed, and still more to betray others, into a sentimental
exaggeration of the advantages of the past. Undoubtedly, labour
— that is, a well-regulated and useful activity — is not only the-
wealth of nations, but the happiness of individuals. Ages and
countries In which It has been dreaded as an evil, will be found to-
have suffered under some social disease, which tended to stifle the
healthy energies of individual life. I venture to augur that in
the regenerated Italy the sweetness of doing nothing, or of having
nothing to do, will be less and less commonly enjoyed, and that,
as the exponent of an ordinary habitual feeling, the phrase, il'
dolce far nientc, will ere long become obsolete. But it cannot be
denied that there is ground for the complaint which meets us from
so many quarters, not only in the lower but in the higher spheres
of life, and sometimes In tones of bitter anguish, that society Is
overtasked, or rather is too hard a task-master, and that the gain
which results to it from the excess of labour, is too dearly pur
chased by the sacrifices it exacts of private freedom and happiness.
I have nothing now to do with the causes or- the remedies of this
evil ; I am noticing this character and tendency of our time, only
as enhancing the value of the privilege enjoyed by the members
of this Institution. That privilege is twofold ; It is composed of
the intervals of leisure which they have at their command, and of
the means which the Institution affords of employing that leisure
to the greatest advantage. It is of these means that I have now
to speak.
I shall confine myself to those which are most ordinary and
permanent ; I trust that I shall not be suspected of a wish to
depreciate the value of the lectures delivered in this place, if I
consider them as subordinate and supplemental to the use of the
library ; as mainly serving to suggest, or to aid, some course of
study which is to be followed out through the medium of books.
Even if they were more than this. It would be foreign to my pur
pose to touch on them ; for I have all along been viewing this-

¦266 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
Institution as an instrument of self-culture, with regard to which
the student's pursuit of knowledge is entirely Independent and
spontaneous ; and this Is the case with one who takes up a book
in a much higher degree than with one who listens to a lecture.
This library is one which, considered in Itself, and perhaps in
comparison with others, the members of this Institution may
regard with a just complacency. It Is at aU events, both with
respect to its compass and its destination — that is, the kind of
want which it is designed to supply — a very remarkable index of
the progress of modern cIvIUzation, Four centuries ago no
European sovereign possessed so large a collection of books, Mr.
Hallam observes that the Vatican library was left by its founder —
that munificent patron of learning and the arts — Pope Nicholas Y.,
" enriched with 5,000 volumes, a treasure far exceeding that of any
other collection in Europe." Other accounts raise the number to
9,000, still short by several thousands of that which is already to
be found on your shelves. We are expressly informed by the
contemporary biographer of Pope Nicholas, that he Intended his
library for the use of his court. It was justly supposed that none
but the great and learned were capable of feeling an interest in
such an undertaking. Few, Indeed, of those who had the means
of amassing such treasures were qualified to appreciate their value.
Nicholas, it Is said, was severely censured by his successor for
wasting the revenues of the Church on such useless objects. It
was much that they had begun to be regarded as a princely luxury.
A book indeed was at that time so rare a thing that it might well
be prized, almost irrespectively of its contents, as like curiosities
by bibliomaniacs now. This is strikingly Illustrated In the Ducal
Library at Urbino, which was founded about the same time with
that of the Vatican, and rivalled it in extent, and surpassed It in
contemporaneous celebrity. It Is related, in a description which
fills some interesting pages In Mr. Dennlstoun's Memoirs of the
Dukes of Urbino, that the founder " made a rule that every book
should be bound in crimson, ornamented with sUver." This uni
formity of splendour seems to mark the value which he set on
¦oeach, for its own sake, simply as a book.

INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 267
Certainly, we have reason to congratulate ourselves on the
state of things In which our lot has been cast. The art which
preserves and multiplies the records of human thought has also
both stimulated its activity and contributed largely toward the
levelling of the social barriers which obstructed the propagation
of its utterances. When we compare the literary dearth and
monopoly of the fifteenth century with the wealth of our own, and
its more equable diffusion among all classes of society, we feel that
the advantage Is decidedly on our side. Yet the gain is not quite
unalloyed ; and it cannot surprise us that this intellectual wealth
should not be exempt from some of the embarrassment Incident to
what is more commonly called riches. This is one of the cases in
which there may be room for the application of the old Greek saw
— half is more — that is, better, more to be desired — than theiohole.
Let us take a memorable example. Karl Otfried Miiller's
History of Greek Literature — of which you possess a translation
begun by our learned minister of war — opens with a reflection
which we should hardly have expected from a German professor,
an Insatiable reader, who devoted his whole life to the study of
classical antiquity. He dissents from those who consider the
destruction of the Alexandrian library, and the consequent loss of
the works of some hundreds of GrSek authors, as a calamity. He
is inclined to regard It rather as a happy event, which protected
the European mind from an Incubus that might have stifled its
energies just as they were waking Into new life. He thinks that
" the inheritance of so vast a collection of writings from antiquity
would, by engrossing aU the leisure and attention of the moderns,
have diminished their zeal and their opportunities for original
productions." Let me remark, by the way, that I cannot adopt this view of
the subject, though I am content to admit, with Niebuhr — who
recognised a special interposition of Providence In the fact — that
what has been preserved to us from the works of classical antiquity
is sufficient for aU our most important purposes. But I cannot
believe that If the Greek emigrants, who took refuge In Italy after
the fall of Constantinople, had brought with them some hundreds

268 of additional manuscripts, containing all the works of their fore
fathers which were deemed worthy of a place In the museum of
Alexandria, the effect would have been to retard the progress of
European civilization, or to check the productiveness of modern
literature. That productiveness, as it appears to me, arises from
causes too manifold and too mighty to be counteracted or mate
rially affected by any such influence. Such an importation of Greek
books would Indeed have increased the labours of the learned who
devoted themselves to this pursuit ; but It could hardly have
engrossed their attention more than the ancient works which were
actually brought to light, or have heightened the fervour of their
admiration for the Greek and Eoman world, which, as it was, they
carried so near to idolatry. If It would have provided some fresh.
occupation which might perhaps have been as well spared. It would
also have saved much time which has been spent in laborious and
often fruitless efforts to fill up gaps, to piece fragments, to gather
the truth from scanty data, and to supply the place of evidence by
conjecture. " Manetho," Max Miiller observes In his Lectures on
Language, " If preserved complete, would have saved us volumes
of controversy on Egyptian chronology." The knowledge of anti
quity would have been not only larger and surer, but more easily
acquired. The veneration with which it was regarded at the
revival of learning would have been not Indeed less enthusiastic,
but more enlightened and discriminating. The possession of so
large a body of Greek literature would, I conceive, necessarily
have rendered the taste more fastidious, the judgment more severe,
as to the relative value of its various productions. Instead of the
providential selection, by which a few samples of the best In each
kind have been preserved to us, there would have been a sifting of
the mass, by which the masterpieces would have been separated
for familiar enjoyment, while the bulk was laid aside for occasional
consultation. But is it in Greek literature alone that there is a possibUIty of
an excessive and cumbrous superfluity, which may lead one to prefer
half, or even a much smaller part, to the whole ? Consider the
question merely with respect to quantity.

INAUGURAL ADDRESS, 269
If the whole body of classical literature had come do^wn to us,
its bulk would probably have been Inconsiderable in comparison
with the literary produce of even only the last four centuries. And
however vast that bulk might have been, it would have been a
definite and fixed magnitude, incapable of any increase. But
modern literature is constantly growing, and with a progressive
rapidity. The stream Is ever widening and deepening as it
lengthens its course. That old library at Urbino, with its crimson
glow and silver sheen, must, I should think, have made a very
different Impression on the mind of a spectator from that which
is produced by the new reading-room of the British Museum, with
its receptacles for a milUon of volumes. The one may be likened
to an Italian garden, laid out with a symmetrical plan, which the
eye can take in at a single glance ; the other to a tropical forest,
where the traveller may roam, without ceasing, in the enjoyment
of ever-shifting -vistas of a luxuriant vegetation, but cannot hope
to make his way to any given point without the aid of a guide or
a compass. One conviction must be impressed on the mind of every one
who enters one of these great storehouses of learning, and the
more forcibly in proportion to the extent of his knowledge ; that
is, the conviction of the sheer physical impossibility that any
human being should ever master more than a small portion of the
whole. But should there be any one to whom there Is something over
whelming and depressing in this thought — and I will own that I
have experienced such a feeling myself — It may be a consolation
to such a one to reflect that a very large part even of modern
literature belongs so completely to the past, as to have lost almost
all use and worth for the present : retaining, at the utmost, only
a historical value, as possibly capable of serving the purpose of
some special investigation. " Libraries," Lord Bacon observes, " are
as the shrines, where all the relics of the ancient saints, full of
true virtue, and that ¦without delusion or imposture, are preserved
and reposed." But this is a description of an ideal rather than of
an actual library. We might, indeed, not inaptly compare such a

270 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
coUection as our national library to a vast catacomb, but not in
the belief that all the remains deposited In it are alike sacred and
precious, or worth bringing to light for any higher purpose than
the satisfaction of an antiquarian curiosity. Not that this Is an
object to be despised, for It may become fruitful in useful results ;
and this Is enough to estabUsh the right even of all such remains
to a prolonged existence, and to earn for them the room they fill.
But, apart from such casual and special uses, who would lament,
on his own account, that life Is not long enough for re-opening
controversies on which reason and experience have passed an irre
vocable judgment ; for retracing the course of laborious investiga
tions which have been finally brought to a satisfactory Issue ; for
exploring the mazes of abandoned error; or even for re^vlewlng
the forms In which various minds have conceived, and represented
the same truth ; and yet, If all that ministered to none but such
ends was to disappear from our libraries, who could calculate to
what extent their dimensions would shrink ? As It is, the process
of elimination must be wrought mentally by every one for him
self, according to his own taste and judgment. It is one absolutely
necessary, especially for persons of limited leisure, even in a library
which fully reaUzes Bacon's idea; and the gravest consequences
depend on the mode In which the process is conducted.
I ventured at the outset to hint at the possibility of a misuse of
the resources of your institution. The word might appear too
strong If I did not explain, that all I mean by it is, a kind of use
which Is less judicious and profitable than some other. And I
would not be supposed to deny, that even that which I regard as
such, is yet incomparably more rational and wholesome than many
ways, equally harmless, of filling up a leisure hour. But I wish
to point more specially to some of the cases which I have in view.
A well-stored library holds out a strong temptation to miscella
neous, Indiscriminate, desultory reading, in which it can hardly be
said that there is any principle of selection, the choice being deter
mined by the casual impulse of the moment. That is a kind of
reading from which, on the face of it, we should not expect any
great amount of benefit. It may seem scarcely to deserve the

INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 271
name of study ; yet we should be liable to be deceived by our
anticipations, if we pronounced upon It without reference to the
circumstances under which the taste for reading is so indulged..
AU depends on the character of the reader. There have been
numerous instances in which the intellectual growth of eminent
men has been mainly derived from such an irregular and seem
ingly capricious course of study. They were gifted with a keen
and undlscrlmlnating appetite for knoAvledge, They were thrown
upon the means of gratifying it without stint, but without guidance..
But the strength of the craving itself more than compensated the
absence of any outward rule. It fastened Instinctively upon that
which was suited to its wants. It converted everything it touched
into the nourishment it required. Nothing was wasted ; all was-
digested and assimUated, and passed into the life-blood of the
man's Intellectual system. But there is the widest possible differ
ence between such a passion for reading and a taste for literary
enjoyment, to which it appears simply in the light of a refined
amusement, a pleasant and healthy relaxation from the toils and
cares of life, and to which, therefore, provided this end is attained,
one book is as welcome as another. And this is, probably, a very
common habit of mind. Similar as it is to the other In its outward
effects, it is separated from that in Its inward principle by the
whole Interval between earnestness and indifference.
Now, so far as this latter mode of using a library Is simply a
fact, the actual result of the Individual's disposition and circum
stances, it would be both useless and impertinent to find fault
with it, or to speak of it otherwise than with approbation and
respect. Every one who is gifted with a relish for so pure and
perennial a source of enjoyment has reason to be thankful, as for
a privilege, which Is not only precious in itself, but much more
rare than appears to be commonly supposed. But if it was to be-
consldered as not merely a fact of Individual experience, but an
opinion, with regard to that which is in general not only most
natural, but fittest and best, I would take the liberty of entering
my protest against it, as a mischievous error. I do not believe
that the kind of tension to which the mind Is subject In the active

272 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
pursuits of life, even in affairs of the most absorbing interest, at
all unfits it for application to studies which demand close and sus
tained attention ; or, which is the main point, that it may not find
in such application all the relaxation and refreshment which it
needs. I fear that it may seem to savour of garrulitj^ — but I
cannot forbear mentioning two instances, one known to me imme
diately, the other less directly, but with equal certainty. The one
was that of a lawj'er, whose day was commonly occupied with his
professional duties until late in the evening. He told me that it
was his habit, when his work was over, to sit up reading until two
•o'clock in the morning. And he was one who took little pleasure
in any kind of reading which did not afford exercise for earnest
thought. The other Instance was reported to me by Baron Bunsen,
as heard by himself from the late Sir Bobert Peel. After the
excitement of a long debate. Sir Bobert never retired to rest untU
he had tranquillized his mind by sitting down to some serious
book. I would not, however, lay any stress on examples which
may be looked upon as exceptional, or otherwise irrelevant ; but I
would appeal to one broad and patent fact, I mean the amount
«,nd the quality of that part of our literature which has been
produced In the intervals of business, and in departments totaUy
foreign to the habitual occupations of the authors. How many
distinguished names will be at once recalled to your recollection
by that remark. I have no means of calculating the numerical
proportion which this class of writers bears to those who have
made literature a profession. But no one will say that their works
are in general less plainly stamped with traces of patient Inquiry
and earnest thought, or careful execution. They might perhaps
not unreasonably lead us to the conclusion, that the most favour
able of all conditions of study Is that of limited leisure. I have
xayself no doubt that such Is the case ; and I think it is not
difficult to understand why It should be so. Here again the old
paradox is verified, half is more than the whole. It is likely to
be more highly prized, more carefully husbanded, more actively
employed. But at least the condition is not more unfavourable
for readers than for writers, and cannot of Itself incapacitate any

INAUGURAL ADDRESS, 273
one for following a train of thought which another in the like
circumstances was able to produce.
I must- repeat that if I am not content that reading should be
regarded simply as a pastime. It is only in the case of those to
whom it may be something more and better. But the danger of
such a view of the subject appears to me to be very much heightened
by one of the most prominent features of our modern literature —
the enormous and progressive multiplication of works of fiction.
If the value of a book is measured by Its power of beguiling our
leisure, what kind of writing will be entitled to preference over a
clever novel ? And how vast and inexhaustible is the yet con
tinually increasing supply ? Literary statistics record the appear
ance of 3000 works of this class, amounting to 7000 volumes, since
the publication of Waverley. The year 1858 yielded an addition
of 200 new productions to the list. It would be idle to deplore a
phenomenon which depends on causes completely beyond any one's
control, even if it had not Its good as well as its bad side. Who
would stand up In this place and lament that Scott exchanged the
field in which he gathered his early laurels, for one in which his
genius found full scope, because it Is mainly through the Impulse
of his example that so many brilliant talents have since been dedi
cated to the like employment ? Is It not rather ground for just
pride, that we should have the honour of being the chief purveyors
of this entertainment for the greater part of the civilized world ?
It is true, the parentage of the romance does not raise any strong
prepossession in its favour. We can trace It no farther back than
to an epoch in Greek literature, In the decline of the Boman
empire, when poetry was utterly effete, and aU the powers of the
national mind were miserably enfeebled. It may, however, fairly
stand on its own merits, as a legitimate, though not a very high,
form of art. I would neither dispute that claim, nor another
which is frequently set up In its behalf, as the vehicle of important
instruction in social science, or the conduct of life. But what
makes me a little uneasy, when I observe the vast dimensions and
growing exuberance of this branch of Uterature, notwithstanding
the beauty and lusciousness of its fruit, is the apprehension that
VOL. III. T

274 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
there are many, and an increasing number of persons, to whom
It furnishes the main part, if not the whole, of their intellectual
food. There Is a strong tendency, in the nature of things, to
favour this monopoly. The craving for an agreeable excitement,
obtained without any mental exertion. Is apt to grow on every one
who Indulges it, and to dull the edge of every other, while it
becomes itself less and less nice as to the means by which the
gratification is procured. How largely does the attraction of
simple curlosltjr, quite apart from the exhibition of passion, or the
development of character, enter into the success of every popular
story. It would be needless, and, before the audience which I have the
honour of addressing. It might be almost unseemly, to dwell on the
evil and unhapplness of such a habit of mind, or to point out how
directly it is opposed to that which it is the object of a philoso
phical institution to cultivate. Though, as a general fact, I believe
the danger to be real and serious, I have no special reason for
supposing that It Is one against which even the younger members
of this institution need to be put on their guard. But, even if
such was the case, I should not wish any one to pledge hlmseU to
total abstinence from these stimulants, nor should I expect that it
would be of much avail to counsel temperance In the enjoyment of
them. The only effectual counteractive to the mischievous Indul
gence, is the relish for finer, nobler, manlier, and therefore more
satisfactory and enduring Intellectual delights. Whoever has learnt
that relish will be In no danger of injuring his mental constitution
by excess in pleasures of a lower order. None will be absolutely
excluded ; all will find their right place and their due measure. I
have spoken of this relish as a thing to be learnt. It is Indeed a
gift of nature, but one which needs to be developed and cultivated ;
and it Is capable of being indefinitely purified and strengthened.
It Is almost a truism to say, that Intellectual enjoyment depends
on the exercise of thought. But it may be important to a young
man to be convinced, that the intensity of the enjoyment is pro
portioned to the activity of the exercise, while the exercise itself
is a gain, Independent both of the enjoyment and of the immediate

INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 275
tesult. So long as the mind remains merely passive and receptive,
it matters little what passes through it from without. It wiU draw
no more solid instruction from the most exact reasoiung than from
the most phantastic imagery ; from the best-attested facts of history
than from the wUdest fictions of romance. On the other hand,
when the mind puts forth its energies, it finds, that in the realm
of thought as in the realm of nature, no spot is utterly barren or
Hfeless, no object without its meaning and value.
There have been many earnest conscientious persons — there are
probably many now — who cannot hear the name oi fiction, though
taken in the literary sense, apart from all notion of wilful decep
tion, without a certain inward recoil. Their principles, if logically
carried out, would lead them to proscribe almost aU imaginative
literature. What are commonly caUed works of fiction faU most
directly under their ban, as, if not more positively mischievous, an
abuse of talent in the authors, and of time in the readers. I think
that their feeling, worthy as it is of aU respect, has Its root in a
misconception. Though they do not confound fiction with false
hood, they confound truth with reality, so as to suppose that fiction
is opposed to reality, as falsehood to truth. But no such contrast
exists. Fiction is perfectly consistent with the highest truth and
with the soberest reality. If it were not so, it would be unable
either to create Uluslon or to excite sympathy. It was the severest
thinker, the greatest master of all the science and learning of the
ancient world, who made the memorable observation, "poetry is a
more philosophical and a more serious thing than history." And
the reason he assigns is, in substance, that history relates par
ticular events of human life, while poetry Illustrates the general
laws of human nature. That, indeed. Is a narrow view of history,
but it rests the dignity of poetry on ground broad enough to
comprehend every province of fiction.
Many, however, who might be content — whether on the authority
of Aristotle or of Mr. Thackeray — to admit such a claim on behalf
of a weU-wrltten novel, would be apt to reject it, with some degree
of scornful Indignation, if it was extended to tales, extravagantly
incredible in their contents, repulsively rude in their form, appa-
t2

276 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
rently fit only for the gross amusement of ignorant boors at their
"winter firesides. And yet this long despised and neglected refuse
of the mine of fiction, when submitted to the tests of phUosophlcal
criticism, has been found full of the most precious ore. No one
who has read Dr. Dasent's introduction to his " Norse Tales " — to
say nothing of the continental scholars who have laboured in the
same field — no one, I say, who has been enabled by these researches
to gain a clear view of the subject, can doubt that this popular
mythology, in its origin. Its transmission, and the manifold trans
formations it has undergone, through the genius of different races,
in its passage from the banks of the Ganges to those of the
Shannon, from the tent of the Bedouin to the hut of the High
land shepherd, from an African palm-grove to an Arctic snow-
cabin, is one of the most interesting and instructive chapters in
the history of mankind. Who that Is capable of an enlightened
sympathy with his fellow-men would turn contemptuously away
from these many-voiced utterances of thought and feeling, gushing
up from the inmost depths of the human soul ? or is not thankful
to Mr. Campbell for the pains he has taken to preserve those of
the Western Highlands in their native freshness ?
On the other hand, I should expect that persons who regard the
common novel as frivolous reading, because purely fictitious, would
think more favourably of the historical romance. If the name of
Scott was not sufficient to ¦vindicate the dignity of this kind of
composition, It would be abundantly established by the authority
of Macaulay. You remember how Scott helped, if not to form, to
iUustrate Macaulay's conception of " the perfect historian." " Sir
Walter Scott," he says, " has used those fragments of truth which
historians have scornfully thrown behind them, in a manner which
may well excite their envy. He has constructed, out of their
gleanings, works which, even considered as histories, are scarcely
less valuable than theirs." I do not mean for a moment to dispute
the justice of this eulogjr, or that of the perhaps still more glorious
homage paid to Scott's genius by the great masters of the modem
French historical school, who revere him as its founder. But j^et
it is just on the score of truth and of historical reaUty that I con-

INAUGURAL ADDRESS, 277
sider the famUiar domestic novel, in which aU the personages are
imaginary and aU the incidents fictitious, as entitled to the pre
ference over the historical romance. Lest this should sound
strange, let me explain my meaning by an example which wiU, I
trust, at the same time justify my opinion. A year or two before
Macaulay wrote his Essay on History for the Edinburgh Beview,
M, Abel-Bemusat published a translation of a Chinese novel,
¦" Les deux Cousines." In the valuable preface which he prefixed
to his translation, he observes that he had selected this work,
though Chinese literature possesses many historical romances,
because, being a contemporary exhibition of a state of things
famUiar to aU its readers, it could not fail to be a faithful picture
of Chinese society, and to convey more authentic information as
to Chinese life and manners than could be found in the works of
all the European travellers and missionaries. Nothing, it appears
to me, can be more evident than the correctness of this view. And
so, if that celebrated New Zealander — whose ancestors are already
beginning to give us a good deal of trouble — when he pitches his
tent In the ruins of London, should carry his researches into Eng
lish history so far back as the nineteenth century, and should wish
to lay open to his countrymen the interior of English society in
that period, by the translation of some English work into the
Maori language, none would be so weU adapted to his purpose as a
popular novel of that day ; and, if he is as judicious as M. Abel-
Bemusat, he will certainly prefer It to the most powerful his
torical romance, in which an author who may flourish five or six
centuries later, had endeavoured, by laborious study, with the aid
of a vivid imagination, to restore the faded features of English life
in the reign of Victoria the First.
I shall not say a word to dissuade any one from studying any
period of English history In a romance of Scott or of Bulwer, untU
I know that some one has actually done so. I am afraid that the
danger lies another way. I have a suspicion that many readers
are so little disturbed in the enjoyment of such works by critical
misgivings, that they rather tolerate that which approximates
most nearly to historical accuracy, for the sake of that which

278 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
diverges most widely from it. M. Gulzot observes, in his Lec
tures on the History of Civilization in Europe, that the portly,
unwarlike burgomaster of Liege depicted by Scott in Quentin
Durward, Is an anachronism and an impossibility, in an age when
every burgher needed to be constantly wearing his coat of mail
and carrying his pike. Few readers, I should think, have noticed
the incongruity, fewer still been the less amused with the mis
placed character on account of it. But yet, even the least suc
cessful of these attempts bears witness to the truth on which Lord
Macaulay so justly insists, that the office of history is not com
pletely fulfiUed by a mere narrative of public events ; that such a
narrative, however faithful and orderly, may leave the reader In
the dark on points of the greatest Importance for a right appre
ciation of the period to which it relates, while It altogether fails
to stir those human sympathies, which dry, cold, pale abstractions
can never reach. The picturesque, poetical, romantic details, which
mark the peculiar physiognomy and complexion of every period,
and which fill so large a space In the romance, also belong to the
completeness of history. It is not enough for me to know of my
fellow-men, especially of my fellow-countrymen, what they did,
or how they were governed In time past ; I want, as far as pos
sible, to see them as they lived and moved. In their daily pursiuts-
of business or pleasure, in peace and In war, in public and private,
in the country and In the city, at home and on their journeys, the
modes in which they provided for the common wants of human
nature, the forms in which they manifested their Inner life, and
embodied their social relations. It is only when I have become
thus familiar with them that they impress me with a full sense of
our common humanity. Without this they are not creatures of
my own flesh and blood, but dim spectral shapes, with which I can
have no fellow-feeling, and which I cannot view In the same light
as the men among whom I am myself living.
But while we recognise the charm and the value of such dis
tinctive features of national life, wherever they appear, we must
beware of supposing that the exhibition of them is either a mea
sure or an indispensable condition of the highest excellence in

INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 279
historical composition ; that is, either that the best history is that
in which It abounds most, or that none in which it is wanting can
possess merit of the highest order. That Is an opinion which would
lead us unjustly to depreciate some of the greatest authors who
have written the history of their own time. If they designed their
works for the benefit of posterity, they addressed themselves In the
first instance to their contemporaries, and it was not to be expected
that they should enter into descriptive detaUs famiUar to every
reader of their own day, because a time might come when such
details would be devoured with eager curiosity by those to whom
they would otherwise have been unknown. Lord Macaulay would
have had Clarendon enliven his narrative with some passages which
would have brought out In strong vivid relief the contrast between
the austerity — sometimes genuine, sometimes conventional — of the
Puritans, and the reckless, often ribald gaiety of the CavaUers.
No doubt the outward expression of the spirit which animated the
two parties is not only striking and interesting In itself, but hls-
torlcaUy important. Inasmuch as it not only Indicated, but tended
most powerfully to widen the breach between them, and it Is well
for us that we have abundant means of supplying Clarendon's
omission from other sources. But I conceive that he passed it
over, not through any false notion of the dignity of history, but
simply because. If the thought had occurred to him. It would have
appeared to him superfluous, and almost absurd, to exemplify that
which every one of his readers had constantly before his eyes. It
is apparently to a like cause that we have to ascribe the silence of
Thucydides on so many interesting points In the state and pro
gress of society at Athens and throughout Greece, on which he
could have furnished the most ample and authentic information.
But even the modern History of Greece, which will always occupy
the foremost rank among the historical productions of all ages, has
not aimed at greater completeness in this respect, nor has it pro
bably been ever very much missed by readers capable of appre
ciating that admirable work. On the other hand a contemporary
chronicle, like that of Gregory of Tours, may be rich to over
flowing in scenes and figures which cast the strongest light on the

280 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
manners of its age, and the general condition of society — it may
likewise bear the clearest marks of perfect good faith and con
scientious diligence In the author, and yet it may betray the
grossest deficiency In all the higher intellectual qualities of a his
torian, and may only serve to bewilder and mislead a reader who
is not capable of placing himself above the writer's point of view.
To our modern habits of thought, the condition most indispens
ably required of a historian Is that he should satisfy the under
standing by a clear exhibition of the course of events, not merely
in their chronological sequence, and their outward aspect, but in
their real nature, and their Intrinsic relations. The most exact
register of actual occurrences would only burden the memory, the
liveliest picture of the face of society would but amuse the Imagi
nation, without some insight into the laws which regulate the
visible movement, the moral forces which are at work underneath
the surface, the various currents of thought and feeling which, by
their combination and their adverse tendencies, determine the ulti
mate direction and character of the main stream of social progress.
Whether It Is possible to blend these three elements In an unbroken
and harmonious whole must remain doubtful, untU it has been
accomplished. If Macaulay himself did not fully realise his fine
vision of " a perfect history," In which " the changes of manners
would be indicated, not merely by a few general phrases, or a few
extracts from statistical documents, but by appropriate images
presented In every line ; " if that splendid panorama In which he
exhibited the England of 1685, remained Insulated and stationary,
and did not unroU Itself In a continual succession of pictures as
the history proceeded, few will be disposed to attribute the failure
to lack of power In the author, for that which some one else might
have done, rather than to the Insurmountable difficulty of the
undertaking. But it is quite possible for every one who would
master any period of history for his own benefit, to bear in mind
that the amount of instruction and pleasure which he may reap
from it depends on the degree In which this threefold condition Is
fulfilled. I can hardly be deceived by a natural partiality for a favourite

INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 281
pursuit, in the beUef, that the study so conducted is at once an
exercise which cultivates our noblest faculties, a source of exquisite
enjoyment, and intimately connected with the highest practical
purposes of life. Professor Tyndall, speaking of the measurement
by which the motion of a glacier is detected, remarks, — "We may
well realise the interest of the man who first engaged in this
experiment, and the pleasure which he felt on finding that the
block moved, for even now, after hundreds of observations on the
motion of glaciers have been made, the actual observance of this
motion for the first time is always accompanied with a thriU of
delight. Such pleasure the direct perception of natural truth
always imparts." There may be not a few^ of my hearers who
have tasted a like pleasure in the observation of natural phe
nomena, though not In the presence of so sublime an object. But
it must not be supposed that this is a privilege confined to the
student of physical science. Niebuhr speaks of the delight which
he had experienced from a similar intuition in his historical
researches, of " an immediate action upon our minds, whereby the
muses are revealed to our view, awakening joy and strength."
The language Is more poetical, but there seems to be little differ
ence in the nature of the feeling described. How should it be
otherwise ? The movement of the mighty frozen mass which
descends from the bosom of the everlasting snows. Is no doubt all
the more impressive, when it has been brought home to the mind,
because it is not directly perceptible to the eye. But Is the pro
gress of mankind, or that of any great community, a less majestic
or less Interesting spectacle, though it likewise can only be dis
cerned by the mental -vision ? And if It cannot be measured with
that scientific accuracy which enabled Professor Forbes to predict
that the remains of the three guides who perished on Mont Blanc
in 1820 would come to light about forty years later, as they have
this year, are its indications less certain, or less worthy of notice ?
Do they call for a less active exertion of thought, or do they
reward it with a less vivid perception of truth, or ¦with less
important practical results ? In one respect, indeed, there is a
very great difference between the two kinds of investigation. The

282 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
scientific observer stands aloof from the object which he submits
to his experiments. He is entirely unaffected by the motion of
the glacier, and is utterly unable to produce any effect upon it.
The progress of society Is something In which the student of
history has a deep personal concern. He is himself a part of that
which he sees. He is carried along by the movement which he
scans, and contributes in some measure to modify It by his pre
sence. His actual position and prospects have been determined
by the past, and it is only by the Ught of the past that he can
discern their real nature and bearings. But that light would be
of no practical avail. It could serve neither as a guide, nor as a
beacon, if the movement was the result of mechanical forces, and
his own share in it purely passive. The belief that the course of
events and the agency of man are subject to the laws of a Divine
order, which It is alike impossible for any one either fuUy to com
prehend, or effectually to resist — this belief is the ground of all
our hope for the future destinies of mankind. But the equally
firm conviction that within the range of this Divine economy there
is ample room for the free play of individual intelligence and will,
and that not like the ineffectual gesticulation of a man in a dream,
but accompanied with the certainty that no honest endeavour for
a noble end shall ever be utterly wasted, or pass away without
leaving some fruitful trace behind It ; such a conviction is the
spring of aU generous aspirations, the condition of all arduous and
persevering effort. If both are not paralyzed and crushed by a
so-called phUosophy of history, which represents aU the actors as
so many wheels of a huge engine, it is only because men are so
often better than their opinions, and the practice of phUosophers
themselves gloriously Inconsistent with their theories. But if the
main tendency of the social movement, in the midst of which we
are living, is to limit the power of Individual caprice or propensity
to evil, while it multiplies and enlarges the means and opportuni
ties of good, who is there that has not reason to be thankful for
the restraint, no less than for the encouragement, and to regard
this character of our time as a privilege, which should animate
him in the discharge of the corresponding duty?

INAUGURAL ADDRESS. 283
The provision made by this Institution for the satisfaction of
every kind of intellectual craving, corresponds to the variety of
avenues which society opens — with a growing preference of real
merit over all conventional claims — to every honourable ambition.
There may be some who value It chiefly on this account, as an
auxiliary capable of promoting the success of their worldly career.
I have been viewing it in a different light, as yielding a benefit
less dependent on contingencies which are beyond human control ;
but I venture to express a strong assurance that those who may
look no farther than to this immediate gain, will not therefore be
in danger of missing any other object which they might otherwise
have attained. It is true, the enlargement of our knowledge —
whether in the sphere of nature or of history — the development
of our intellect, the refinement of our taste, a keen sense and
ardent love of truth, beauty, goodness, are things so precious in
themselves, that they would be degraded by a comparison with any
earthly possession. Their value reaches beyond the limits of our
earthly existence. But they are not on that account the less avaU-
able for the common purposes, as well as for the highest interests,
of our earthly life. It was as a scientific toy that Archimedes —
descending from the heights of abstract speculation — constructed
the engines which were to defend his country against the Bomans ;.
but they did not serve their end the less effectually. There has
never been a time when personal worth was more sure to find Its
fit place, and to wield its rightful influence. And the Inde
pendence of character which it imparts is no selfish or unsocial
pride. Its elevation of thought does not estrange it from any
human sympathy. The purer atmosphere of that upper region, in
which it breathes most freely, also braces it for its daily task, and
inspires it with a more fervent desire to raise all who come -within
reach of Its attraction into the same element, to share the dignity
and happiness which it regards as the common birthright of
humanity.

THE PRESENT STATE OF RELATIONS

SCIENCE AND LITERATURE.
An Addkess delivered at the Royal Institution of South Wales,
December 6th, 1866.

When I was invited to accept the office of President of the Boyal
Institution of South Wales, I was anxious In the first place to
ascertain whether the acceptance would involve any duties which
it might be inconvenient for me to undertake. When I learned
that the office was merely titular and honorary, and would leave
me at perfect liberty, I gladly acceded to a proposal in which the
advantage was so clearly all on my side, and which combined the
attractions of dignity and ease. The more conscious I was that I
had no kind of claim to such an honour, the more I valued it, as
an additional token of that kindness which has been shown to me
at Swansea, throughout the long period of my official connection
with it.
This serene view of my own happiness was, I must confess, a
little overcast, when I received an intimation from our worthy
Secretary that it was hoped I would deliver an Address, or a
Lecture, at one of your evening meetings. Certainly the request
in itself was not only perfectly natural and reasonable, but obliging
•and flattering. Perhaps It was my own fault that I had not fore
seen It. But the fact is, that it took me by surprise, and con
siderably altered the agreeable view I had been taking of my own
position. The dignity remained the same ; but the ease, or leisure,
with which it had been associated in my thoughts, appeared to be

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE, 285
threatened with an interruption which I had not anticipated.
Apart from this, however, there was a difficulty through which I
did not clearly see my way. If I was to deliver an Address or a
Lecture, It was necessary first of aU to find a subject; and the
circumstances of the case were such as to render this far from

It is true, whatever facility could be afforded by the amplest
range, and the fuUest liberty of choice that. the heart of man could
desire, was set before me without reserve. The realms both of
Science and of Literature were laid open to me in their widest
extent, and I was ui-vlted to expatiate in either, and select what
ever topic might strike my fancy as best fitted for your entertain
ment. Unhappily for myself, I was unable to take advantage of
this invitation with regard to the larger part of the ground, where,
instead of serving as a guide to others, I should at every turn -
have needed one to show me the way, and explain the nature of
the objects presented to my view. On the other hand, I was-
aware that those belonging to the other portion of the field, with
which my pursuits had made me in some degree familiar, are
foreign to the general design of your Institution, and to the ordi
nary studies of its members. Like its iUustrious namesake in
London, this Institution is chiefly dedicated to the cultivation,
not of Literature, but of Science. Let me say at once, that in my
judgment this Is quite as it ought to be. Considering the situation
of your town, the sources of its wealth, the conditions of its pros
perity, I think it would have been a mistake, if the efforts made
for the intellectual culture of your townsmen had not taken this
direction, and been In the main concentrated upon scientific pur
suits. StiU I know that the lectures delivered in this place are
not limited to one class of subjects, and may be quite unconnected
with science. So it is likewise with the London Boyal Institution,,
where a lecture may be occasionally heard on some purely Uterary
topic. But as I have the honour of being a member of that Insti
tution also, I have had some opportunities, much less frequent than
I could have wished, of observing the effect which appeared to be
produced on the audience by the different kinds of lectures. And

286 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
It seemed to me that those which had no bearing on scientific
truth, — with the exception of extraordinary occasions, such as
when Speke or Palgrave give an account of their explorations, or
when Dean Stanley tells the story of Westminster Abbey, — not
withstanding the advantage of rarity, excite comparatively little
interest, at least among the regular frequenters of the place, and
are rather patiently endured than heartily enjoyed. I venture to
say that, as a general rule, the theatre is never so crowded, and
that the audience never looks forward so confidently and with
such eager expectation, to passing an agreeable and profitable
hour, as when the table Is spread with some scientific apparatus,
even if Faraday or TyndaU are not standing behind it. And if on
such occasions eyes are sometimes turned to the clock. It is always
to find that Its hands have moved too fast, not, as may happen
under other circumstances, too slow. If on this point I may not
rely on the accuracy of my observation, I can appeal to my own
experience, which Is not likely to have been bent by prejudice on
this side, and may pass as a fair sample of the impression produced
in the greater number of cases. And so it has happened, that,
though the portals of two vast regions, each of inexhaustible
wealth, were thrown wide open to me, with a hospitable invitation
to range over them at my pleasure, and to carry away what I
would, I was withheld by different motives from attempting to
make any excursion into either, and preferred letting my thoughts
dwell a little on some of the aspects which they present to one
standing on the outside. If I venture to offer you the result of
these musings, in the room of that substantial entertainment which
you are used to expect from your lecturers, I am conscious that I
am exercising, and perhaps abusing, the privilege of my office.
But though my reflections may be of very little value, I believe
the subject to which they relate to be one of very great and growing
importance ; in fact, one of the gravest questions of our day. And
if they should only lead others to meditate upon It more deeply
and profitably, neither my time nor yours wiU have been utterly
wasted. No one, I think, who has paid much heed to the signs of the

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE. 287
times which mark the tendencies of our social progress, can regard
the state of the relations at present subsisting between Science
and Literature, I do not mean as they are in themselves, or, as
some would say objectively, but according to the -news taken of
them and the claims set up in their behalf, as perfectly healthy
and satisfactory. It is not a state of peaceful, friendly co-operation,
but one either of open conflict, or of ill-concealed hostility, at least
of mutual jealousy and distrust. From time to time utterances are
heard from men of science, which, though they may not take the
form of direct complaint, plainly indicate that they are dissatisfied
with their position ; not. It may be, as regards themselves per
sonally, but with the position of Science itself, in comparison with
the pursuits which may be classed under the name of Literature.
If we go to the ground of this feeling, we find that It resolves
itself into two main causes of discontent. One Is, that the dignity
of Science Is not duly recognised, nor its freedom sufficiently
secured. The other is, that Science is debarred its rightful share
of influence in the education of the national mind. As to the first
point, the complaint is, not that there is any unwUlIngness to
acknowledge the vast amount of material benefits which Science
has conferred and is continually conferring on mankind, or that
any one grudges a tribute of just and warm admiration to the
marvellous rapidity of its progress, the growing multiplicity and
fruitfulness of its discoveries. But some of its professors appear
to feel that. In the midst of this general admiration and applause,
Science is really degraded in common estimation to a servile posi
tion, and its merit and value measured by the services it renders
in supplying the wants of the household : but that when, in the
consciousness of its native dignity and its higher destination, it
seeks to enlarge the bounds of human knowledge by speculative
researches which have no immediate bearing on the material
interests of society, it becomes an object of suspicion and dislike,
and finds Its rights questioned, its freedom restrained, its move
ments checked and discouraged. And as the opposition arises
chiefly from men of Uterary pursuits, it creates the appearance of
an unhappy division between Science and Literature,

288 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
And this division becomes actual strife, when men of science
press their claim to a higher rank, and a larger influence than
they have hitherto enjoyed in the direction of the studies of youth,
particularly among the middle and higher classes, to whom the
government of the nation actually belongs and on whom its
destiny mainly depends. And the sense of wrong, the feeling
that Literature is exercising an unjust usurpation, is embittered
by a sense of indignity in the minds of those who assert the claims
of Science, through the notion which they commonly form of the
relation in which the two branches of study stand to one another.
It is in their eyes the difference between words and things, between
shadows and reaUties. They resent the partiality by which that
which they consider as immeasurably superior in dignity and
importance, is, in the work of education, either treated with utter
neglect, or thrust down Into a place of disparaging subordination to
that which they deem so far beneath it in real worth. Perhaps it
wiU be best to let Science utter her own feelings, through the mouth
of one of her most eminent living teachers. And I wUl therefore
read a sentence or two from a lecture " On the Study of^PhysIcs "
delivered by Professor Tyndall, at the Boyal Institution, being
one of a series of Lectures on Education given by several dis
tinguished men : — " When I saw your Lecturer (the Oxford
Professor of Chemistry) reduced to the necessity of pleading for
Science, and meekly claiming for it, from the Institution which
we are accustomed to regard as the highest in this land (the
University of Oxford), a recognition equal to that accorded to-
Philology, I confess that the effect on me was to excite a certain
revolutionary tendency in a mind which is usuaUy tranquil almost
to apathy in these matters. Science behind Philology ! The
knowledge of the laws by which God's universe is sustained, and
the perpetual advancement of humanity secured, inferior to that
of the manner in which ancient and savage tribes put their
syllables together, and express the varieties of mood, tense, and
case." I must observe in explanation, that one Lecture of the
series was " On the Study of Language." You will own that the
extract I have read iUustrates and justifies my description of

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE, 289
the feeling. Those words were spoken twelve years ago : but,
as the state of things has not been materlaUy altered, the
words may be considered as expressing a feeUng, which the
progress of Science in the interval has probably rendered still
more intense.
A state of things which gives room for such a feeling, much
more which naturaUy excites it, is, I repeat, one to be very
¦deeply deplored. We may indeed believe that It cannot be per
manent ; that whatever Is out of its proper place in such matters
will be sure to find its level; and that a difference of views,
arising, not from the nature of the objects themselves, but from
the different appreciations conceived of them in various minds,
wUl sooner or later be amicably adjusted. But there Is no saying
how long the interval of discord and uneasiness may last ; and in
the meanwhile the latent grudge, even when it does not break
out into open conflict, is a serious evU. It would be the height
of presumption in me to pretend to interpose as a judge or a
mediator between such parties. But as it appears to me that
the right does not lie absolutely on either side, and that this may
be shown by one who makes no pretension to scientific knowledge,
I venture to offer a few thoughts on this subject for your con
sideration, in the hope that they may tend to promote a better
understanding between those who take opposite sides In the
dispute. I will begin with a few remarks, which may at least
serve to show that I do not approach the subject with any dis
position to contest or underrate the legitimate claims of Science.
It is In my opinion highly desirable that the study of Science
should be more widely diffused, and should occupy a larger and a
higher place than it has yet done in the ordinary course of educa
tion in schools and colleges among us. I am aware that great
progress has been already made in this direction : in some of our
educational institutions, perhaps as much as can be reasonably
wished. And this movement Is so conformable to the general
current of public opinion, and the spirit of the age, that it may
be confidently expected to be making continual advances. In
this I can see nothing but matter for congratulation: nor do I
VOL. III. u

290 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
perceive any danger of the favour shown to this branch of educa-*
tion being carried too far, to the exclusion of any others which
may be justly deemed of equal importance. It must, however, be
remembered, that a scientific education, properly so termed, that
is, one resting on an adequate basis of mathematical knowledge,
must always remain a privilege of the few who can command the
means and opportunities requisite for such a course of study.
But we must also make due allowance for the manifold diversities
of capacity and inclination among those who possess such means
and opportunities. It is vain to deny the existence of these
natural diversities: though this has been done by persons too
much wedded to a theory to Usten to the witness of experience ;
among others, by Dr. Johnson and Sir Joshua Beynolds : though
it might have been thought that such an abstraction from the
realities of life was least of all likely to occur to a biographer and
a portrait-painter. There are minds in which science seems to
spring up by Instinct — like that which guides the bee in the con
struction of her cell — and on which scientific truths which are
only mastered by others through a process of laborious reasoning,
flash with the rapidity of spontaneous intuition. One of the most
remarkable examples of this scientific instinct is afforded by the
celebrated Blaise Pascal, who was also the writer who brought
French prose to the highest perfection It has ever reached. His
father was distinguished both as a man of letters and as a man of
science. He very early discerned the character of his son's mind,
and fearing that the study of mathematics, once begun, would so
engross all his time and attention as to prevent him from acquiring
any other kind of learning, determined to keep him ignorant of
the first rudiments of geometry until he had gained a competent
knowledge of Greek and Latin. But nature proved too strong for
education. The boy's curiosity had been roused by a few words
which fell from his father on the general object of geometry.
Presently, in his hours of recreation, he began to cover the walla
of his room with diagrams, though without knowing even the
technical names of his figures, but calling a line a bar, and a circle
a round ; and was at last surprised by his father engaged in the

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE. 291
demonstration of the 32nd Proposition of the First Book of Euclid,
which he had never seen. He was then only twelve ; and at the
same age, having been struck by a phenomenon with which we
are all familiar, though perhaps not all able to account for it —
namely, that the ringing of a vessel ceased as soon as it was
touched by the hand, he set about investigating the cause, and
made a number of experiments upon sounds, and composed a
treatise on the subject. And this precocity of genius was hardly
more surprising than that which he showed at the age of nineteen,
when he forestalled the idea of Professor Babbage by the invention
of a calculating machine. On the other hand, there are minds,
not otherwise particularly weak, which are incapable of grasping
the sequence of mathematical reasoning ; and persons have been
known — I knew one instance myself — to commit to memory a
large mass of mathematics, and to pass an examination with some
degree of credit and success, though they had never really com
prehended their own demonstrations. Still greater, no doubt, is
the number of those, who, though not afflicted with such incapacity,
feel either a difficulty in the pursuit, or a distaste for the object,
which amounts to a practical disqualification.
But most valuable scientific results, which could only have been
reached by means of very abstruse mathematical investigations, or
through a series of very delicate and arduous experiments, may be
communicated to persons who are quite unable to repeat or to
understand the processes by which they were obtained. And men
of the very highest scientific eminence do not disdain to Impart
the ripest fruits of their laborious researches, in lectures and books,
to popular audiences, and to readers wholly ignorant of mathe
matics; as believing the task to deserve all the skill and pains
which It requires, and that they are contributing to the glory of
Science, when they make its truths accessible to a greater number
of minds. But whatever may be the intrinsic value of the
information diffused, the actual benefit which it yields must
depend on the quality of the minds which receive it, and must be
proportioned to the energy which they exert upon it. To some it
may afford no more than a fugitive enjoyment in the agreeable
u 2

292 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
occupation of a leisure hour. There may be others on whom it
leaves a more abiding Impression, but who only possess it as an
addition to their stock of knowledge, which, though they keep it
safe, brings them no interest or increase. Others there are to
whom it renders a far more important service, not merely storing
their memory with a pile of facts, but awakening or strengthening
their faculties of observation or reasoning on physical subjects, and
training them for an intelligent contemplation of the outer world
around them.
It would ill become me to attempt to enlarge on the manifold
advantages accruing from such a habit, both to the Individual and
to society. But I may be allowed to express mj^ belief that they
can hardly be overrated. Considered simply as a mental discipUne,
it is probably a not less efficacious instrument of intellectual culture
than the study of mathematics itself. I am Inclined to think that
it may be even more beneficial, as caUing higher powers into
action. Begarded as a source of enjoj'ment. It Is unfailing and
inexhaustible ; and the pleasure It affords Is at once pure and
wholesome, noble and refined, animating and invigorating ; not
unfrequently, perhaps, associated with deeper emotions of admira
tion and delight, such as were never suggested by a mathematical
formula. And when we would estimate Its value In this respect,
we must remember not only the healthy and elevating enjoyment
which it yields, but the pernicious and debasing pleasures which
it most effectually excludes, not only by filling their place, but by
transforming them into objects of contempt and disgust. If again
we consider such a habit in its practical applications, who could
pretend to enumerate or describe them ? V/ho can calculate the
multiplicity of occasions which are constantly arising to call them
Into use, for purposes of most momentous Interest in the gravest
concerns of life ? I am not indeed prepared to go to quite the
same length as Professor TyndaU, who In his most natural and
honourable enthusiasm in behalf of the science which he has so
successfully cultivated, would require every member of jparllament
to pass an examination in Natural Philosophy before he Is admitted
to take his seat. I do not care to inquire, though in this room I

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE. 293
should be in no danger of suggesting invidious comparisons, how
many members of the present parliament would be able to stand
this test. My difficulty is, that if the principle were once estab
lished, as the professors of all other branches of Science would no
doubt put in a like claim in behalf of their several studies, there
might be danger of a long interruption of public business for want
of a sufficient number of gentlemen to make a house. When
indeed we had got the full talc of a House of Commons which had
fulfiUed this condition — I say nothing of " the other place" — we
should no doubt have a legislative assembly such as the world has
never yet seen, a parliament of philosophers, a flock of phasnlxes.
I only question whether it might not prove rather more like an
Academy or an Institute than our old-fashioned House of Com
mons, and whether this would be an unalloyed gain. But I have
no doubt whatever as to the general truth which lies at the root
of Professor Tyndall's suggestion ; the Immense advantage which
the country might derive from the more general diffusion of such
knowledge among those who by their social position are enabled
to exercise a salutary influence over their poorer neighbours, to
enlighten and to guide them in matters most deeply affecting both
their physical and their moral well-being. I am afraid the time
is still far off, when such knowledge shaU have filtered through the
Ripper strata of society to the lower, to such an extent as to render
that enlightening and guiding influence superfluous.
I must also observe, though at the risk of seeming to take too
gloomy a view of our prospects, that I believe the power of accu
rate observation and reasoning on physical subjects to be rather
in the nature of a somewhat rare talent, than a faculty common
to all, and which needs only to be properly educated. It must at
least, I think, be admitted that it does not exist in all In an equal
degree. How many boys — may I not say how many men — have
stopped the ringing of a glass by a touch, without ever reflecting
like Pascal on the cause of the phenomenon, to say nothing of
writing a treatise on the subject. There is a work, well known
probably to many here, which I read, not only with lively pleasure
but with warm admiration, Darwin's Journal of his Voyage round

294 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
the World in the Beagle. The pleasure arose, not merely from
the great variety of interesting scenes described in the book,
but from the evidence it affords of the author's power of observa
tion and interpretation of nature, which no object worthy of notice
seems ever to escape or mislead. Such mastery appears to me to
require the union and co-operation of three distinct and rare
endowments : keenness of scientific interest, and curiositj' ; that
concentration of the attention to which Newton ascribed his Intel
lectual achievements ; and a facility of combination which has
some affinity to wit. But the rarer, at least In this degree, the
gift, the more desirable must it be that no means which educa
tion affords of eliciting and furthering its development should be
neglected. But now let me say that my recognition of the claims of Science
Is not limited to those which, however imperfectly they may yet
be admitted in practice, are scarcely any longer disputed In theory.
I am not one who desires that the wings of Science should be
clipped, to prevent her from soaring too high, or escaping out of
bounds, and that she should be confined to a useful and comfort
able, but an Inglorious and Ignoble domestic service. I fully
sympathize with those who indignantly repudiate such a condition
for Science and for themselves — who demand an absolutely unre
stricted freedom, as tlie very air which tbey must breathe, even to
enable them to perform those services which by some are regarded
as their highest merit. If we only consider what Science really
is, we can hardly fall at once to see the absurdity, and I may even
say the Impiety, of such an attempt. What is Science ? Is it not
the reflection of nature or the outward world in the mind of man,
which has been so constituted as not only to perceive the pheno
mena presented to the senses, but to comprehend their mutual
relations and the laws to which they are subject ? Is it then pos
sible to prescribe an arbitrary limit (if It was a natural limit it
would not need to be prescribed), to the operations of this mental
faculty ? There Is, I think, only one way in which it can even
seem to be possible, and that one which experience has shown to
be servlcjable only as a temporary, and yet a very perilous and

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE. 295
costlj' expedient. It is possible to impose silence on the mental
faculty, to prevent it from divulging its discoveries, to compel it
to gainsay Its own deepest convictions. We know how this was
done In the case of Galileo, and with what success : that it would
have been almost as easy to stop the motion of the earth as per
manently to suppress the knowledge of the fact. But as long as
the communication of scientific truth is subject to such restraint,
the intellectual movement itself will be checked. Science will
languish as a plant withdrawn from the light. It is too little to
speak of such coercion as a wrongful encroachment on human
freedom. It also Implies the highest degree of Irreverence toward
the Power by which both the outward and the inner world, the
Cosmos and the mind of man, were framed In such marvellous
correspondence to one another. When He has said to every
rational being, "Feel, think, learn, know," who shall presume to
interpose a prohibition, and to mark the point at which learning
and knowledge are to cease, though more remains to be learnt and
known ! Is not this virtually to tax the All-seeing with short
sightedness, and to charge the noblest instinct of our higher nature
with a tendency to evil ?
But here I must ask you to observe a very important distinction.
All that is true as to Science in the abstract, or the idea, may not
always hold with regard to its professors ; any more than every
thing which may be truly said of religion, can be Invariably
applied to Its ministers. The priests of Science are still men, sub
ject even in the exercise of their ministry to human error and
weakness. And, if I am not mistaken, they are exposed in our
day to some peculiar temptations, which it requires great strength,
not only of mind, but of character, to resist. The growing rapidity
of the recent progress of Science, the surprising discoveries by
which its boundaries have been enlarged, the vast power which it
has acquired, and the splendid achievements by which it has
changed the face of the earth, tend to inspire a confidence which
m£iy become overweening, and to nourish an ambition which
may be carried to excess. Those who have taken a part In this
series of victories and triumphs, may naturally find it difficult to

296 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
reconcile themselves to the aclcnowledgment of any intellectual
barrier, which in their present state of being must for them
remain insurmountable, and to acquiesce in the consciousness of
helpless and hopeless ignorance. And yet in how many cases is-
such resignation to the Inevitable and the Irremediable man's
best wisdom ?
In the Infancy of Greek philosophy, when. If Science might be
said to exist, it was only in the germ of a blind, instinctive craving-
for truth, and in the utter absence of all the conditions necessary
for taking a step toward the satisfaction of that craving with
safety, we find a series of philosophers, each of whom flattered
himself with the belief that he had discovered the whole secret of
nature, the one principle which, in its manifold manifestations,
produced and maintained the order of the world — a world indeed
which in their conceptions was bounded by a very narrow com
pass, as even in a later age it was considered as a liberal allowance-
for the size of the sun, which had previously been held not to-
exceed the width of a man's foot, when It was asserted to be larger
than Peloponnesus, the little peninsula at the southern extremity
of Greece. One philosopher detected his universal principle in
water, another In air, another In fire, another In a combination of
water and earth ; thus completing the number of the elements
which maintained their dignity in the common belief even of
educated men, during such a long succession of after-ages. Others
anticipated our latest theory of the universe, which represents all
space as filled with atoms, " seething and surging like the waves.
of an angry sea," but which somehow contrive to be continually
evolving out of chaos, not only forms of exquisite beauty, but
intelligences capable of perceiving, comprehending, admiring, and
imitating them. All these philosophers were animated by the like-
generous ambition, of building a system of nature, and were sus
tained by the like unhesitating confidence In their own ability, not
only to found or rear their edifice, but to finish it and roof it in,
as a compact and perfect whole.
We smile at these premature attempts to accomplish so great
an undertaking, without any of the means or instruments which

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITER.ATURE, 297
would have been needed for making even a right beginning,
though I hope we can also sympathize with such noble and lofty,
though misguided aspirations, and can admire the genius of the
people which was capable of falling Into such glorious errors.
There needs, perhaps, no extraordinary amount of knowledge to-
enable one rightly, even If not quite fully, to estimate the mental
interval which separates those rude guesses of the early Greeks-
from the scientific researches and constructions of our own day.
It is a gulf which I do not pretend exactly to measure ; but I am
persuaded that my imagination does not far underrate the vastness-
of its breadth and depth. Still I trust that I shaU be thought to-
be uttering a truism rather than a paradox, when I express my
beUef that, immense as this difference is, it is as nothing when
compared with that which lies, and will always subsist, between
the known and the unknown ; that is, not only between the know
ledge actually attained, but between that which Is attainable by
the human mind, and that which wiU, In Its present state of being,
be ever beyond its reach.
I should indeed be surprised to see this proposition, which to
me seems self-evident, formally questioned. But I cannot help
observing language used by some of our men of science, which
appears to me to savour rather of the venturous spirit of those old
Greek system-builders, than of that caution, if I may not say
humiUty, which has been the general characteristic of modern
physical philosophy and the most essential condition of Its success.
They would not indeed pretend, like them of old, that the building
has been quite roofed In, they would not deny that there are
many open spaces to be fiUed up at the top, and that in the inner
compartments an Infinity of work remains to be 'done. But they
seem to betray a strong confidence that the necessary scaffolding
has reached Its full height, that the framework at least is com
plete, and that Avhat is still wanting Is only something subsidiary
and supplementary, and not only within human capacity, but
probably the easiest part of the task. I would not say that those
who do so are not exercising an unquestionable right, but I think
they are exercising it in a way which naturally tends to excite

298 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
those feeUngs of distrust and ill-will of which we sometimes hear
them complain.
Outside of that vast realm which has been conquered by Science,
and where she holds undisputed sway, lie large tracts of debate-
able ground, stretching into endless space, over which her domi
nion has not extended. It Is a region of comparative obscurity,
which her most brilliant torch-light has proved quite unable to
Uluminate. But this outer region Is that in which questions
spring up of the deepest interest to mankind. Involving nothing
less than the existence of the Divine Personality, and the spiritu
ality of the human soul. It is certainly not surprising that any
one who conceives that these fundamental truths are threatened
by the progress of Science, should view it with distress and alarm.
And I must own that there are scientific writings, in which both
appear to me to be either denied or Ignored. But I am no less
sure that Science Itself Is not in the least responsible for these
conclusions, and that, if they are adopted by men of science, it is
wholly at their own Individual charge and risk. They belong to
a domain in which men of science have indeed full right to make
excursions at their pleasure, but where theypossess no property,
private or corporate, and no privileged right of way, no right to
warn others off the ground, no authority to direct their course
over it. Some thirteen or fourteen years ago, verj' lively and
general Interest was excited by a controversy about the plurality
of inhabited worlds. It was stirred by one who had perhaps as
good claim as ever man had to the name of a living cyclopaedia,
the late Dr. Whewell. It was carried on, and with a warmth
which, in a purely scientific question, would have been hardly
possible, between him and another eminent physical philosopher.
Sir David Brewster. The late Professor Powell Interposed to hold
the balance, and arbitrate between the disputants, though not cer
tainly as pretending to be superior to either In scientific attain
ments. I am not aware that any unscientific person took part in
the discussion. And yet It was evidently one in which Science
had no exclusive or decisive voice. It turned quite as much upon
moral and theological as upon physical considerations. And I

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE. 299
believe that It left the question precisely where it was at the begin
ning, and the opinions of the parties entirely unchanged.
There is another fact of literary history, which seems to me still
more aptly to illustrate the distinction which I wish to point out.
At the beginning of the present century there was a French
writer of considerable eminence, named Cabanis, a disciple of the
school in which the principles of Locke had been developed in
all their logical consequences, and even carried still farther by
CondiUac, which admitted no source of knowledge but sensation,
no object of knowledge but the various modifications of matter.
Cabanis published a work on the relations between Physics and
Morals, in which he propounded a system of the universe founded
on these principles. It was very elaborate and complete ; and it
seemed to leave no room either for God in the world, or for the
soul in man. Nobody could doubt that it was thoroughly mecha
nical, materialistic, atheistical. And as the current then still set
that way in France, It had the greater vogue on that account.
But in a subsequent publication he announced his belief in an
intelligent First Cause, and in a spiritual principle of thought and
action in man. But he did not profess this doctrine as a retrac
tation or correction of his earlier views, but as a supplement and
complement to his system. It was not clear whether this important
addition was originally reserved in his mind, or only occurred to
him as an after-thought. But this example may serve to temper
the feeling with which we might otherwise recoil from modern
treatises -of Physiology, which appear to deny or Ignore man's
spiritual nature, and to describe him as a machine whose move
ments are all pre-determined by an Inflexible necessity, while he
cheats himself with a delusive consciousness of an imaginary free
will. This will not alarm or perplex any one who bears In mind
the distinction between the positive and the negative side of this
doctrine, and the different degrees of success which are due to
each. I listen with the utmost deference to the physiologist, when
he explains the mechanism of the human frame, and the physical
conditions which are attached to the various affections and opera
tions of the mind and will, I am lost in admiration and awe at

300 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
the fresh discoveries with which he Illustrates the old truth, that
we are " fearfully and wonderfully made." I thankfully acknow
ledge the manifold practical benefits which may flow from this
enlarged knowledge of our physical constitution. It would Indeed
sound to me a little strange, if he should describe my emotions
and volitions in terms (as mathematicians say) of tissues and cur
rents. But I am willing to put the best construction on his
language, and to attribute It to nothing worse than a little harm
less pedantry. But If he should proceed from positive to negative
teaching : If he should assure me that he has now furnished me
with a key to the whole mystery of my being ; that there is
nothing beyond, nothing of a different and a higher order, which
either has not, or may not be accounted for by his theory ; then I
can no longer retain the attitude of a confiding disciple. I know,
with the most intimate conviction, with regard to myself, that his
assertion Is untrue ; that he has not In fact brought me a single
step nearer to the understanding of what I have been used to call
my moral and spiritual nature ; and I no longer bow to his autho
rity, because I perceive that he Is no longer speaking in the name
of Science, but in his own, and that, if I ask him for his creden
tials, he has none to produce. He is not now demanding my
assent to the well-ascertained results of observation and experi
ment, but to a mere private metaphysical speculation. He has no
claim to my submission ; for we are on ground where, to use the
lawyer's phrase, the writ of Science does not run.
And so I can, at a very humble distance, admire, and so far as I
find that men of science are agreed on the subject, can implicitly,
at least provisionally, accept, those magnificent generalisations
which culminate In the theory of the continuity and unity of
force. But I reserve my right to reject any negative inferences
which may be drawn from that theory, even by men of science, on
the supposition of a universal empire of a blind force. And I am
not afraid of being reproached with the presumption of setting up
my own ignorance In opposition to the decrees of Science. For
whatever degree of unanimity (and I believe it Is far from perfect)
may prevail among men of science as to these generalisations, I

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE, 301
am very sure there is none such with regard to that supposition.
The philosopher who of all perhaps in our day best deserves to be
styled a Uneal intellectual descendant of Newton, I mean Sir John
Herschel, concludes his pregnant Uttle essay on the Origin of
Force with the remark : " The first and great question which
Philosophy has to resolve in its attempts to make out a Cosmos,
is, whether we can derive any light from our internal conscious
ness of thought, reason, power, wIU, motive, design — or not :
whether, that is to say, nature is or is not more interpretable, by
supposing these things (be they what they may) to have had or to
have to do with Its arrangements. But if these attributes of mind
are not consentaneous, they are useless in the way of explanation.
Will without Motive, Power without Design, Thought opposed to
Beason, would be admirable in explaining a chaos, but would
render little aid in accounting for anything' else."
To this let me only add the sentence with which Mr. Grove, the
great expounder, if he may not be called the author of the recent
theory, closes his work on the "Correlation of Physical Forces."
" In all phenomena, the more closely they are investigated, the
more are we convinced that, humanly speaking, neither matter
nor force can be created or annihilated, and that an essential
cause is unattainable. Causation is the will, creation the act, of
Ood." I have unwarily left myself very little time for any remarks on
the other side of the subject — the claims of Literature — though it
is that in which I may be supposed to feel the strongest interest ;
and it may seem doubtful whether it Is worth while to say what
must be said so briefly. There is, however, on this side the advan
tage, that I have less occasion for distinctions and quaUfications,
which on the other were indispensable to guard against misunder
standing ; and also that some things which have been already said
may have served in some measure to prepare for that which I have
yet to say. As, for the reasons I have assigned, I fear nothing
from Science, so I have no fear for Literature. I should indeed
deem it a great calamity, if, through any revolution in public
opinion, Literature, either on the whole or in any of its main

302 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
branches, should be less actively cultivated, or made to occupy a
lower place in education than at present. On the whole, I can
see no danger of such an event. Science was probably never more
awake to the value of the study of man, as indeed "the noblest,"
the most complicated and difficult, as well as the most useful ; that
to which all the rest naturally converge, and in which they fulfil
their highest destination. And for this study the written monu
ments of human thought supply by far the largest part of the
materials and instruments. Never also, perhaps, has there been a
greater number of distinguished men who have cultivated both
Science and Literature with equal Interest. The prospects of
Literature do not depend on the force of habit, or the tenacUy of
traditional associations. It can show as good title to the esteem it
enjoys, as any branch of Science, apart from the low utilitarian
ground of practical applications, which men of science, as we have
seen, regard with so much contempt as a measure of value.
But there is a question which, though subordinate, is of consi
derable Importance, and very deeply Interesting to the rlelng
generation, on which public opinion has undergone a change, and
cannot be said to be finally settled. It is whether the share of
time and attention which has hitherto been commonly devoted in
our schools to the study of the Greek and Latin languages is not
excessive, and out of proportion to their real value. Let me
observe that If I fully admitted this to be the case, it would not
be because I think it easily possible to overrate either the value
of those languages either for the study of Greek and Boman
antiquity, or the Importance of that study as a branch of liberal
education. I shall, I think, not inaptly illustrate my view of
the relation in which the languages stand to that study, if I
say that it appears to me to correspond to that in which mathe
matics stand to physical philosophy. But as I before observed
that, even without a knowledge of mathematics, it is possible ta
acquire a very valuable stock of useful Information in physics, so
it Is possible for one who knows neither Greek nor Latin, to gain
much profitable knowledge of Greek and Boman antiquity. I have
no doubt that a person, in that sense illiterate, but endowed with

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE, 303
the requisite natural aptitude and capacity, who should study the
ancient monuments preserved in the British Museum, with no
other aid than he may find In English writers, might form a
livelier and truer image of the ancient world. In some of its most
interesting aspects, than ever dawned on many a scholar who
spent his whole Ufe among the Greek and Latin authors. And it
may be added that most of their masterpieces have been brought
within the reach of the English reader, by translations, some of
which are among our most precious literary treasures, and repre
sent the originals with a fidelity which often leaves little to desire,
beside the native colour, and, so to speak, the aroma which is
unavoidably lost in the passage from one language to another,
especially one of entirely different structure and genius.
But to return to our question. Many at this day would agree
with Montaigne, who observes in one of his Essays, but with
special reference to the mode of education then prevalent, " Greek
and Latin is no doubt a fine and great accomplishment, but it costs
too dear." And he contrasts the method of teaching then In use
with his own experience. His father wished him to become a
classical scholar, but without the smallest constraint on his liberty
or inclinations. For this purpose the child, as soon as he could
speak, was placed in the charge of a German, who was a. perfect
master of Latin, but did not know a word of French. Great pains.
were taken to prevent the young gentleman from hearing the
sound of his native tongue ; and with such success, that, as he
relates, at the age of six, "he knew no more either of French, or
even of the provincial patois of Perigord, than of Arabic ; " but
Latin he could speak with all the fluency and purity, he does
not say of Cicero, but of his German master ; and though he
was afterwards assisted in his studies by the greatest latlnlsts
in Europe, such as Muretus and Buchanan, they all expressed
their admiration of a promptitude and facility of utterance which
they had never been able to acquire in the language of their
erudition. Few boys can, fewer do, enjoy such an advantage.
The foundations of a solid knowledge of Greek and Latin cannot,
under ordinary circumstances, be laid without much hard labour.

304 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
And there is this difference between the labour so spent, and that
which is bestowed on mathematical and physical learning, that the
return comes in much more slowly. A boy may feel some inward
satisfaction at the successful working of a sum, or the solution of
an equation ; he may be thriUed with a glow of delight when he
has mastered the scientific explanation of some familiar natural
phenomenon ; but where is the ingenuous student of the Latin
Primer, even in its latest form, who would testify on oath, that the
pleasure he had derived from Its contents, when engraved In his
memory, made full amends for the pain, whether mental or
physical, which the acquisition had cost !
This difference has sometimes been urged as an argument in
favour of the study which is more immediately and evidently
remunerative. But it seems clear fhat a mental discipline may
not be the less profitable, because at the outset it Is merely Irk
some ; and the ultimate reward may be in due proportion to the
length and slowness of the process. Still, when I consider how
few among the vast number of boys who have spent years In the
learning of Latin and Greek, ever attain that degree of proficiency
in either which would enable them to use it freely and securely,
either as a source of enjoyment or as an instrument of mental
culture, or of independent research ; how many, within a few
years after leaving school, remember nothing but the tediousness
of the work, and never taste its proper fruits ; I must frankly
admit that this looks very much like a case in which there has
been a great expenditure of a teaching force which has been lost
and annihilated. But is it not possible, notwithstanding super
ficial appearances — and will not every man of science be disposed
to receive the suggestion with favour — that It has only undergone
a series of transformations, which has not interrupted its persis
tency, but only changed its mode of action ? Who could venture
to say how deeply, though by an invisible and inscrutable process,
it may have affected the mental and moral constitution, and have
produced effects which may be sensible and beneficial, though as
unUke to that for which it was designed as heat to motion ? But,
¦vrithout pressing a questionable analogy, I wUl say, that I am loth

BELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE. 305
to beUeve that any instruction honestly given is ever absolutely
wasted, and does not deposit some germ which, though long
dormant, may at last burst into flower, and ripen into fruit.
I think it possible that something may be done toward the
solution of this difficulty, by a more careful discrimination between
the various aptitudes and tendencies of different natures, which I
have already noticed. Some minds are repelled, not only by the
abstruseness, but by the aridity of. exact Science. Others feel an
equal antipathy to what seems to them the frIvoUty of unscientiflc
Literature. I remember that in my early CoUege days I heard an
anecdote, which I beUeve was more than a joke, of a Cambridge
Professor who was induced by a friend to read the ^neid. When
he was asked what he thought of it, he said It was very well, but
he did not see what it proved. His was a mind which could see
no Line of Beauty where he could not find the equation to its
curvature. There Is at least one practical point on which this
observation has a direct bearing. The possession of a favourite
language has, I beUeve, always been found to prompt an effort to
use It as a vehicle of thought, either in prose or verse. This has
been pre-eminently the case with the Greek and Latin languages.
But it appears to me a cruel absurdity to attempt to forestall the
natural working of this imitative instinct, which has beguiled the
leisure of some of our most eminent statesmen, by forcing young
boys, through the hardest drudgery, and at a great expense of
time, to wrap the vacancy of thought in Ciceronian phrases and to
hammer nonsense into Horatian metres.
I will only trespass on your patience ¦with one reflection more.
The cause, if I may so speak, of Classical Literature has suffered
much less, and has much less to fear, from adversaries and
detractors, than from injudicious friends and admirers ; and it is
these who have provoked, and in a measure justified, the reproaches
¦with which it has been assailed: If by some that Literature is
considered as good for Uttle more than to enable members of
parUament to point a sentence ¦with a quotation from Virgil or
Horace ; if in" many mind§ the name is associated with the idea
of forms of speech, in contrast to real knowledge ; how many of
VOL. III. X

306 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
those who have devoted themselves to it with the most passionate
enthusiasm, have shown that they ¦viewed it in the same Ught !
It is not merely that so many of the great scholars of the sixteenth
century, the most active promoters of that revival of letters which
gave so powerful an impulse to the course of our modern cl^viUza-
tion, aimed at nothing higher than the formation of an elegant
Latin style, and did not hesitate to speak of it, in sober earnest,
without the sUghtest consciousness of absurdity or extravagance,
but, on the contrary, with the fuUest assurance of universal sym
pathy, as the highest glory that man could achieve, an object
worthy of incessant exertion, while they treated the diversion of
attention from this to the cultivation of their mother tongue a?
a deplorable mistake, — it is not merely this, but it is that there
was a general inversion of the right subordination between means
and ends ; and It is UteraUy true, that things were studied for the
sake of words, not words for the sake of things. The knowledge
of antiquity was valued for the light it reflected on the works of
the ancient authors, not those works for the help they gave
toward the knowledge of antiquity. This unhappy perversion of
ideas continued for many generations to be the fundamental prin
ciple of classical education throughout Europe. It can hardly be
said to have been effectuaUy shaken before the present century.
I wish it could be truly said to be altogether a thing of the past
among ourselves. This divorce between words and things, ¦with
a preference of words to things, this predominance of rhetoric over
reality, was attended by many e-vU consequences, which were by
no means confined within the waUs of schools and colleges. Let
me cite an example from the history of France, which, whUe it
illustrates my remark, is in itself not a Uttle interesting and
instructive. M. de TocqueviUe, in his great, though unhappUy unfinished
work, "The Old B^glme and the Bevolutlon," has unfolded the
web of that truly tragical destiny by which Louis XIV., while
beUeving that he was estabUshing his despotic power on an
immovable basis, by the overthrow of every local barrier of ancient
right and privilege that limited the exercise of the royal authority.

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCIENCE AND LITERATURE. 307
was reaUy depriving it of its firmest supports, and paving the way
down which, in the next century, his throne and dynasty roUed
into the abyss in which they were finaUy engulfed. Little as he
could foresee this result of the poUcy by which he identified him
self with the State, he was still farther from suspecting that one
of the instruments which contributed to the most refined amuse
ment of his leisure, to the splendour of his court, and to the glory
of his reign, was unconsciously co-operating in the preparation for
that catastrophe. All Frenchmen, we know, whatever may be
their poUtical sentiments, look back upon his Age, in the intel
lectual point of view, -with admiration and pride, as one only
rivalled by those of Pericles and Augustus. Among the literary
productions to which it owes a large share of its renown, were the
masterpieces of its dramatic poetry, which was brought to its
highest perfection by his great court-poet Bacine. I am not
going to criticize their Uterary merit, which is no doubt very
great, if due allowance is made for the very peculiar artificial con
ditions to which they were subject, though of a kind which does
not suit the taste of the countrymen of Shakespeare. But I wish
you to observe this fact : not one of them was founded on a sub
ject connected with the history of France. All the plots, with
two or three exceptions, were drawn from the history or the
mythology of Greece and Bome. But though this was the source
from which the chief characters and incidents were derived, the
dramas in fact belonged to no period of history, and to no real
state of things that had ever been seen in the world. They were
ideal abstractions, which served as a vehicle for much fine rhetoric
and impasoiuned eloquence. They were at least as much at home
at Versailles as at Athens or Bome ; and if the heroes or heroines
appeared, as I beUeve they did, on the stage, in the full dress
of the French Court, there was in this no real incongruity, nor
anything to disturb the illusion or weaken the interest of the
scene. But such a limitation of dramatic subjects was a very significant
fact, and one pregnant not only with meaning, but -with con
sequences. What did it signify? It was an indication of a
x2

808 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
feeling that was constantly gaining strength down to the time of
the Bevolutlon, when it reached its climax. The national history
and the ancient Institutions were regarded, first with indifference,
then -with contempt, then with aversion, and at last with a bitter
fanatical hatred ; and this, while a spurious admiration for classical
antiquity, which was only known as affording topics for rhetorical
declamation, kept making a paraUel progress. We know the
grotesque forms which this admiration took during the paroxysm
of the Bevolutlonary fever, in the adoption of Greek and Boman
names and titles, and the mimicry of the costume and usages of
ancient life, which as a whole was utterly imknown or misunder
stood. One example of this mania is so ludicrous, especiaUy in
contrast with the gravity of the occasion to which it relates, that
it would be hardly credible If it was not attested by documentary
evidence. After the faU of the Girondist party, its opponents
thought it expedient to follow up their victory by the fabrication
of a new Paper Constitution. Very little time was allowed to the
legislators for this^work ; and that it might, nevertheless, be as
perfect as possible, the leading member of the legislative com
mission, Herault de SecheUes, addressed a letter to a literary
friend, which I translate from a work containing a facsimUe of
the original : — -
" My dear fellow-citizen, having been entrusted, in concert
with my four coUeagues, to prepare a draft of a Constitution
for next Monday, I beg you. In their name and my own, im
mediately to procure for us the laws of Minos, which should
be found in a coUection of Greek Laws. We have urgent need
of it"
If the Issue of the Bevolutlon grieved and disappointed the
friends of liberty throughout the world ; if the remedy It applied
to the disease of the State so shattered the patient's constitu
tion as to leave him under a chronic oscIUation between the
extremes of anarchy and despotism ; this was due no doubt to the
co-operation of various causes, among which the foremost was
an overweening confidence in the infaUibUity and omnipotence
of human reason, and in the aU-sufficiency of abstract principles

RELATIONS BETWEEN SCEENCB AND LITERATURE. 309
for the business of legislation and the government of mankind ;
but that abuse of Classical Literature, which is itself only one
example of the danger of substituting words for things, was not
¦without its share in the origin, as weU as in the aggravation ol
the calamity.
I leave it to others to draw the moral.

NOTES.

p. 290, — See "Vie de Pascal," par Madame Perier, ed, Faugere, p, 4.
P, 303, — Essais, i, c, 25, " C'estun bel et grand adgencement, sans
doubte, que la grec et latin, mais on I'achete, trop cher  Quant a
moi, j'avoy plus de six ans avant que j'entendisse non plus de francois
ou de perigordin que d'arabesque : et sans art, sans livre, sans grammaire,
ou precepte, sans fouet, et sans larmes, j'avois apprins du latin tout aussi
pur que mon maitre d'eschole le savait  Et Nicolas Grouchey, qui
a escript de Comitiis Bomanonmi, Guillaume Guerente, qui a commente
Aristote, George Bucanan, ce grand poete Escossois, Marc Antoine Muret,
que la France, et I'ltalie recognoist pour le meilleur orateur du temps, mas
precepteurs domestiques, m'ont diet souvent que j'avois ce langage en
mon enfance si prest et si a main, qu'Us craignaient a m'accoster,"
P, 806. — " Attends, mi Paule, et tuam caussam, a qua mea disjuncta
non est, si placet, mecum considera. Ule (Cicero) sibi, homo Eomanus,
latinse orationis inopiam metuebat ; cum tamen omnibus in hoe genere
divitiis abundaret ; nos, quibus latina lingua peregrina est, qui in optima
scribendi ant dicendi ratione rudes et infantes pane sumus, de summa
eloquentia sine summo studio cogitabimus ? et unam omnium difficiUimam
ram, eandemque omnium gloriossimam, ludibundi consequemur ? Vides
me ipsum, qui quid sim ego quidem non statue ; sed sunt quibus non esse
nihil videar ; nullum pane diam intermittera, quin aliquid latina scribam ?
Cum tamen, ex quo lapidam hunc volvo, annus jam vigesimus abierit.
Est adolescans in vastra nobUitata, tibi non ignotus, mihi admodum
familiaris: quern, excellenti prseditum ingenio,glori8e cupiditate flagrantam,
nisi a Eomanse aloquantise laude ad hujus matarnse linguaa studium falsa
qusedam opinio traduxissat, erat cur da illo spararam ea quaa summa sunt :
tantam enim operam in scribando ponit quantum tu videlicat in lagando:
Sed neque illi ia summa industria judicu satis est, qui de latinse lingusB
dignitate non optime santira videatur : nequa tibi, rectissima judicanti, ad
id ipsum, quod probas, obtinandum suppetit industria." Pauli Manutii
Epistote, 1558. Paulo Contareno, p. 25.
P. 308. — " Histoire-Musee da la Eepublique Francaisa," par Augustin
Challamel, i. p. 316,

APPENDIX.

Letter from Professor Tyndall in reference to the foregoing
Address.
Ith February, 1867,
My dear Lord, A latter lias before me, dated a long time back, thanking you
for the copy of your excellent address which you were good enough to
send me.
The case of Science could hardly be stated with greater fairness, and
you have said nothing regarding the limits of scientific research to which
any true philosopher could take objection.
With regard to a somewhat amusing passage which you quote from my
earlier ¦writings, I may say that a dozen years have made ma a sadder
and a wiser man. In a late reprint of that lecture by Macmillan, the
passage to which you have referred is omitted.
Pray accept this tardy acknowledgment of your kindness, and excuse
the accident which rendered it tardy. Yours very faithfully, John Tyndall,

SEKMONS

WOEKS WHICH EEMAIN, AND WORKS
WHICH FOLLOW US.
A Sekmon preached at the Chabtebhouse on Povndee's Day,
Decemeeb 12th, 1845,

" Their works do follow them." — Rev. xiv. 13,
This, It is clear, is not a description of a privUege peculiar to the
dead icho die in the Lord, but of something that must be common
to all who have departed out of this life, whatever may have been
the manner of their deaths or the quaUty of their works. In
whatever sense the words are to be understood, there can be no
doubt that it may be said with equal truth of all who have ever
laboured under the sun, when they are removed out of the world :
their icorhs follow them. And ¦without farther inquiry into the
meaning of the expression, we may venture to conclude that this
inevitable sequel of our earthly existence must aggravate the
misery of the wicked in like manner, and in the same degree, as
it heightens the blessedness of the just. But while we are
informed by Bevelatlon of this truth, which we could not other-
-wise have ascertained, we know, from the evidence of our senses,
it is no less true that men, when they finally rest from their
labours, leave, their works behind them on earth. This too is
unavoidable, whether it be matter of satisfaction or of regret.
Whichever way we turn our eyes among the haunts of men, we
find ourselves surrounded by such works. Every long- estabUshed
society subsists in and upon the monuments of the past, reared and
transmitted by successive generations. Without this inheritance

516 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
the face of the globe would never cease to be a dreary -wUderness.
Here then is at first sight the appearance of a contradiction between
the testimony of our senses and the language of Scripture. But if
we consider a little more attentively what it is in the works of
men that remains behind them, we shall perhaps more readUy
understand what it is that follows them. At the dissolution of
our bodily frame, the dust returns to the earth as it tvas : and the
spirit returns unto God who gave it. And as a distinction exactly
-corresponding to this holds good with regard to our works, a
similar separation may be said to take place between the parts of
which they are composed. That which remains of them is the
oarthly, material substance : that by which they are subject to the
apprehension of the senses, and become capable of affecting the
condition of human society. But their spiritual essence — that
which determines their real quaUty, and constitutes their intrinsic
worth — consists in the intelUgence and the will that produced
them ; and these belong to another sphere, beyond the reach of
our senses and of our natural knowledge, into which they have
foUowed the departed spirit. The material work may indeed
indicate and attest the creative thought to which it owes its being ;
but is something so distinct from it, that the one does not always
by any means adequately represent the other.
Now, as to the works of men thus considered in their spiritual
essence, there are two senses in which they may be said to follow
their authors when removed from the earth. They foUow them
as the subjects of retribution to the tribunal of Divine Justice.
For there no account wiU be taken of the outward result, of the
visible success or faUure ; nor ¦wIU the question be whether the
materials and instruments, or even the skill employed upon the
work, were sufficient to embody the conception. It is the design
alone that wIU then be accepted or condemned. And there is
another sense in which they foUow their makers stIU more closely.
For they are elements in the character by which every one at the
close of his earthly probation is fitted for his allotted place in the
world of spirits. For those however who come after, there are no
means of forming a judgment on the men who have passed away

WORES WHICH REMAIN, AND WORKS WHICH POLLOW US, 317

before them from their earthly, scene of action but the works
which each has left behind him. And so it is that which we here
behold, and the benefits derived from it, that afford the ground
and motive for our present commemoration. StiU the place in
which we are met for this purpose reminds us that we ought to
look at these objects in the light cast upon them by religion, and
therefore not without reference to the important truth intimated
by the text. We could not otherwise be sure that the pleasure
we feel on this occasion is rational and wholesome, nor that the
solemnity we are engaged in Is consistent with Christian prin
ciples. It may not then be an unsuitable employment for our
thoughts if we first consider generally the legitimate purposes of
such commemorations, and afterwards what belongs more pecu-
Uarly to the character of that which we are now celebrating.
I. There are few men who profess to be indifferent to the esti
mation in which they are held by their contemporaries ; and It
may be doubted whether any really are so. That is a singularly
lofty station in which the opinion of others with regard to us may
be safely despised ; a most degraded condition that which Is too
low to be affected by it. And those who have nothing to hope or
to fear from its Influence on their worldly interests may not be
insensible to the natural want of human sympathy, or able con
tentedly to resign themselves to a state of moral solitude. The
desire of notoriety, which so often seems utterly regardless of the
quaUty of the distinction it covets, is perhaps only a vicious per
version of that social instinct. But the case is not exactly the
same with regard to posthumous reputation. The great mass of
mankind are occupied with necessary cares, which leave them no
leisure to bestow a thought on it ; and even if the reflection
occurred to them, It would only suggest the conviction that their
names are destined to be forgotten almost as soon as they shall
have sunk into the grave. Many too who might have been
capable of better things suffer the love of pleasure or grovelling
pursuits to extinguish every spark of generous ambition. But
among those who are encouraged, either by advantages of station
or by the consciousness of intellectual power, to hope that they

318 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
may live in the remembrance of posterity, the desire of an endur
ing renown has been one of the mightiest impulses and a spring
of the greatest enterprises. It may indeed take a wrong direction,
by which it is rendered useless, or even hurtful, to society ; and
this will always be more or less the case whenever the shadow,
not the substance, false glory, not the true — which, as even heathen
philosophy taught, is inseparable from virtue — is the mark at which
it aims. But still the most generous spirits, those who have dedi
cated their energies to the good of mankind, have felt this spur,
and without it might have been less ready to scorn delights and live
laborious days : an infirmity indeed, as it has been justly caUed,
but still one to which noble minds alone are subject : one inti
mately connected with what is purest and best in human nature :
an infirmity, the absence of which impUes some far worse defect
In the moral constitution : one which it is the highest strain of
magnanimity to overcome, but which can be overcome only by those
who have experienced it. But yet, however active this principle
may have been, even in the bosoms of the wise and good during
their stay on earth, we cannot suppose that It retains its hold on
them when they have passed into another state of existence. We
would not presume to Intrude into the secrets of the spiritual
world. Between us and the abode — if we may use the term — of
disembodied spirits, is stretched an impassable gulf, across which
the most vigorous imagination strives in vain to sustain its flight,
and where the only light which could guide us safely bas been
vouchsafed in such scanty measure for the satisfaction of mere
curiosity, that it serves for little else than to make the darkness
visible. So much the less have we ground for believing that any
report of what takes place on earth penetrates into that unknown
region, or that the voice of human praise or censure reaches any
of its inhabitants. But we may venture with reasonable confi
dence to hold it certain, that if they were permitted to receive
such a communication, they would listen to it without emotion.
Viewed from that distance, the earth must appear smaU, and its
concerns of Uttle moment. Least of aU can we conceive that, in
the intermediate state, any take an interest in the opinions formed

WORKS WHICH EEMAIN, AND WORKS WHICH FOLLOW US. 319
by their feUow-men on them and their works. The witness of
their own conscience is too clear to require or admit of, an appeal
to any human authority ; and it awaits its final confirmation from
the sentence of an infaUible Judge, Whatever may have been
the nature of their ambition here, the purified longings of souls
ripe for heaven can only be satisfied with solid glory, true honour,
and real immortality.
But what then, it may be asked, is the meaning and the value
of such a tribute as we are now paying to our departed Benefactor ?
What purpose may it answer ? Is it one that concerns the dead
or the living ? Are we to view it in the light of a grateful return
for benefits received ? But what can such honours avail those
who, so far as we know, are neither capable of perceiving them, nor,
if they were, could derive the sUghtest pleasure from them ? Or is
it designed nominaUy for them, but reaUy for our own sakes ?
And if so, can the act be considered as altogether pure from every
alloy of selfishness, and Ukewise from every tinge of a false
colour ? These are questions which we must be able to answer, if
we would understand what we are doing.
It may be said that the object of this Commemoration is to
testify our gratitude ; not however to man, but to God : that it is
a festival of thanksgiving, in which we only point to our earthly
benefactor as the instrument by which the blessings of Providence
were conveyed to us. But this would be hardly a correct, surely
not an adequate description of the nature and objects of such a
solemnity as this, No doubt it admonishes us not to forget the
Author and Giver of all good things, whUe we fix our eyes on the
hand which dispensed a portion of them for our benefit. But such
a feeling of pious gratitude, though it should haUow and regulate,
needs not to supersede that which is due to our feUow-men, who
were not mere passive unconscious vehicles, but InteUigent and
benevolent agents, faithful and wise stewards of the Dl^dne bounty.
And it does not foUow that we ought to suppress the declaration
of oijr gratitude toward them, because it cannot reach their ears.
It is not on that account an empty sound, or an idle ceremony.
If the feeling is a right one, it deserves to be cherished. But it

320 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
would be in great danger of being quenched if it was to be always
pent up in our own bosoms. At best it would be, Uke every
thought which has not been shaped in words, a mere embryo, of
which we could give no account either to others or to ourselves.
On the other hand, we need not hesitate to own that this Com
memoration is not simply the performance of a pious office, nor
the utterance of a natural and becoming sentiment, but that it
answers other purposes, which are indeed very important to us,
but yet perfectly free from all taint of selfishness. Indeed, if the
sense of benefits received were the only right motive for such a
celebration, or the true measure of the interest which we may
fitly take in it, there might be something to perplex us in the
indulgence of the feelings belonging to this occasion. There
would be some reason to fear that while we expressed our thank
fulness — whether to God or to man — we might be, like the
Pharisee in the Temple, betraying our ignorance of ourselves, or
else might find our gratitude chiUed by the recollection that we
have profited much less than we might have done by the opportu
nities we have enjoyed. But if we consider ourselves as assembled
for the contemplation of a beneficent work, and look at it simply
as it is In itself, there wUl be nothing to suggest any uneasy
scruples or unavailing regrets, but much to afford matter for
cheering, elevating, and profitable reflections. While we contem
plate such an object, we are transported for the moment out of
ourselves, and united In spirit with its author. We enjoy a com
munion which is independent of time and place, and of aU the
conditions of personal intercourse, but is nevertheless real and
living and fruitful. It is the action of mind upon mind, which
no interval of ages or of worlds can obstruct or weaken. It Is
that by which a thought, consigned perhaps by an unknown hand
to a foreign language, may, to the end of time, awaken admiration
and sympathy in numberless hearts for the genius which produced
it. But the contemplation of a work which furnishes motives for
thankfulness to the Most High, and -wiU bear to be considered as
in His immediate presence, cannot be barren of practical effects,
or merely a source of inteUectual or sentimental enjoyment. This,

WORKS WHICH REMAIN, AND WOEKS WHICH FOLLOW US. 321
however refined, would be a species of indolent gratification, which,
even though innocent and wholesome. Is foreign to the service of
the sanctuary, and In which within its waUs we can never be at
liberty to rest. But wherever there is a real communion of spirit
with those who have been in any way useful to mankind, there
must be not merely veneration for their memory, but likewise an
earnest desire to resemble them in that which most attracts our
love and esteem toward them, and therefore a wish, so far as lies
in our power, to imitate what they have achieved, and to prosecute
what they have begun. In no other way can we connect ourselves
with them more closely than when we are striving to carry for
ward the torch which passed through their hands, to continue the
labours from which they have rested, and to build on the founda
tions which they have laid. The spiritual relations which we thus
contract are more ennobling than any privilege of birth, and
hardly less endearing than the ties of nature. And thus alone —
not by the warmest glow of enthusiasm, nor by the most eloquent
strains of panegyric — can we acquit ourselves of the debt we owe
to them. They cannot indeed receive *any portion of It directly at
our hands ; but we may transfer the obligation to posterity, and so
help to accumulate a treasure which shall form a part of their
future reward.
II. But that we may perceive this more clearly, and with a
livelier sense of the truth, let us proceed, as was proposed, to con
sider what belongs more peculiarly to our present Commemoration,
or, in other words, to fix our thoughts on the work which we have
now before our eyes. I do not intend however to point your atten
tion to the minuter features which distinguish it from others of
the same kind, much less to endeavour to exalt Its merits by com
parison with theirs, nor even to dwell upon the positive evidences
of Its fruitfulness and worth. It was indeed a noble and a happy
thought, and betokening a spirit of considerate and comprehensive
benevolence, that which planned this goodly harbour, where some,
after having long been tossed and shattered by the storms of life,
might seek shelter and repose, while others, with eager spirits, and
bright prospects, and boundless hopes, are preparing to launch out
VOL, III, Y

322 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
into the untried deep, I say it was a happy thought, because it paid
a graceful tribute to a venerable antiquity, reconciUng the tradi
tions of the place with the altered condition of the times, reviving
so much as was safe and wholesome, and avoiding all that expe
rience had proved to be dangerous or hurtful, so that here memory
might dwell on the past without regret, while hope felt no check
to its visions of the future ; an example of wise charity worthy of
all praise, and too rarely imitated, I shall however confine myself
to that which Is most prominent in the character of the work, and
which, for its transcendent Importance, deserves that our attention
should be concentrated on It, It Is the dedication of this site to
the purposes of liberal learning and religious education that con
stitutes Its founder's chief claim to the gratitude of posterity.
And when I consider it in this point of view, I am struck not
only by the importance of the results which have flowed from his
pious munificence, but likewise by the simplicity of the means by
which they have been effected. And each of these points seems
to merit a share of our notice.
When however I speak of results, I do not mean, as I have
already intimated, to touch upon the proofs which experience has
suppUed of the value of this work In the sensible effects of Its
beneficial operation. This, if it were possible to exhibit them,
would be foreign to my present purpose ; and it would e-vidently
be among the most hopeless of all undertakings to attempt to
collect them. For who would presume to form an estimate, even
in the rudest outline, of the influence which such an Institution
exerts on the whole community ? That Is manifestly something
which no subtlety of calculation could measure, nor any power of
language express. It must be left to the imagination, after the
widest range it can take through the various walks of life, dimly
to conceive it. Or rather, we must be content to say that we are
as little able to assign its limits as to trace its course. And there
fore I shall only endeavour to explain the grounds which, on the
most general view of the nature of this work, seem to entitle it to
a high rank in our estimation. But as it is only by comparison
that its relative merit can be determined, we must cast a glance

WORKS WHICH REMAIN, AND WORKS WHICH FOLLOW US. 323
at some other works of a different kind, which have often procured
a more wide-spread renown and warmer admiration for their
authors. We are speaking however of services rendered to man
kind ; and therefore many names must at once be excluded from
this competition, which occupy a very large and conspicuous room
in the annals of our race : names of warriors and conquerors, the
great and mighty of the earth, but whose career was like that of
the hurricane or the thunderbolt — ^whlch has been so often the
title bestowed upon them by their contemporaries — and their work
— if work it may be called — not to build, but to overthrow ; not to
plant or to cultivate, but to exterminate and lay waste ; not to
gladden, and beautify, and enrich the fields of their exploits, but
to convert the fruitful garden into a wilderness, and the populous
city into a heap of ruins and a lair of wUd beasts. Such achieve
ments we must here pass over In mournful silence. And again
we should be disparaging the dignity of the object we are now
contemplating, if we were to compare it -with any of those gigantic
monuments of human power and pride which have been so often
celebrated as the foremost wonders of the world. We ask not how
many hands have been employed, or how many years consumed
upon them : we care not for the vastness of their dimensions, or
the costUness of their materials, nor even for the beauty of their
proportions, or the majesty of their forms. We look to the end
and the design ; and if this has been only to mark an epoch,
to record a triumph, or to perpetuate a name, then, even should
the object have been attained — and we know how often It has
been forgotten, while the monument stands — these ponderous
fabrics, though they have cost the treasure of kingdoms and the
toil of miUions for many generations, will appear to us only as
elaborate trifles, memorable chiefly as lessons and warnings to
illustrate the ambition, the littleness, and the vanity of man.
But there are works In which we recognise a nearer affinity to
this which we are surveying, and which therefore are fit subjects
of comparison, whUe at first sight there may seem room for a
reasonable doubt whether they are not entitled to a preference on
the highest ground which they have in common with it, Produc-
Y 2

324 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
tions, I mean, of extraordinary intellectual power, applied not to-
frivolous but to noble purposes : the instruments of mighty but
innocent and useful conquests ; of those which have extended the
dominion of man over nature, the ascendancy of truth over error,
the triumph of Ught over darkness : monuments of genius, science,
and art— whether in breathing marble, or on glowing canvas, or
in words more vivid than the one, and more durable than the
other — records. In whatever form, of great thoughts destined for
the perpetual delight and instruction of succeeding generations.
The authors of such works must undoubtedlj^ be numbered among
the most Illustrious benefactors of mankind, and while in an
enlightened age artificial distinctions sink in public estimation,
these Intellectual advantages are more and more prized and
admired. Nor would any one in this place seek to depreciate
their value, or to tear a single leaf from the wreath of fame
they have earned for their possessors. But still there are some
points in which even the greatest works of this class must be
allowed to fall short of the excellence of that which we are now
comparing with them. One of these points is that it is more
durable in its nature. Not that It is exempt from the universal
condition of mortality, which belongs to all human works and
institutions ; or enjoys any special security against the convulsions
of nature, or the revolutions of society. But what I mean is that
it contains no germ of corruption or decay, which by its necessary
operation fixes the end of Its existence and prosperity within a
certain, known or unknown, period ; but that it is instinct with a
principle of life, so far as we are able to perceive, of imperishable
energy, as well as Inexhaustible fruitfulness ; so that our foresight
at least can assign no limit to its duration or to its actmty. Now
it is not so with those other works which we were just consider
ing. Not that they are more liable to perish through unforeseen
contingencies, or more subject to the vicissitudes of time and
fortune. But the difference is this : that even while they last
their value is inevitably more or less impaired by the lapse of time.
For every such work, when it has finally passed out of Its maker's
hand, must remain unalterably the same, while all things around

WORKS WHICH EEMAIN, AND WORKS WHICH FOLLOW US. 325
it are undergoing continual change. The relation therefore in
which it stands to them is no longer that for which its author
originaUy designed it. To the men of a l^ter generation, who
have grown up under the influence of laws and institutions, of
habits and principles, -widely different from those of his con
temporaries, it speaks — perhaps literally — a strange language;
and even if they comprehend its meaning, the farther they are
removed from his age, the less will it be able to command their
assent, excite their Interest, or touch their sympathy. Every
ancient library affords abundant illustrations of this truth. How
much ability and inteUectual labour have been expended on
works which, having survived the Ideas and sentiments and
manners that gave birth to them, are doomed to rest on neglected
shelves, in a slumber which is only disturbed at long intervals by
antiquarian research or accidental curiosity ! This is no doubt
most frequently the case with the productions of learning and
science, which are sure to be superseded sooner or later by the
progress of speculation and discovery. But it also holds, though
in an inferior degree, of those rare works of genius which wiU
indeed be the delight and admiration of aU ages, because their
immortal conceptions can never be entirely concealed or disfigured
by the peculiarity of the form in which they are moulded, but
which can only be supposed to retain their original freshness by
those who deceive themselves with the beUef that they are able,
by dint of learned toil, or by an effort of imagination, to transport
themselves into the life of remote antiquity. This then is one
point of contrast between such works and this which we are now
surveying : a work which can never become antiquated or effete,
because there is nothing to prevent it from continually adapting
itself to the wants and the progress of society ; nothing to connect
it with the past rather than with the future ; nothing to forbid
the hope that its best days, its highest honours, and its richest
increase are yet to come. It is not a failing, mouldering cistern,
but a spring of living waters, flowing not the less freely because
it has flowed long.
But there is another distinction between this and those, which

326 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
may help us stUl better to appreciate their relative worth. Take
the productions of the greatest InteUepts : take them as they
come from the master's hand : take them under the most favour
able circumstances, and while their influence is most potent ; and
consider what is the highest end, the best purpose they can ever
answer. We know that each — however perfect in itself — addresses
itself only to one side of human nature, exercises but one or a few
among the manifold capacities of the mind, cultivates only a small
tract of the boundless domain of human knowledge. And there
fore It is clear that they can only claim to rank as materials or
instruments of a more comprehensive work : of an education which
aims at the training of the whole man, unfolding all his faculties,
and regulating their employment with a -view to his supreme
good. They are subordinate to it, just as the arts which minister
to the particular wants of society must yield precedence to the
wisdom of the legislator by whose institutions they are fostered,
set in action, and made to co-operate for the common weal. And
in the hierarchy of Teachers and Benefactors of mankind, the
Founder of this House, though he would perhaps hardly have
deemed himself worthy of a place at the feet of the great masters
of human learning, may be one of those who shall hear the sum
mons. Friend, go up higher.
Finally, let us notice the simplicity of the means by which
these results have been accomplished. Let us observe that what
became thus fruitful of InteUectual and spiritual produce, so rich
and varied, was not any of the rarer gifts of Providence, not
extraordinary genius, or brilliant talents, nor even any pecuUar
acuteness of sagacity, or energy of character ; it was nothing more
than a share of God's commonest blessings, coupled indeed -with a
charitable mind, a wiU to apply them to a good use. It may
indeed be said that charity itself Is a gift more excellent than the
best of those I have just nanied. But it is not a gift in the same
sense : not one that Is bestowed once for aU in a certain measure,
which no effect of the owner can materlaUy enlarge ; not bestowed
on some, and whoUy -withheld from others. In aU there is a
spark of it at least, which may be fanned and cherished and fed.

WOEKS WHICH EEMAIN, AND WOEKS WHICH POLLOW US. 327'
until it mounts up into a flame. But looking at the outward
means and conditions of the work, we find that they consisted
simply in a moderate portion of that which thousands are daily
getting and spending in a greater amount : which many amass
only that their pUe may be the highest, and which others scatter,
that they may crowd as much as possible of fugitive enjoyment
within the narrowest compass : that it is which, under the control.
of a benevolent spirit, has here yielded so many precious and
lasting fruits. And this is a reflection which might be profitable
at all times, but which is eminently worthy of being laid to heart
in ours. Never was it more to be -wished that a spirit might
go forth from these walls congenial to that which animated their
Founder than in an age when the thirst of gain and the love
of pleasure are threatening to eat into the heart's core of this
nation, so as to fill thoughtful lovers of their country with gloomy
forebodings, while they reflect that the time may not be distant
Avhen its honour and safety may depend on generous sacrifices,
manly patience, and Christian self-denial.
We would not however, on such an occasion, end with language
of sinister omen. Let us not overlook the fair side of the age we
live in : its tendency to voluntary association for beneficent pur
poses. It is a privilege in which we have reason to rejoice, that
opportunities were never more abundant of taking part in the
noblest works of charity, and contributing to confer Incalculable
benefits on the most remote posterity. And let it not be forgotten
that although in the works which remain — the material results —
the share of each contributor may be very smaU, yet, if only his
-will have been heartUy in it, the work which follows him shaU be
altogether his, in that day when the royal builder of the Temple
shaU not be accounted to have done more — perhaps far less — than
she who cast in of her penury, and when many names long lost
in oblivion on earth shall be found written in heaven, and be
embalmed in the everlasting remembrance of the righteous.

THE LOVE OF GOD THE GROUNDWOEK
OF TEUE KNOWLEDGE,
A Seemon preached ix the Parish Church of S-wansea, on behalf or
the S-wa>.'Sea National Schools, Afgust 13th, 1848.*

" If any man thinlc that he Icnoweth anything, he hnoweth nothing yet as he ought to
hnoxo. But if any man love God, thesamc is known of Him." — 1 Corinthians viii. 2, 3.
The subject, my brethren, which I have to bring before you this
morning is one which has been rendered so familiar to aU of us
by the frequent and ample discussion it has undergone of late
years, that it is scarcely possible to present It under any new
aspect ; though it Is so closely connected with almost all the
topics belonging to a place dedicated to the worship of God, that
there are few which may not serve as a suitable Introduction to it.
It is also one as to which there exists so Uttle doubt among those
who are qualified to form a judgment on it, that It -will hardly
bear to be reasoned, without danger of wearying the hearer by
arguments both stale and superfluous. So great Is the change
which has taken place in public opinion on this head within
a comparatively short period — ^one within the memory of most of
us — that we are now at some loss to conceive the state of mind
which could entertain such views with regard to popular educa
tion as were once all but universally prevalent. And if we ever
happen to hear its importance or necessity called in question, we
are apt to ascribe such language to love of paradox, indifference
* This Sermon, having been preached during the meeting of the British Associa
tion at Swansea, was printed at the request of the President (the Marquis of
Northampton) and some other members of the Association.

LOVE OF GOD THE GEOUNDWOEK OF TEUE KNOWLEDGE, 329
to truth, or carelessness about the welfare of mankind. Nor are
the circumstances of the present case such as suggest any special
¦claim to your attention. All that is new or pecuUar in this
appeal consists in the occasion on which it is put forward : that it
is made at a time when a great number of persons the most
eminent in the highest walks of science have come together in
this town, to interchange and make public the results of their
meditations and researches, in the presence of a stUl larger assem
blage of such as take an interest In their pursuits. On such an
occasion we are almost unavoidably led to draw some comparison
between the objects of that meeting, and those In behalf of which
I am now addressing you. And it may not be clear, at first sight,
what is the exact and true relation between them : whether It is
one of contrast or resemblance : whether it would be more proper
to endeavour to excite your compassion for those who, through
the limited cultivation of their faculties, are excluded from that
rich intellectual banquet which has been here spread before the
friends of science, or to claim your sympathy on the ground of
an affinity between the highest and the lowest manifestations of
human intelligence, such as connect the first questionings of the
child with the most curious and elaborate investigations of the
philosopher. There is however another point of view, which may bring us
nearer to the truth, and which is suggested by the words of
St. Paul which I have read. It is true that they relate imme
diately to a question which for us has long lost all practical
moment. But the Apostle, as usual, takes advantage of the
temporary dispute to lay down principles of perpetual and
universal appUcation. He points to a distinction between dif
ferent kinds and modes of knowledge, which may serve to guide
us in the comparison we have been led to institute, and may help
us to arrive at some profitable conclusion. It is evident that he
does not intend either to depreciate the value of knowledge, or to
question the possibility of attaining it, though some of his words
may sound so. But when he says, " If any man think that he
knoweth anything, he knoweth nothing yet as he ought to

330 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
know," though undoubtedly It is intimated that in a certain sense
— one in which the assertion is amply confirmed both by reason
and by authority — the highest wisdom of man consists in the
consciousness of his ignorance, it is no less plainly implied in the
very terms, that there is a way in which something may and
ought to be known; and consequently that the hindrance to
knowledge arises not from the inadequacy, but from the misappli
cation of the human faculties. And, on the other hand, when
he contrasts the knowledge which puffeth up with that charity
which finds its highest function in the love of God, he certainly
does not mean to represent knowledge as essentially adverse to
charity, or the love of God as nothing more than a blind instinct.
And therefore I beUeve I shaU be following out a train of thought
which is indicated In this passage of Scripture, If I endeavour to
show that a very high estimate of the dignity of science Is con
sistent with an acknowledgment of its insufficiency for the most
important purposes of life, and to point out the peculiar value of
the provision which is made for the supply of that deficiency in
schools such as I am now recommending to your support.
And to begin with that which, as it is most obvious to common
apprehension, occupies the foremost place in the popular apprecia
tion of the merits of science, so as too often to seem to stand alone :
Ave are bound to acknowledge — and with a tribute of grateful
admiration — the vast amount of material benefits which it has
conferred upon mankind. On every side we are surrounded by
monuments of the gigantic powers which it has wielded for the
most beneficent purposes. Our dwelUngs are himg with trophies
of its pacific conquests. The store which supplies our most urgent
wants Is enriched with the treasures it has won from regions
previously unexplored and otherwise inaccessible to human indus
try. And it requires no little attention, and no slender stock
of information, to understand the full extent of the debt we owe
to it even on this score. There needs an effort of abstraction of
which few are capable, to conceive what our condition would have
been without it, and would speedUy become if its aid were -with
drawn : how poor and naked, and rude and miserable, our life

LOVE OF GOD THE GEOUNDWOEK OF TRUE KNOWLEDGE. 331
must have remained without the appliances it has furnished : how
few steps man could have taken -without its succour toward the
accomplishment of his divinely appointed task of subduing the
earth : how little he could have comprehended the greatness of the
work, and, in proportion as he perceived It, how soon he must have
been overpowered by the sense of its insurmountable difficulty.
There is however no need that we should carry our thoughts
back to the past, or let them range abroad in contemplation of
the mighty changes which science has wrought on the face of the
globe. Every day brings -with it fresh and more wonderful
displays of the same agency, which throw aU its former achieve
ments into the shade, and excite boundless expectation of stUl
more glorious triumphs yet to come. And It is not merely the
charm of novelty, or the love of the marvellous, or the pleasures
of gratified curiosity, or the self-complacency with which each
indi-vidual assumes a share In whatever seems to reflect honour on
his country and his generation, — there is a much more powerful
motive which lends an Interest to the quickened progress of
science in our day. We must rejoice to think that it keeps pace
with the rapidly growing wants of the community ; and if we
placed less confidence In its productive energy and its inex
haustible resources, we should feel a still more painful anxiety
about the prospects of our native land.
And yet this application of its discoveries to the enlargement
of man's dominion over nature, and to the increase of national
wealth and private well-being, dazzling and valuable as it is, and
often as it is taken for the whole, scarcely rises above the very
lowest ground on which science rests its claim to public respect
and gratitude. It scatters benefits of a higher order along its track.
For as the results of the severest studies and the most abstruse
speculations become public property, and pass into the fund of
general knowledge, they not only supply a basis for the steps of
those who come after, which abridges their labour, and enables
them with greater ease to make larger strides in the same field of
inquiry, but they serve to elevate the whole intellectual condition
and character of the people, to dissipate vulgar prejudices and

332 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS. '
errors, to multiply the sources of refined and wholesome enjoyment,
and the objects of deUghtful and soul-enlarging contemplation.
And it is a cheering token of the spirit in which scientific pur
suits are carried on in our day, that the most eminent of those
who are engaged in them are so far from affecting a stately
reserve, and from desiring to keep aloof from all contact with
popular ignorance, and to screen their studies behind a veil of
mystery from the eyes of the uninitiated, that they do not disdain
themselves to lend their aid toward difPusing their knowledge as
widely as possible, and frequently descend from the heights of
speculation on which they habitually move, to undertake the
humble office of guides and pioneers, to clear and smooth the
avenues to truth, and to exhibit it In forms best adapted to attract
and encourage all to a nearer approach. And this communicative
spirit is confined within no narrower bounds than those allotted
to the habitation of mankind itself. It knows of no local or
national partialities or Interdictions. It Is equally ready to impart
its best gifts wherever it finds a capacity to receive them. It is
anxious to promote the freest intercourse and exchange of Intiel-
lectual productions among all the members of the human family :
for science itself must gain by that commerce. Among the most
glorious enterprises which mark Its history are those by which it
has laboured, and is still labouring -with growing success, to sur
mount the barriers, and abridge the intervals, interposed by
nature between the different nations of the earth, so that none
may remain apart from the rest, or independent of a mutual
influence which is the first condition of a common higher civiliza
tion. And thus in its ultimate tendency it appears invested with
the august character of a harbinger and minister of universal
peace, and the mediator of a perpetual aUiance among aU the
kindreds of the human race.
And yet the dignity of science is not to be measured by the
advantages which it yields to society. The satisfaction It affords
to one who has been admitted into its sanctuary does not depend
on the power it enables him to exert, which must always be
limited by the instruments and materials which may be placed at

LOVE OF GOD THE GEOUNDWOEK OF TEUE KNOWLEDGE, 333
his command. Even the insight which it opens into the structure
and laws of the visible universe is only an acquisition, not belong
ing to the essence of the thing itself. That which he chiefly values
in it is the witness it bears to the inward faculty, which is truly
his own : to the living oracle which quaUfies him to interpret
the language of nature, and to detect her secrets ; which reveals
his affinity to the supreme Intelligence, and his immeasurable
superiority over aU orders of being which do not'J)artake of the
same inestimable gift.
My brethren, these few remarks, little as they can pretend to
do justice to the subject, will perhaps suffice to show that I have
approached it without any unwUlingness to recognise its claims,
or any wish to detract from Its importance, for the sake of exalting
that with which we are more immediately concerned on the
present occasion. But a reflection Is suggested by what has just
been observed, which may lead us to the point we have next to
consider. It must be evident that whatever is entitled to so high
a place in the estimation of mankind, and exercises so vast an
influence over its destinies, as has been just described. Is no vulgar
and common thing. And in fact not only the genius of science — -
that which enlarges its domain by new discoveries — but the
capacity for scientific pursuits in that inferior degree which is
sufficient, though not for original research, yet for following as
far as others have opened the way — this, but more especially the
first, is the rare privilege of a few gifted minds ; and neither can
be matured nor exercised without laborious cultivation, involving
the need of leisure and manifold aids, which can never be within
the reach of many. This indeed is no reason for sUghtIng or for
withholding from any the first rudiments of intellectual culture.
It is rather a motive for diffusing them as widely as possible,
since the genius which is destined to achieve the most glorious
conquests in the field of science must begin Its career from the
same starting-point of utter ignorance and sheer vacuity -with the
rest of its fellow's. But, for the great mass of mankind, such
pursuits must always be foreign to the habitual occupations of
life. Even where their beneficial effects are experienced most

334 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
largely, the benefit wiU be commonly regarded, as men receive
the rain and the Ught of heaven, as descending from a region far
removed both from their control and their observation. They are
things with which none but a few here and there have any need
or occasion to intermeddle. Even the most serious and thoughtful
feel that they are perfectly at liberty to take up or lay aside such
subjects at their pleasure.
But there are questions which concern all men alike, which
force themselves Into the way of all, and which none can alto
gether shut out, without foregoing the main distinction of a
rational nature, and sinking to the level of the lower creatures.
Every man has an interest — the deepest possible Interest — in the
inquiry, whence he came, whither he is going, why and to what
purpose he is here. He may evade or put It by for a season ; he
may cheat himself into the persuasion that It is needless and
useless. But there is the thought still lurking in the depths of his
consciousness, and ever ready to start up afresh, and harass him.
If he strives to drown It In stupefying and reckless sensuality, Its
revival will be not the less inevitable, but the more disquieting ;
while whatever fills up his life more worthily, whatever gives it
more value and meaning, lifts him above the immediate present,
and turns his view either towards the past or the future, must be
the more likely to recall one or other of those solemn questions :
and there is so close a connexion between them, that it is impos
sible to move one without stirring the rest. He must find some
answer to them, unless his life is to pass away, without aim or
import, as a feverish, half-waking dream. And this answer is
contained In the knowledge he may acquire of God and of himself.
Now this is a knowledge which science can neither give nor
supersede. The sphere in which it lives and moves and has its
being is not that in which such knowledge is to be won. Un
doubtedly it ministers abundant food for pious contemplation.
The evidences which it affords of Infinite power, wisdom, and
goodness are amply sufficient for those who are willing to receive
them. Less by far would satisfy a lively faith. But much more
would be unavailing to subdue the evil heart of unbelief. It opens

LOVE OF GOD THE GEOUNDWOEK OF TEUE KNOWLEDGE, 335
to our wondering view a spectacle of stupendous and bewUdering
grandeur, but it brings us not a step nearer to the conception of
any outline or ground-plan of creation. It speaks famUiarly of
systems, but can say nothing of a whole. At the farthest verge
of its latest discoveries it finds itself still but on the edge of an
unfathomable abyss; and when with the aid of more powerful
instruments it has cleared away the mist which overhung a part
of the heavenly masses, it has only penetrated into a new wilder
ness of worlds. And of these how Uttle can it report, with any
degree of trustworthiness, beyond the mere relations of form and
bulk and motion ! It must descend to its native earth before it
•can gain any more distinct view of the qualities of things. Here
alone it Is able to apprehend a few of the minuter links In the
chain of being, and. learns to surmise something of the incalculable
riches of nature. Yet here too it can advance but a little way in
any direction before it reaches a limit beyond which aU is dark
ness. It is true this Umit is not immovably fixed. It may be
carried forward to an indefinite extent. There is the ground of
confidence which animates each successive adventurer with the
hope of a continual progress. But it is no less true that every
enlargement of his horizon opens the prospect of a more vast and
difficult field, one to which there are no absolute bounds, and
where all that he Is permitted partially to explore Is but an islet
in the midst of a shoreless ocean. Even in the lesser world
of man's own nature, which might seem most accessible to his
observation, there is spread an infinite depth of unsearchable
mystery. To be conscious of these limitations, and of the inabUity
of any finite mind to comprehend more than a very minute portion
of the universe, is indeed a main part of human knowledge. The
wisest wUl own with the Preacher of old, " that no man can find
out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end ; "
and with the Apostle, " that if any man think that he knoweth
anything " — so as to grasp it in its inmost nature, and in the
entire range of its outward relations, without which it can never
be completely understood — " he knoweth nothing yet as he ought
to know ; " not even his own ignorance.

336 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
And stiU less can we look to science for practical guidance or
safeguards. On the relation between God and His creatures, on
the means by which that relation may be modified, on the laws of
the Divine government, on the final destination of man — the points
on which the regulation of life mainly depends — It throws not a
ray of light. And this Is true, not only of physical but of moral
science, so far as it is merely a product of human reason. The
systematical connexion of moral truths is a purely intellectual
process, in itself totally ineffectual for any practical end, and
commonly carried to its highest perfection, like the theory of art.
In periods when practice has begun to decline, and perhaps has
sunk Into the grossest corruption. But all experience witnesses
that the progress of science and civilization does not ensure either
individuals or communities from the most fatal aberrations of
conduct, from the vilest excesses of sensual lusts, and the most
fearful outbreaks of tumultuous passions. Even the right use and
cultivation of science Itself depend upon principles which it cannot
supply, but must borrow elsewhere. They are always liable to be
marred and perverted by vanity and presumption, by prejudice
and passion, by Indolence and carelessness, by the want of a
genuine reverence for truth, and of a conscientious adherence to
legitimate methods of inquiry. The deviations which have most
retarded Its progress may almost invariably be traced to some
moral obliquity rather than to a merely intellectual defect.
In the latter clause of our text the Apostle evidently means to-
contrast that imperfect and faUacious and intoxicating knowledge,
of which he had spoken In the former verse, with one of a different
kind. " If any man love God, the same Is known of Him." The
contrast is not distinctly expressed, but somewhat obscurely
intimated. It is however clear enough, both from the context and
from the terms themselves, that to be known of God Implies a
certain knowledge of Him. For as it is a privilege of those who
love Him, and as He cannot know more of them, in the common
sense, than He does of all his other creatures. If there is less of
strangeness between Him and any man, it can only be because
that man is admitted to learn something more of God. And If It

LOVE OF GOD THE GROUNDWORK OF TRUE KNOWLEDGE, 337
should be said that to be known signifies only the being distin
guished by a peculiar favour, still this will bring us to the same
conclusion; for we cannot conceive God's loving-kindness apart
from all communication of His enlightening grace. And as a
right fear and a right love of God are only two different aspects of
the same thing, what the Apostle here teaches is in substance
nothing else than the truth declared by the Psalmist, when he
says, " The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom : . a good
understanding have all they that do thereafter." It Is the truth
which is still more emphatically inculcated by the Boyal Preacher
as the sum of all his teaching — "the conclusion of the whole
matter : Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the
whole duty of man." And this Is the truth which we take for the
groundwork for that Christian education which the Schools I am
now pleading for are designed to impart. It is an education which
reaches to the whole of man : to every part of his nature ; which
neglects none of its faculties and functions, but observes a just
discrimination between the higher and the lower.
The searcher of nature, in the widest range of his excursions
into the visible universe, finds among created beings none of equal
dignity with his own kind. He cannot be so amazed by the vast
ness or the splendour of the heavenly bodies as to doubt for a
moment that the mind which contemplates them, which measures
their orbits and their distances, and calculates their dimensions
and their movements, is something of an incomparably higher
order than they. But still even the intelligence which enables
him to make these discoveries is not the faculty which Ues nearest
to the centre of his being. It is not there, but in the seat of the
affections and the will, that he must seek for his very inmost self.
Here alone he finds the springs of action, the consciousness of a
responsible agency, the stamp of his essential character. It is the
capacity for an intelligent love, a love which grows with the
worthiness of its objects, which knows no limits of time or space,
which embraces every form of good, and rests only in the eternal
fountain of all goodness — this is the noblest attribute of man's
nature, that which marks his place in the scale of creation, and
VOL. III. z

338 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
fits him to receive the Impress of his Maker's image. Such a love,
to whatever degree it may have attained. Is essentiaUy the love of
God, and of all things in Him. And the proper aim and main
business of all sound Christian education is to awaken and cherish,
to regulate and purify, to train and exercise that love. The dis
cipline and instruction of the Christian school Is to be regarded
as aU either directly or indirectly subservient to this end. This it
is that gives unity to all its teaching, however multifarious may
be its Immediate subjects. AU the knowledge it imparts tends
either to strengthen, direct, and enlighten that love of God, or to
furnish it with means and instruments of action suited to the
station which the learner is apparently destined to fill. And It is
.only so far as this end Is attained that any kind of knowledge
can be really useful, either to the individual or to society.
Without this, the highest acquirements which a human mind can
grasp leave a miserable void. With this, the first rudiments of the
simplest learning convey a treasure of priceless worth. Deem it
not a matter of slight moment whether you give or deny this to
the children of the poor. Gmdge not the Uttle cost of enriching
them with such an inestimable benefit. Their ideas may be pent
within a narrow circle — narrow as the widest range of human
science may appear to a seraphic intelligence — and yet may all be
referred to the same centre in which the highest of created
natures finds at once the place of Its most blessed rest and the
spring of its most vigorous action. They may advance but a
few steps along the path which opens to their view the wonders
of the universe around them, and yet they may have been enabled
not only to descry, but to reach the true end of an immortal
being. Small as their proficiency may appear when measured by
a lower standard. If they have been grounded in the love of God,
so as to be kno-wn of Him, they will be masters in that wisdom
which comprehends the whole of man, that by which " his whole
spirit and body and soul are preserved blameless," as a temple of
the Holy Ghost, fitted for all the work aUotted to him here, and
for all the glory which God hath prepared to be enjoyed hereafter
by them that love Him.

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM.
A Sermon preached at Llandingad Church, Llandovery, on the occasion
OP LAYING THE Foundation Stone of the Welsh Educational Institute,
December 13th, 1849.

" Then I saw that wisdom exeelleth folly, as far as Ught cxcelleth darJcness."
Eoolesiastes ii. 13.
If rising in this place, on such an occasion as the present, I might
consider it as part of my office to interpret the feelings which may
be properly supposed to be uppermost in the breasts of aU who
view this day's proceedings with a friendly interest, I would say that
the foremost among them must be one of thankful joy. Motives
enough for joy and thankfulness there must always be, whenever
a great and difficult undertaking, one which has been the object
of ardent desires, of anxious doubts, and laborious struggles, has
at length been brought to a stage in its progress at which the
chief obstacles appear to have been overcome, and little or nothing
to remain but to carry on with persevering activity a work which
has been happily begun. But in our case there are some special
reasons for gratitude. Only a very short time back, what has
now been accomplished must have seemed beyond all reasonable
hope. So little could it have been foreseen or expected, that It could
scarcely have been contemplated by any one otherwise than as a
mere possible contingency, hidden deep In the womb of futurity ;
something too remote for calculation or conjecture — a floating
thought perhaps, a pious wish, a pleasing vision ; but waiting, to
be realised, for a combination of circumstances whoUy beyond the
reach of human forecast or control, and entirely depending on
z 2

340 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
the Supreme Disposer of events. And therefore our first, most
natural, and fitting Impulse on this occasion must lead us to pros
trate ourselves in grateful adoration before the Sovereign Power,
Wisdom, and Goodness, which has ordered aU things, so as to
bring about the result which we are now witnessing ; which has
so suddenly and marvellously changed the scene, has cleared away
the mist, and levelled the ground ; has opened a bright and broad
prospect to our view, and has set us in a road in which, if we only
pursue it with calm circumspection and zealous diligence, we may
confidently look forward to the attainment of the most glorious ends.
But while In this retrospect we thus acknowledge the hand of
Providence, we cannot, and would not, overlook its human instru
ments, or forget our debt of gratitude to them. That obligation
is indeed one source of our joy, one of the main grounds of the
satisfaction with which we contemplate their work. It is not a
matter of Indifference, or of slight importance, how such an insti
tution has originated ; whether in a half-mercantUe adventure, or
in an association for a common benefit, or, as in this case, in an act
of noble disinterested munificence. There may be a close resem
blance between the two cases in outward form. In the object pro
posed, and In the methods employed to attain it, and yet a wide
difference in the general spirit and character of the residt. The
Founder of this Institution has conferred on It perhaps no less a
benefit by his example than by his bounty itself. It is no trifling
advantage that it owes its being to one whose name will never
cease to be pronounced within its walls with affectionate reve
rence ; who may be held up to its Inmates, not only as an object
of gratitude, but as a pattern for imitation ; who, though silent
and unseen, will be himself their teacher. In the best learning and
the noblest of arts ; who will point to the highest end of all their
studies, to the proper mark of a generous emulation and a virtuous
ambition ; from whom they may learn the nature and measure of
true greatness, of solid glory, and enduring fame ; one who has
entitled himself to a high place among the benefactors of man
kind ; to a place among those who have ministered to the deepest
wants, and have promoted the highest interests of their generation

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM, 341
and of posterity : not by any of those brUUant achievements
which fill the most prominent place In the records of history with
a dazzling, but too often false and baleful lustre ; not even by
any conquests in the realm of science ; not by any surprising dis
coveries or felicitous inventions ; not by any productions of original
genius ; In a word, not by means of any of those rare and splendid
gifts which Providence has dispensed with a wise parsimony
among the chUdren of men ; but simply by the strength of a right
purpose, of a warm and enUghtened benevolence ; by a wise and
liberal use of means which thousands possess, but which they
mostly apply to' frivolous and selfish ends. Among these I say
our Founder has earned a distinguished place ; he has reared for
himself a monument, of materials more precious and durable than
stone or metal, in the minds, and hearts, and souls of his fellow-
creatures ; and that this has been accomplished by means so
simple and common is just what renders the lesson most Instruc
tive, the- example most animating and persuasive.
But, on an occasion like the present, the largest room in our
thoughts and feeUngs must be occupied not by the past, but by the
future. Our retrospect is confined within very narrow limits ;
but the space which lies before us is boundless, and stretches far
beyond the utmost range of our vision. As far as we can look for
ward, all seems promising and cheering ; but we are conscious how
Uttle it is given to man to penetrate into the future ; and there
fore, in proportion to the Uveliness of ouB^interest and the earnest
ness of our wishes, must our hope be tempered by anxiety. We
are standing at the fountain-head, it may be, of a mighty stream.
We see it leaping into the daylight with a vigour and fulness
which seem to augur a long and majestic course. We can
observe its apparent direction at the outset. But how it may
hereafter wind, and shift its bed ; whether it is to glide along
with a calm and even flow, stiU widening as it rolls through
broad valleys and open plains, or shall have to force its way
through chasms and over precipices, disfigured by rapids, and
falls, and whirlpools ; and whether in the end it shaU mix its
waters with the ocean, a highway for the commerce of distant

342 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
lands, or shaU be lost in the sands of the desert : all this is hidden
from our view. We are about laying the first stone of an edifice
dedicated to the most Important of human works, the education of
the young ; destined, we trust, to gather under its roof the ardent
and aspiring youth of many generations. We rejoice that the
scale and design of the building are not unworthy of the dignity
of the object ; that, in its solid structure and goodly proportions,
it will be a visible witness to the spirit and aim, to the faith, and
hope, and love. In which it was reared. But as often as we turn
our eyes or our mind to such a seat of study, thronged with its
youthful tenants, interesting and pleasing as the scene may be, a
thought will be apt to strike us, which may excite feeUngs more
nearly akin to sadness than to hope. It is Indeed one which is
famUiar to many of us, as a celebrated theme of poetical medita
tion. And when we reflect how often the brightest prospects that
gladden the morning of life are overcast long before the day is
over, and the vista, which at Its opening seemed to promise a long
succession of deUghts, becomes wrapped, as It lengthens. In deeper
and deeper gloom, till it terminates in sorrow and despair, it
requires no great effort of imagination to sympathize with the
poet, when he sets before us the joyous sports and light cares of
sprightly boyhood, happily unconscious of its future lot, —
" The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light," —
in melancholy contrast -vlith the dark train of evils, physical and
moral — misfortunes and distresses, furious or heart-gna-wing pas
sions, crime and remorse, racking pains and wasting sicknesses,
neglected poverty and comfortless age — ^which he pictures as
lying in ambush, waiting to seize their prey, when " the Uttle
victims " shall have quitted their paradise, and begun to tread the
rugged and Intricate road of their journey through this weary and
treacherous world.
These, however, are not images which I should wish now to
conjure up in your minds ; nor is this superficial and partial view
of the subject either suited to the occasion, or Ukely to lead us
into any profitable train of thought. It is right indeed that we

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM. 343
should never shut our eyes to the dark side of our earthly condi
tion ; that we should not forget the evils to which our mortal
existence Is exposed, the snares and dangers with which our path
is beset at every stage. Such a reihembrance may at times be
needed, to chastise our natural giddiness and presumption, and to
impress us with a due sense of the truth, that life is a serious
thing. But It is not desirable that it should occupy the foreground
In our habitual meditations, and this not merely because it is the
gloomy and painful aspect of the case, which, if it were allowed to
engross our chief attention, would needlessly and uselessly depress
our spirits, and embitter all our enjoyments, but rather because
it tends to divert our thoughts from things on which they may
dwell with far more both of pleasure and of profit : things which
enable us to avert many of the ills of life, to remedy or mitigate
others, and to bear up under those which are unavoidable, or to
rise above them ; from the consideration of our station and our
work, of our aims and purposes, of our means and capacities, our
-privileges and our duties. It is not fit that the young, after
thought and conscience have been sufficiently awakened in them,
should either be permitted to remain heedless of the future, or to
picture it to their fancy as a prospect of uninterrupted enjoyment.
It Is not as a scene either of pleasure or of suffering that they
should learn to contemplate the world they have to live in, but
princIpaUy as a field of action, and to regard their present busi
ness as a preparation for that.
It is assuredly in this light — not as a paradise of blissful
ignorance, not as a place of childish sports, nor as an arena for
vouthful competition, but as a training-ground for exercising and
unfolding the noblest energies of our spiritual nature — that we aU
view the Institution which is now occupying our gravest thoughts.
It is because we view it in this, the true light, and therefore see
and feel its measureless importance, that our hope is unavoidably
tinged with some shade of anxiety. For we know there wiU be
committed to it the rearing of many ardent and gifted spirits,
formed to act no obscure part, and to exert no slight Influence, in
the affairs of men. On the instruction they wiU receive, and the

344 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
impressions which wUl be made upon them here, -wUl depend far
more, even for themselves, than wealth or honours or power, or
any of the glittering prizes of a successful worldly career — things
which, in the estimation of a higher and purer intelligence, must
appear of no greater intrinsic worth than the little triumphs of
their childish games, or of their youthful rivalry. The true end
of such an Institution as this is not to stimulate their natural
desires for such objects, nor to furnish the means of more readily
attaining them, but rather to control and regulate those impulses,
and to direct them to loftier aims. Those who are to have their
minds nourished, and their characters moulded in this place,
belong to that middle class which, in its numbers, prosperity,
InteUIgence, and virtue, affords the surest index of the national
strength, and the firmest bulwark of the national safety. The
education of that class must always and everywhere be a matter
of the greatest moment to the state ; but never to any more so
than to us in our times. It could never have been neglected with
impunity ; but in our present circumstances It demands a larger
share of attention than at any previous epoch in our history.
We may in some respects not improperly compare our national
experience with that of the Boyal Preacher, recorded in my text.
He had never, we know, been destitute of wisdom : but there was
a time when he did not duly prize Its worth. He turned aside
from the Fountain of Ught and life, and gave up his darkened
heart to vain pursuits, to the amassing of riches, to the pride of
imperial dominion and of regal state, to the refinements of art and
the pleasures of luxury. " I gathered me silver and gold, and the
pecuUar treasure of kings and of the provinces : I gat me men-
singers and women-singers, and the delights of the sons of men.
So I was great, and increased more than aU that were before me
in Jerusalem : and whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from
them." But at last he "turned himself to behold wisdom, and
madness, and folly ; " and then he "saw that wisdom exceUeth foUy,
as far as Ught exceUeth darkness." We too, notwithstanding our
ample means of knowledge, and our spiritual privUeges, have too
long bowed at the shrines of Mammon and Moloch and BeUal.

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM, 345
We have exulted in the vast extent of our empire, in the overflow
ing of our wealth, in the gro-wing bulk and magnificence of our
chief city, in the new devices of our luxury, and the witcheries of
the arts which minister to our amusements. But now it would seem
as if a change had come over our spirit, and we had become a
soberer and -wiser generation. We have begun to turn, and con
sider our ways, and to ask ourselves what fruit we have had In many
things of which we were once so proud. And we are beginning to
discover that we have spent much upon things which have profited
us Uttle, on wars and conquests, on wUd speculations of mercantile
cupidity, and on works of ostentatious grandeur ; while we have
omitted to make any adequate provision for things of real use
and urgent necessity ; even for. " the principal thing," that which
is "more precious than rubies," and "for the lack of which a
people is destroyed." Now we acknowledge our error, and see
" that wisdom exceUeth foUy, as far as light exceUeth darkness."
There may be a question whether we have a right to caU ours
an enlightened age, as If claiming superiority over those which
have gone by. But it can hardly be denied that It Is a light-
loving and a light-seeking age ; one in which there is a general
disposition to spread light everywhere, and to bring aU things to
the light, that they may be seen as they are. It Is an age of rest
less curiosity and searching inquiry. If we fail to come at the
truth, it Is not because we ever shrink from approaching it ; not
because we let ourselves be stopped by any conventional barriers
of usage or authority. We admit no right in any one to judge for
us on subjects of which we are able to judge for ourselves. We
take no opinion upon trust, because It has come down to us with
the stamp of an honoured name. We adopt it only after we have
made it our own by a rigid scrutiny of its intrinsic claims to our
assent. It is an age in which all pretensions to respect and defer
ence are jealously examined, and in which it is more difficult than
ever for any false pretences long to elude detection. If the age
has its pecuUar prejudices, they are rather in favour of innovation
and experiment than of tenacious adherence to ancient opinions
or practices. The comparative exceUence of the various branches

346 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERAEY EEMAINS,
of knowledge is itself subjected to a like unsparing scrutiny and
free discussion, and their value is estimated, not by the abundance
of the leaves, or the beauty of the flowers, but by the fulness and
richness and wholesomeness of the fruits : and those which are or
seem to be found wanting, when tried by this practical test, sink
in public esteem, and are accounted little better than a frivolous
entertainment, fit only for the amusement of leisure hours, and the
satisfaction of a capricious taste and an idle curiosity. Again,
the temper of this age is irreconcilably hostile to all privileges of
caste, and to aU monopolies of things which may and should be
common : but more especially to such as tend to appropriate the
light of laiowledge to one class or portion of the community, and
to prevent it from reaching the great mass of the people. It is
agreed on aU hands that this is as much their birthright as the
light of day ; and that It not only ought not to be kept from them,
but that It is a national duty to diffuse It as widely as possible
among them. Whatever difference of opinion there may be as to
the means, there is none worth noticing as to the end. In some
way or other the people must be educated. And it is not meant
that their instruction should be limited to the first rudiments of
learning, or that after they have been so put in the way of know
ledge they should be left to struggle with its difficulties as best
they may. They are to be furnished with all possible helps and
encouragements to speed their progress. The finest and most
richly stored intellects of our time wilUngly apply themselves to
this task, and deem it a worthy, if not the noblest employment of
their powers, to communicate the results of the most arduous
researches in the most popular form, and to make them familiar
and attractive to the multitude.
When such efforts are being made to elevate the inteUectual
condition of the lower classes, the higher cannot fitly or safely
remain stationary. If they are to keep their vantage-ground, if
they are to be looked up to with respect and confidence, if they
are to be qualified to enlighten and direct those who are below
them In station, then they must not lag behind in the general
progress : their attainments must rise with the advancing standard

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM. 347
of the age. And there are some other considerations which point
to the like conclusion. We Uve in eventful, changeful, critical
times. We have just witnessed the revolution of a hurricane
which has swept round the greater part of the cIvUIzed world,
levelUng ancient thrones and dynasties, uprooting time-honoured
institutions, and shaking the foundations of civil society. We have
watched its desolating circuit, first with fear, and then with
wonder at our o-wn singular felicity in having escaped being
drawn into its eddy. But, as the slightest shock of an earthquake
weakens our sense of stability, by revealing the presence of
tremendous powers, to whose action we can neither see nor set
any limits, so it is hardly possible for those who have been
spectators of such con-vulslons, so close at hand as at least to have
felt the reverberation of their movements, to retain all their con
fidence In their own security. And -without indulging in fanciful
and gloomy forebodings, we see ground enough, in the aspect of
our times, for believing that the course of this world was never
more exposed to the danger of violent perturbations, and that
those who are now growing up to manhood are probably destined
to severer trials and harder struggles than this generation has yet
passed through ; and that both with a view to their own success
and safety and to the service of the commonwealth, they must learn
to rely, not on any accidents of rank or fortune, but on that which
is most truly their own ; that which is their own by nature, or
which they have made their own by labour and study ; on their
energies and principles, on their ability and intrinsic worth.
When all this is so. It is evident that the education of the class
on which rests the main part of our hopes for the future, must be
a work of stiU greater importance than in ordinary times ; and it
must be more difficult for the Institutions which undertake this
task to rise to the height of the exigency. And from one which
is newly founded for this object, even more may not unreasonably
be expected and required than from those which have been long
estabUshed. For it enters upon its career with all tBfe advantage
of their experience, and yet free from the trammels of ancient
rules and traditions. It can plead no prescription for any methods

348 BISHOP THIELWALL's LPTEEAEY EEMAINS,
which will not bear the strictest examination upon general prin
ciples. It can aUege no excuse for blindly foUo-wing a beaten
track. The auspices under which this Institution has been opened
warrant us in trusting that it will prove itself worthy of the oppor
tunities it enjoys, and equal to the weight of the responsibUity
it incurs. The less can it be needful that I should attempt to
offer any ad-vice on the means by which it may best accomplish
its end : nor, if I were disposed to do so, would this be the proper
place or time for the discussion of such a subject. But It may not
be unsuitable to this occasion if I venture to make a iew remarks
on the general character and spirit of that education which seems to
me to be called for from an Institution planted under such circum
stances, that it may satisfy the real wants of our age and people.
And first I should say that the instruction which it imparts
should be sound. Sound learning is a phrase with which we are
familiar, as denoting something on the value of which all are
agreed, and which moreover it is at least the professed aim of
every place of education, in Its measure and degree, to com
municate. But It is a phrase which admits of some latitude of
interpretation, and there has been no little difference of opinion as
to what kind of learning it is that deserves the epithet. Sound
ness in learning may be opposed to -error : for that may be taught
as well as truth. Or it may be opposed to what is light and
trifiing ; for there is such a thing as a strenuous idleness, and
there are laborious trifles, things not the less utterly worthless,
because they cannot be mastered -without infinite pains. Or again
it may be opposed to empty show : to that which is slight, loose,
and superficial, without depth, heart, or substance. And this was
noted long ago by a great thinker, as " the first distemper of
learning, when men study words, and not matter," And though
these different modes of unsoundness are closely related to one
another — for error most commonly springs from the want either of
earnestness or of diUgence, and is almost inseparable from shallow
and imperfect knowledge — it is this last-mentioned distemper that
is most immediately to be dreaded in every such seat of learning
as this, and that has thro-wn most discredit upon such institutions.

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM, 349
and upon learning itself. For it cannot be denied that their
ordinary teaching is chiefly conversant with words, and that ttiere
is a constant tendency in men, but especially In youth, to " study
words, and not matter ; " to make language a substitute for think
ing, instead of an instrument or vehicle of thought. And there is
perhaps especial danger from this temptation when the language
they have to deal with is foreign, and has been long extinct as a
living speech, and is only to be acquired through the medium of
books. Hence the value of such studies has often been caUed in
question, especiaUy in our day. It is however to be hoped that
the occasional abuse will never be permitted to drive out their
legitimate use, but rather will give way to it more and more. If
the written monuments of ancient wisdom and genius which have
been spared to us were no way superior to those of later times ;,
if they were not inestimably precious in themselves both as records
and as models, both for the purpose of informing the mind and of
cultivating the taste ; still they would have acquired a value which
they can never lose, and for which no equivalent can ever be found
in the productions of modern intellects, from the fact that the
noblest spirits of Christendom have been quickened and moulded
by their influence, and that the greatest works of our modern
civilization itself, to which they have so largely contributed, would,
without the light which they throw on it, be in a great degree
unintelligible to us. To depose these studies from the place which
they have hitherto occupied in every system of liberal education
would be vIrtuaUy to sever the past from the present, and so to
lose all sure guidance for the future, and to throw society back
into a state of barbarism. In which all thoughts are engrossed by
the concerns of the passing day. And, among its other more
particular consequences, one would be to lock up the fountains of
revealed truth, and to reduce the sacred oracles to a sealed book
and a dead letter.
The question, therefore, is not, or at least ought not to be, as to
any change in the kind of learning required, but as to the quality
which constitutes it sound learning. And such it wIU be where
due care Is taken that language is applied to Its proper use ; that

350 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS,
it serves as an instrument, not only for expressing thought, but
for shaping it into distinct well-defined forms, fit for the reasoning
faculties to work upon ; that all the notions it conveys are sub
jected to the test of exact weight and measure ; that the learner
is trained to regard truth as the fountain of aU intellectual beauty ;
to examine the most splendid creations of poetry and eloquence In
her pure dry light ; to seek for and aim at clear conceptions before
brIUiant display ; never to rest content -with any partial glimpses,
any vague, dim, shadowy outlines, but to gaze upon the images of
the remote past, until they are brought home to his mind with the
vividness and force of a present reality.
And then I would add that the instruction he receives should
likewise be large. But here too It Is necessary to explain and
distinguish ; for the term is relative, and will convey no clear
meaning, unless it is referred to some standard of comparison.
The soundest learning may be confined within a very narrow com
pass ; but so long as it retains its quality. It -will be the more
valuable the wider the range over which it is diffused. On the
other hand, the field of knowledge is boundless, and the attention
is distracted, and time and faculties are wasted, if they are
employed upon a too multifarious variety of objects. To find a
just mean between such a pernicious dispersion and an excessive
concentration of the youthful energies is one of the great problems
of modern education. But there is a growing disposition to
believe that the circle traced by the usage of former times for the
objects of learning may be profitably extended ; and that a system
which only opens a few pages of the volume of History, without
unrolling any portion of the book of Nature, Is not sufficiently
large. And this Is an opinion which It would not be wise or safe
for us to disregard. The extent to which It may be beneficially
carried into practice is a question which must be left to the
judgment and experience of those with whom the responsibility
rests. But I venture to think that a course of education wUl not
long be commonly accounted large or liberal which confines
itself, even in Its early stage, to a single branch of knowledge,
and which does not at least open an access to the rest, by embracing

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM, 351
such studies as are preparatory to them, by exercising the fa:6ulties
which are especiaUy employed upon them, and by giving such an
insight into their nature as may awaken an intelUgent curiosity,
and a desire for farther proficiency in them.
And once more, and above all, I would say that the education
afforded by such an Institution as this should be practical. And
by this I mean neither to include nor to exclude that which often
passes under the name, as if alone entitled to it ; the knowledge
which is applicable to the supply of the material wants of society,
I could not admit that the sciences which are connected with this
object are either eminently practical or eminently progressive,
unless I beUeved that historical knowledge has no bearing upon
action, or that it admits of no enlargement from future observa
tions and discoveries. But when I speak oi practical education, I
am speaking of that quality without which no education deserves
the name, and which involves the highest end of aU learning.
What that end is I may express in a few words better and
weightier than my own. Our great sacred poet, whose learning
was only inferior to his genius, when he was about to sketch a
scheme of education so large and comprehensive, that it would seem
as if our age must have degenerated from one in which so vast a
thought could be conceived, prefaces his proposal with this descrip
tion of its ultimate object. " The end," he says, " of learning is
to repair the ruins of our first parents, by regaining to know God
aright, and out of that laiowledge to love Him, to imitate Him,
to be Uke Him, as we may the nearest, by possessing our souls of
true virtue, which, being united to the heavenly grace of faith,
makes up the highest perfection." * And it is evident that this is
an end which must be kept constantly In view, and that the pro
viding for it is not a business for which particular seasons are to
be set apart, so that it may take its turn with the others, but one
which should be going on at all times. The dIscIpUne of the
mind should be kept subservient to the discipline of the heart and
of the wUl. Truth should be exhibited in Its eternal triune
being, as inseparably united with Beauty and Goodness, I have
" Milton, Of Education. Works (Pickering), vol, iv. p. 381.

352 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERAEY EEMAINS,
said that Truth is the fountain of beauty ; and the Father of
modern philosophy observes, " Certain it is that truth and good
ness differ but as the seal and the print ; for truth prints good
ness." This is the impression which we would have continually
made on the learner's mind by all his studies, whether they relate
to the works or to the ways of God, to nature or to history. In
all he should be led to seek, and to love, wherever it Is found, the
True, the Beautiful, and the Good. Where such is the prevailing
spirit of the place, the School becomes holy ground; a temple
ever ringing with the exhortation : " Suesum cokda." TJpwaed,
HEARTS-^upward, above all paltry, sordid, grovelling aims and
desires : upward, to a level with the dignity of your calling, the
privileges and duties of your station, the importance and arduous-
ness of your work : upward, to a fellowship -with the wise and
good of aU ages and all nations : upward, to the Father of Lights,
the Fountain of all Goodness : Lift up youe hearts. And from
the inmost depth of many devoted wills there rises the clear
response : We lift them up unto the Loed.
It Is only when it has been thus purified and hallowed by
charity and piety that knowledge Is sublimated Into that wisdom
of which such excellent things are spoken, and to which such
glorious promises are made, in the word of God. The Boyal
Preacher indeed, immediately after that commendation of wisdom
which has furnished a theme for our present meditations, subjoins
a reflection which, like many In this singular and difficult book,
has a perplexing and a saddening sound, as if It came from
another voice than that which had just declared : " Then I saw
that wisdom exceUeth folly, as far as light exeelleth darkness."
For he proceeds to say : " The wise man's eyes are in his head ;
but the fool walketh in darkness ; and I myself perceived also
that one event happeneth to them all." To the wise man and to
the fool ; but that one event which happens to them, as to aU man
kind, is the only point in their history tnat is common to both.
To the wise man and to the fool ; but not to wisdom and to folly,
any more than to light and to darkness. For Ught and wisdom
spring from the same Divine perennial Source, and can never be

THE EXCELLENCE OF WISDOM, 353
quenched or pass away. To the wise man and to the fool — to him
who devotes his laborious days to the cause of truth and goodness,
and to him who wastes his time and faculties upon selfish, frivolous,
or mischievous pursuits — there happeneth one event: one in its
nature ; but how different Its consequences for the one, from those
which attend It for the other ! The one closes a misspent life in
an unblessed unhonoured grave, with shame behind, and terrors
before him. The other rests from his labours: but his works
foUow him. His memorial has not perished with him. Even
upon earth he lives on in the remembrance of the wise and good.
The torch he carried is not reversed, but handed down to give
light to future generations. His hope is full of immortaUty.
That for which, and In which, he lived, can never die. His name
is enroUed among those who stood on the side of light against
darkness, of good against evil. He will share their triumph.
When all the powers of evil shall have been put to flight, when
the last shades of darkness shall have melted into the perfect day,
he will still be found amid that glorious company, beaming with
the light of heavenly Wisdom, glowing with the warmth of Infinite
Love.

V01„ 111, A A

THE APOSTOLICAL COMMISSION.
An Ordination Sermon preached at Aberg-wili Church, December 21st, 1845.

" Then said Jesus to than again. Peace be unto you : as my Father hath sent me, even
so send I you. And when He liad said this. He breathed on them, and saith vMo them.
Receive ye tlie Holy Ghost : whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them; and
whose soever sins ye retain, tliey are retained." — John xx. 21 — 23,
Theee can be no difference of opinion among Christians as to the
Importance of this passage ; and it would be superfluous to point
out the various circumstances which invest it with a pecuUar
weight and solemnity. It would not be too much to say that,
next to what was said and done upon the Cross, the transaction
here recorded Is the most momentous to be found in the whole of
the Gospel history. If, on the Cross, our Lord gave Himself for
His Church, It maj'- be said that, in the act and the words related
in the text, He gave Himself to her, with a solemn formal investi
ture, which stands quite alone In her annals, as it is indeed the
very basis of her constitution, and the origin of her visible
oxlstence. Nor need I remind any one who has attended to the
Service in which we have been engaged, that this passage Is
speciaUy connected with that work, both as the foundation of the
whole, and as our warrant for the most essential part of It. While
fo* these reasons it might be presumed that this portion of Scrip
ture has already received much attentive consideration from those
who are most immediately concerned in it, it must be added that
it Is one Avhich involves questions of no slight difficulty, which have
given rise to much variety of opinion. This would perhaps be
sufficient to recommend it as a subject for our meditations on this

THE APOSTOLICAL COMMISSION. 355
occasion. Another motive for the selection is, that the passage of
our Ordination Service, which is immediately derived from the
words of our text, is one which has, I believe, given much offence
to many persons who have been used to attach a particular sense
to the words, without suspecting that they admit of any other.
It may thereforp be profitable for aU of us to inquire — though it
must be -with a brevity ill proportioned to the vastness and impor
tance of the subject — what may be gathered from the text with
regard to the character, powers, privUeges, and duties of the
Christian ministry. You will have observed that each of the
verses I have read presents a distinct topic for investigation. The
first describes a mission, or commission, accompanied by a solemn
benediction : " Peace be unto you : as my Father hath sent me,
even so send I you." The next expresses a mysterious endow
ment, visibly represented by a symbolical act : " He breathed on
them, and saith unto them, Beceive ye the Holy Ghost." The
last contains the terms of the authority annexed to the commission,
and the end for which the endowment was bestowed : " Whose
soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto^them ; and whose
soever sins ye retain, they are retained." Though these sayings
are evidently most closely connected with one another, as parts
of one solemn act. It will be necessary to consider them severally,
in order to comprehend the import of the whole. And first the
description of the commission given in the words, "As my
Father hath sent me, even so send I you."
I. There is a question which often occurs, and which sometimes
raises a difficulty in the interpretation of language addressed by
our Lord to the Apostles ; that is, in what capacity they are
addressed. For the Apostles, we know, stood In three distinct
relations to their Divine Master. They might be considered simply
as believers in His doctrine, a character which they bore In
common with Christians of all ages ; or as preachers of His Gospel,
just as others were, both in their day and ever since ; or, finally,
as exercising a ministry peculiar to themselves, which was specially
designated by their distinguishing title of Apostles of the Lord.
What is said may be applicable to them either in all or only
AA 2

356 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
in some of these characters. And on this hangs another very
important question, namely, whether the subject of the discourse is
something merely temporary and occasional, or of perpetual and
universal appUcation.
Now, in the case before us there can be no doubt that the
Apostles are addressed, not in a private and personal, but in a
public and official capacity. This Is evident, not only from the
original selection and appointment of the Twelve, to which there
is a manifest reference in the terms used on this occasion, but from
the very nature of a commission. Individual Christians, as such,
have a calling, duties, prmleges, which separate them from
the unbelieving world, but they are not described as sent, as bear
ing a commission, in that sense in which It is said, " How shaU
they preach except they be sent ? " and again, " He gave some
apostles, and some prophets, and some evangelists, and some pastors
and teachers." And that Is, if possible, still plainer from what is
added In the last part of the text, as to the authority which accom
panied the commission, which is manifestly such as could not be
exercised by private persons.
There may seem, at first sight, more room to doubt whether the
commission was given to the Apostles as such, or in their more
common character of pastors and teachers. If the commission was
one peculiar to them, it must have been intended to terminate with
their lives ; if otherwise, It was to be continued by a succession.
And this furnishes us at once with a satisfactory answer to this
part of the question. For it Is clear that the commission was to
last throughout all ages. This would be sufficiently proved by the
declaration, " Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the
world," since that declaration was made to the same persons,
¦with reference to the same commission. But it Is also abundantly
manifest from the nature of the authority with which they are
invested In this passage Itself. For the remitting or retaining of
sins, however it may be understood, is something which equally
concerns the Church in all ages, and which cannot be supposed to
have been limited to the personal ministry of the Apostles. They
must therefore be considered here as addressed in a representative

THE APOSTOLICAL COMMISSION, 357
character ; as the beginning of a Une, which was to run down to
the end of time. One thing indeed stIU remained pecuUar to them,
even with regard to this commission : that it was given to them
immediately ; that they stood next to the Fountain-head of all
authoritj"- and power ; that they were the beginners of the line,
and therefore may very weU be beUeved to have been distinguished
from aU who followed them, not indeed as to the commission itself,
but as to their quaUfications and means of executing it.
Proceeding then to consider what is here declared as to the
quality of the commission, we find that it is described, not directly
and explicitly, but by a comparison with that which Christ Himself
had received from the Father : " As my Father hath sent me, even
so send I you." And certainly no language could convey a more
awful idea of the importance, the dignity, the sublimity of the
commission than this. But the language is very large, and some
caution may be required to avoid both unduly narrowing and
straining it by an inadequate or an extravagant sense. Let us
see then what may be safely inferred from that comparison. And,
in the first place, it clearly imports a firm and complete assurance,
and so very naturally foUowed the gracious benediction, " Peace
be with you," It was as much as to say, " Whatever certainty
you have that I came forth from God, the same you have that
you have been sent by me. As surely as he that hath seen me
hath seen the Father, even so surely he that hath seen you hath
seen me : he that heareth you heareth- me. He that recelveth you
receiveth me. As my Father hath taught me, even so have I
taught you. As I have borne witness to the Father, even so shall
ye bear witness to me. As the Father hath loved me, so have I
loved you. The words which the Father gave me, I have given
unto you. The glory which the Father gave me, I have given
you," These, I need not remind you, are in part the very expres
sions of our Lord Himself, and all that is implied in these
and others to the same effect is summed up in the emphatic
words, " As my Father hath sent me, even so send I you," But,
beside this identity of assurance, by which the Apostles were
enabled to feel exactly the same confidence in the validity of their

358 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
own commission as in that of their Lord's, the comparison in the
text suggests either an identity or at least a close resemblance of
character and object between their commission and His. If they
were sent by Him, even as He had been by the Father, it must
have been for the same end, and, so far as was possible and needful,
in the same manner ; that is. In the same capacity, and with the
same or like functions. But here we must be very careful not
to refer this identity or resemblance to points which do not
admit of such a comparison, so that we may not in any degree
derogate from our blessed Lord's supreme and unapproachable
dignity, by confounding things which He was graciously pleased
to communicate, with those which were necessarily reserved and
peculiar to Himself. Our Lord's commission included the three
offices of Prophet, Priest, and King, and there can be no doubt
that In a certain sense these offices have ever been exercised In the
Church under the commission received by Him : the prophetical
office in the various forms of preaching and teaching ; the priestly,
in the administration of Sacraments, in intercessory prayer and
benediction ; the kingly, in pastoral rule, discipline, and superin
tendence. And yet It Is no less certain that. In another sense. He
is the only Prophet, as the Author of that revelation which was
afterwards propagated by His witnesses and messengers, who
could only deliver to others that which they had received of Him,
without any power to alter or add to its contents. He is the only
High Priest, who once for all offered one sacrifice for sin, even the
body which was prepared Him by the Father, and then for ever sat
down on the right hand of God ; and that which remained to be
done by His ministers upon earth was not to repeat or renew this
sacrifice, but only to show it forth, to commemorate it, to plead Its
merits, to dispense its fruits, and " by Him to offer the sacrifice of
praise to God continually." And once more. He is the only King,
the sovereign Lord and chief Shepherd of His Church, and those
who fill the highest stations in it bear only a delegated rule, to be
exercised within the limits, and in conformity to the laws, which
He established for them. All are but his vicegerents, and no one
of them Is more so than the rest. But that they are this, seems to

THE APOSTOLICAL COMMISSION. 359
follow by most direct and certain inference from the words of the
text. For as one of the powers which He received from the
Father was that of sending the Apostles In His name and stead,
so there can be no doubt that their commission was one which they
-were empowered and obUged to transmit to others, that it might
be handed down to the remotest generations.
II. We have next to consider that portion of the text which is
of peculiar interest to us on the present occasion, as containing
words of our Lord which the Church has seen fit to put into the
mouth of her chief pastors for the admission of candidates to the
ministry. These words form one undivided saying, which how
ever falls into two parts, so distinct from each other as to require
that they should be discussed each by Itself The first describes
the endowment annexed to the commission : " Beceive ye the Holy
Ghost." And the solemnity of the words, when first uttered, was
heightened by a symbolical act, which Is not recorded to have
been used by our Lord on any other occasion, and which, if it
produced no other effect on the Apostles, must at least have
deepened the impression which the whole transaction left upon
their minds. " He breathed upon them," and thus sealed the
awful and mysterious grant by a sensible token. " Beceive the
Holy Ghost." These words sound as if it were impossible to
doubt about their meaning, and yet they give room for some grave
and difficult questions. The first is, whether they are to be con
sidered as signifying an immediate conveyance of something to
be presently received by those to whom they were addressed, or
only a promise to be fulfilled at a future time. The form of the
expression no doubt appears to imply a gift which was to come
into immediate possession of the receivers. But there are circum
stances related elsewhere which point to a different construction
of this passage. We know that a great and memorable effusion of
the Holy Ghost did take place shortly after, on the day of Pente
cost ; and we find more than one intimation that this was the
occasion on which the Holy Ghost was first given. On the occa
sion of the Feast of Tabernacles, when our Lord stood and cried,
" If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink. He that

360 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS.
believeth on me, as the Scripture hath said, out of his belly shall
flow rivers of living water," the Evangelist adds, " (but this
spake he of the Spirit, which they that believe on him should
receive : for the Holy Ghost was not yet given, because that Jesus
was not yet glorified,)" which most probably refers to our Lord's
glorious ascension. Again, He Himself, when He consoles His
disciples with the promise of the Comforter, distinctly announces
that the Comforter was to come only after His own visible presence
should have been withdrawn : "If I go not away, the Comforter
will not come unto you ; but if I depart, I will send Him unto
you." And after His resurrection He commanded them that they
should not depart from Jerusalem, but wait for the promise of the
Father, which He proceeds to explain by the words, " ye shall be
baptized with the Holy Ghost not many days hence :" and "ye
shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you ;"
expressions manifestly signifying the great outpouring of the day
of Pentecost. And there is another important fact which tends
toward the same conclusion. At the time when our Lord spoke
the words, " Beceive the Holy Ghost," only ten out of the eleven
Apostles were present. And not only was Thomas then absent,
but he had not yet seen or beUeved in the risen Saviour. Yet it
Is clear that the gift was intended alik^ for all of them, and there
can be no doubt that Thomas shared it in equal measure with his
colleagues. But yet, before we can come to any satisfactory conclusion on
this question, it will be necessary that we should notice another,
which is closely connected with it : that is, as to the particular
purpose and object for which this gift of the Holy Ghost was
designed. We know that the descent of the Holy Ghost on the
day of Pentecost was manifested by an extraordinary influx of
light and power into the infant Church, by which it was pre
pared to meet the impending conflict with its fleshly and spiritual
enemies. But it does not appear that on the occasion described in
the text the Apostles received any such iUumlnating and enabling
influence : and, on the other hand, there can be no doubt that the
gift of sanctifying grace had alr^dy been besto-wed upon them in

THE APOSTOLICAL COMMISSION. 361
some good measure, as this was a blessing which our Lord had
expressly implored for them after the Last Supper : " Sanctify
them through thy truth." " For their sakes I sanctify myself,
that they also might be sanctified through the truth." If then
the gift was not to answer any of these purposes, for what end
was it given ? The end appears to be very clearly indicated by
the words which immediately foUow In our text, and which describe
the authority conferred on the Apostles, and on those to whom it
should be delegated by them. The gift was undoubtedly bestowed
with a view to the exercise of that authority, and the amount and
compass of the endowment adapted to that object. And then we
see in the first place how, being designed for the Apostles in a
representative capacity, it might be conveyed to all, though one of
them was absent at the time ; and further, that it matters little
whether it be considered as immediate or prospective. It was, in
fact, both, inasmuch as it was made by a declaration that, so far
as was needful for the administration of the authority with which
they were invested, the presence and aid of the Holy Ghost should
never fall them. It only remains then to consider the nature of
that authority to which the gift was annexed, which will at the
same time help us to form a more exact notion of the endo-wment
itself, and to understand the mind of the Church, when she repeats
the words on such occasions as the present.
III. " Whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted unto them;
and whose soever sins ye retain, they are retained." Here we
enter upon ground which has been the field of much controversy.
Questions have arisen, and are still agitated, as to the nature and
the extent of the authority described by these words. According
to one interpretation they import nothing more than is impUed in
the preaching of the Gospel : that is, a declaration of the terms
on which, under the Gospel dispensation, remission of sins is to be
obtained. According to another view they signify an authority
to apply this declaration to particular cases, in the form of an
absolution, by which it is pronounced that the sins of Indmduals
are remitted unto them, with an assurance that the sentence pro
nounced on earth is ratified In heaven.

362 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS,
It may appear at first sight that there is a verj^ wide difference
between these two interpretations ; and, in fact, there are many
persons who would admit and contend that the first kind of
authority was given, not only to the Apostles, but to all Christians,
according to the measure of their light and knowledge ; while they
would either deny that the other kind of authority was ever given
to any one, or would maintain, that if at all, it was given only by
way of special privilege to the Apostles, but not to be transmitted
by them to any others. Now it cannot be denied that the doctrine
of priestly absolution has been so abused In the unreformed Church
as to sanction and foster the grossest and foulest superstition. But
if we only look to what is properly implied In the two interpreta
tions above stated, we may find that the difference between them
is by no means so great as Is commonly supposed. This wIU be
evident from the consideration of one unquestionable truth. It is
certain that none can forgive sins but God only. This Is not
denied In theory even by those whose language and practice appear
to trench most upon this Divine prerogative. And from this it
foUows, that no absolution given by man can be anything more
than a declaration, either general or particular, that sin has been
forgiven by God. Now such a declaration is made in general
terms whenever the Gospel is faithfully preached. Such preaching
is In substance a statement of the conditions on which forgiveness
is bestowed. But if the declaration relates to a particular case, it
is evident that, without a special Divine revelation, it can only be
a conditional declaration of forgiveness, made on the supposition
that the required conditions have been fulfilled. Every Christian
has a warrant to say to his brother, " Bepent and believe, and thy
sins shaU be forgiven thee ; " but before he can say with certainty,
" Thy sins are forgiven thee," he must either have received some
supernatural assurance of the fact, or he must quaUfy the declara
tion -with the condition, "if thou repentest and beUevest;" and
this condition must always be understood to be Implied where it Is
not expressed. So that absolution. In whatever form it may be
pronounced, can effect no real change in the state of any man
before God. It can only convey the same kind of comfort as is

THE APOSTOLICAL COMMISSION, 363
imparted by every proclamation of the Gospel, when it is brought
home to a truly penitent and believing soul.
But then, if this is the whole amount of the authority conferred
by the words of the text, what, it may be asked, was the purpose
of the gift of the Holy Ghost, bestowed or promised Immediately
before with such extraordinary solemnity ? And why should it
be needed for this exercise of the Christian ministry more than for
any of Its other functions ? I must own that I am unable to find
a satisfactory answer to this question, and yet this is only one
reason which induces me to take a different view of the subject. I
believe both the Interpretations we have been considering to be
faulty ; not as being posltlvelj'- wrong, but as faUing short of the
truth, and unduly narrowing the scope of our Lord's words. And
I hold it to be a sound and very important principle in the expo
sition of Scripture, always to prefer the most comprehensive sense
which its language will fairly admit, to one of more partial appli
cation. Consider for a moment the object to which the authority
in question relates — the remission of sins — and recollect that it is
nothing less than the object of the whole Gospel Dispensation. In
the remission of sins every blessing of the Christian covenant is
virtually included ; because, through the riches of the Divine
mercy, all others both depend upon it and are annexed to it. The
procuring therefore of this highest good of faUen man Is the one
great end of aU the Institutions and ordinances of the Church of
Christ. The preaching of the Word, the administration of the
Sacraments, the services of the sanctuary, the ghostly counsel and
advice, the rules and exercise of holy discipline, are aU designed
to be instrumental to the remission of sins. All, in their various
degrees and proportions, are parts of the ministry of reconcilia
tion; and there seems to be no reason for supposing that the
words we are considering apply to one more than to another. The
authority given may well be considered as an authority to dispense
these manifold means of grace, coupled with an assurance that
whenever they are rightly received, they shaU be effectual for the
purpose for which they were appointed, — the remission of sins ;
while those by whom they are wilfuUy and obstinately rejected

364 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
shaU forfeit the proffered benefit, shaU find the gate of mercy
closed against them, shall remain unreconcUed, unpardoned, —
shaU die in their sins. And then the gift of the Holy Ghost,
which accompanies this authority, is a promise that this Divine
Agent, on whose operation the efficacy of aU the means of grace
entirely depends, shall never cease to abide in the Church where
they are ministered, shaU be ever ready to impart His gracious
influence, and to shower down upon them the quickening dew of
His blessing.
Now from this view of the subject we may gather several
important Inferences. In the first place, it enables us clearly to
understand the meaning with which these words of our Lord are
used In our Ordination Service. This is no vain and bold assump
tion of any power which belongs solely to Him ; but, on the con
trary, It is a humble and faithful repetition of His own gracious
promise : it is a solemn declaration that the persons to whom
these words are addressed are hereby invested with this office and
ministry of reconciliation, and with aU the rights and privileges
pertaining to it, are authorized dispensers of the means of grace
committed to His Church. But it does not Imply that they receive
any new measure of spiritual illumination, or any increase of
personal holiness.
And hence it is that you, my brethren, over whom these words
have been pronounced, may derive from them at once the amplest
encouragement for the exercise of your ministry, and the most
awful warning against the neglect and abuse of it. On the one
hand you are assured by them that if, according to the vows
which you have made, you devote yourself with your whole heart
to your Master's service, there is no kind or amount of blessing
and success which you may not reasonably look for to attend your
ministrations. You may confidently plead His gracious promise
when you implore from Him a larger and larger measure of light
and strength to aid you in your work. And even if the means of
grace which you dispense should fail to produce the effect for
which they were ordained, you -wiU have the comfort of knowing
that the fault does not rest -with you, and you wiU be able to

THE APOSTOLICAL COMMISSION, 365
render such an account of your stewardship that, though you
must do it with grief and not -with joy, you wiU receive the
reward of the good and faithful servant, and be admitted to enter
into the joy of your Lord.
But then, on the other hand, you will be led to feel the more
deeply the weight of the responsibUity which rests upon you.
Bemember that the gift which you receive on this occasion is
given with respect to your office, "for the office and work of a
priest in the Church of God," and not to your persons ; that It is
given primarily and mainly for the benefit of those who are com
mitted to your charge, and that you have no special security that
it wUl personally profit you. The means of grace which you dis
pense, while to others they are a savour of life unto life, may to
yourselves be a savour of death unto death. But as this perversion
of them from their proper use will In you, more than in any others,
be a sin against Ught and knowledge, against mercies and warn
ings, against opportunities and advantages peculiar to yourselves,
so to you the forfeiture and the penalty will be doubly bitter,
grievous, and shameful.
And yet this Is not the worst. For the measure of your own
sin will be pressed down and heaped with the sins of others which
lie at your door. It is true the efficacy of the ordinances which
you administer does not depend upon any power or holiness of
yours, but on the sure promise of your Lord : and to as many as
receive them with an honest and good heart, they will not yield
the less fruit on account of your defects or unworthlness. But
you can never know — never before the Day of Judgment — to what
extent, not only your worldliness and evil example, but your sins
of omission, your coldness, your carelessness, your indolence and
timidity, may chill and stifle the germs of the dispositions required
for profiting by the means of grace ; how often your unfaithful
ness may intercept the blessing which would otherwise have
attended them.
Go forth then to your work, as from the personal presence of
your risen Lord : as if you had seen the prints of His wounds,
had heard His words from His own lips, had felt the movement of

366 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
His sacred breath. Consider yourselves as sent by Him, to return
before long with an account of your commission, which He will
receive sitting on the throne of His glory. In all the labours and
trials of your ministry, let His blessed image be still before your
eyes, and His gracious salutation ever sounding in your ears,
" Peace be unto you." If you faithfuUy " keep that which is com
mitted to your trust," if you dUigently " stir up the gift of God,"
if you patlentlj"- "endure hardness as good soldiers of Jesus Christ,"
then that peace, a peace which the world can neither give nor take
from you, wUl surely be yours, and will abide with you, until it
greets you again at. His second coming, as a joyful welcome to His
everlasting rest.

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOE THE
MIDDLE CLASSES.
A Sermo.v preached at the Opening of St. John's Sohool, Hurstpieepoint,
June 21st, 1853.

[DEDICATION.]
TO CHAELES JULIUS HAEE,
archdeacon of le-vves.
My DEAR Hare,
This Sermon belongs to you by more titles than one : as
it would neither have been preached nor published but in com
pliance with your wishes, and in deference to your judgment.
When I was, most unexpectedly, requested to undertake it, I at
first shrank from the task, because I thought that it required a
more intimate laiowledge of things and persons connected with
the subject than I could bring to it. Indeed, if I had been fuUy
aware at the time of the extent to which difference of opinion had
arisen with regard to the Institution to which the Sermon relates,
I am not sure that I should ever have consented to take such a
part In the proceedings of the Inauguration. My reluctance
however was overcome by the warm interest which you expressed
In the success of the undertaking, and the entire confidence you
placed in the character and principles of its Founder and Director,
with whom I had not previously the slightest personal acquaint
ance. When I considered your means of information, your
official responsibility, and the well-known bent of your theo
logical views, it appeared to me that I might safely accept your

368
testimony as a sufficient warrant for believing all that it was
needful for me to be assured of in such a case. I remembered also
that I should not be pledging myself to an approval of anything
more than had been publicly declared, as to the general design
and character of the Institution, and that I should have an oppor
tunity of guarding myself, as far as might be necessary, against
any misconception of my own views on the subject. And it was
no doubt with this object that you so strongly urged me to send
the Sermon to the. press: and in so doing I have the satisfaction
of following your example as well as your advice.
This little explanation seemed due to myself, but I should hardly
have troubled you with it, if I had not wished to add a word or
two more.
The case which has called forth these remarks Is one of a kind
which must be continually recurring In days when religious and
ecclesiastical controversy is so rife as in ours. If in such times
an institution, having any bearing on the interests of religion or
the Church, is set on foot with the unanimous approbation of all
parties. It is pretty sure that it must be one utterly worthless and
insignificant. In general, the amount of opposition which It will
have to encounter will be nearly in proportion to Its value and
importance. In such cases It may often seem doubtful where
sanction and encouragement may be rightly bestowed. Zealous
partisans will look first of all to the quarter from which a new
project proceeds, and will view all which do not wear their own
colours with incurable jealousy and distrust. There is another
class of persons — I fear not a small one — who make It a rule to
keep aloof from every undertaking which is anywhere spoken
against. That is no doubt for themselves the safest, easlefet, and,
above all, the most economical course; though, if universally
adopted, it must paralyze all healthy action in the Church. But
for those who are averse to such partisanship, and to such
neutrality, there are two maxims on which I should myself always
wish to act, and by which. If I am not mistaken, you have been
guided throughout the affair now under our consideration. One
is, that persons who make great sacrifices for public objects are

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOE THE MIDDLE CLASSES. 365
entitled to large credit for the sincerity of their professions, and
deserve to have the most favourable construction put upon their
proceedings. It is no doubt very satisfactory to find that the
charges which had been brought against the management of the
Hurstpierpoint School have, after a strict investigation, turned
out to be unfounded. But I can weU believe that, while the,y
were pending, you never for a moment aUowed them to shake
your confidence In the Provost of St, Nicolas College, and I think
that such trust was no more than he had fairly earned. The other
maxim is, that when we are satisfied with the general spirit and
tendency of an institution, we should not take offence at matters
of detail which may appear to us questionable, or even clearly
injudicious, but should be ready to concede the greatest possible
latitude to the judgment and taste of those who are responsible
for them, short of a direct violation of principles. It would be
vain and unreasonable to expect that any man should be found
wlUing to devote all his energies to a great work, if he is denied
such freedom in the choice of the methods and instruments with
which he is to carry it on.
Certainly some very strong grounds should be assigned to
justify any one in deUberately withholding his support from any
earnest attempt to better the education of the middle classes. It
Is not however the importance of the object alone that has
interested me In the undertaking of which the Hurstpierpoint
School forms a part. It appears to me no less worthy of atten
tion and of sympathy as an example of the mode in which the
principle of association may be applied to meet the wants and to
speed the work of the Beformed Church. I am not Indeed sur
prised that every such application should be viewed by many with
jealousy and uneasiness. I will not deny that, even when con
ducted by the most trustworthy hands, they will always stand in
need of watchful superintendence to guard them from abuse. But
I am not the less convinced that It would be not only matter of
reproach to our Church, but an alarming symptom of constitu
tional weakness If she was forced to renounce the use of this
powerful instrument, from inability to wield it without hurting
VOL. Ill, B B

370 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
herself You know with what happy results the principle, dis
engaged from the corruptions of monasticism, was appUed to the
work of education by the Fratres vitce communis, in the latter half
of the fourteenth century, in the Netherlands ; what a wholesome
influence they exerted on the whole frame of society ; and that in
their schools the germs of the Beformatlon were fostered by the
light of sound learning, and the warmth of that genuine practical
piety which glows in the Imitatio Christi, the work of one of their
disciples. It was, you know, the silent, but emphatic protest of
their life and practice against the fundamental errors and actual
abuses of monastic institutions, that exposed them to the hostiUty
of a part of the clergy, but especiaUy of the monks and friars,
against which they had to struggle, and which threatened their
communities with premature extinction, from which they were
saved partly by the noble advocacy of Gerson and one or two other
eminent men who were in advance of their age, and partly by the
happy short-sightedness of the rulers of the Church, who did not
perceive the extent of their o-wn danger. It is, I think, to be
regretted that this memorable and Instructive chapter of Church
history Is much less generally known in this country than it
deserves to be. I believe that it might not only be found highly
suggestive and encouraging to many kindred spirits, but might
serve to counteract an impression which seems to be widely preva
lent among us, that there is something of a Bomanizing tendency
essentially inherent In aU similar attempts. The time, I hope, is
not far distant when this prejudice will be dispelled by our own
larger experience, and I trust that you will long have the plea
sure of seeing the plan in whlch^^you have taken so Uvely an
interest contribute every year more and more toward this most
desirable end. I am, my dear Hare,
Yours faithfuUy, C, St. David's.
Aeerg-W'ili, July, 1853.

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOE THE MIDDLE CLASSES. 371
[THE SEKMON.]
" Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established."
Pbo VERBS xvi. 3.
We have come together to implore the blessing of the Most High
on the outset of a new Institution, to place it under His safeguard,
and to dedicate it to His service. Though the Church does not
speciaUy adapt her language to this occasion, the thought which is
uppermost in every mind has no doubt given the key to all our
praises and prayers. The work has just reached that stage at
which men, in all their undertakings, most readily acknowledge
their need of the Divine aid for a prosperous Issue. It Is when a
long course of laborious preparation has been completed ; when
the precious seed has been carefully deposited In the well-tUled
soU ; when the gallant ship, strongly buUt and richly freighted, Is
about to leave the port on her first voyage for a distant shore;
when the child of many earnest prayers and anxious watchlngs
and long and patient training is on the point of quitting the
parental roof to go forth into the world, — at such junctures, if
ever. It Is that men reaUse their dependence on the Divine favour,
and feel how inadequate are aU the provisions of human pains and
foresight to ensure the fulfilment of their wishes. And so on this
occasion. In proportion to the interest we take In the success of the
design which Is embodied In the new place of learning to be this
day opened, shaU we be disposed to join in the Psalmist's strain of
pious humility, " Except the Lord buUd the house, their labour is
but lost that build It."
But stIU we know that it would be an Idle and a sinful pre
sumption to rely on God's help as a substitute for our own endea
vours. If the house be Ill-planned, if It be constructed of unsound
materials, or built upon the sand, we have no right to expect that
an arm wiU be outstretched from heaven to stay it from falling.
On the contrary, we could not consistently caU upon God for His
blessing on any of our works, unless we were convinced that, in
its own nature, it is such as He may regard with a favourable eye.
We could not reasonably commend it to His keeping, unless we
B B 2

372 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
had taken every precaution In our power to secure its stabOity.
We could not piously consecrate it to His service, unless we were
conscious that nothing had been wanting on our part to make it
capable of ministering to His holy will. And therefore, in this
solemn pause of anxious hope, when, if we looked Into ourselves,
we might be disheartened by the sense of our own weakness, and,
If we looked out to the future, we might be disturbed by the
remembrance of the numberless crosses which may baffle the cal
culations of the most far-sighted prudence, it may be not unseason
able or useless to fix our minds for awhile on the undertaking
itself, to contemplate it as in the Divine presence, and to satisfy
ourselves that our newly finished work is one which we may
commit unto the Lord, with a well-grounded though humble con
fidence that He wiU establish our thoughts. If we would assure
our hearts before Him, we must be able to give an account to
ourselves, as In His sight, of the end we have in view, of the means
'by which we propose to attain It, and of the 2wincip)les on which
we proceed.
I. It is necessary above aU things that we should take a clear
view of the end we have set before us, so as to be convinced that
It Is worthy of the efforts and the intercessions we make In its
behalf. And surely, if we only regard It In its true Ught, we can
hardly overrate its importance or Its sacredness. For, If we look
far enough, I think we must see that It Is nothing less than this —
to fit our people for fiUing the place, and for doing the work,
which God has appointed for them. What these are, is a point at
which we need but glance very slightly here. We have had
assigned to us a place in some respects the foremost among the
families of the earth : the most conspicuous, the most envied, the
most exposed to danger, the most difficult to maintain ; the fore
most in wealth, in power, in extent of influence, in opportunities
of action, whether for good or e-vll. And when we look back at
the smaU beginnings of this amazing greatness, when we note how
minute a speck on the face of the globe is occupied by the imperial
seat of this vast dominion, we can hardly help feeling, what nothing
but a foolish pride could lead us to forget, that our place has been

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOR THE MIDDLE CLASSES. 373
fixed by the counsels of Divine Providence, in immediate con
nexion with the very highest of His purposes in His dealings -with
mankind. For, as the place, so is the work manifestly entrusted
to us; the greatest and noblest with which people was ever charged
— to be the pioneers of God's way through the desert regions of
the earth ; to be the carriers of His truth, and of all the social
blessings which spring from it, to the rudest and most degraded
tribes of our race. It is the office claimed long ago for England
by one of the greatest of her sons, to teach the nations hoiv to live,
but enlarged far beyond any bounds which it is possible for his
experience or even his imagination to trace.
But the fact that we have been placed in this eminent station,
and have been Invested with this glorious mission. Is no proof that
we are worthy of so great a trust, or that we have come up to the
mark of so high a calling ; still less is it a guarantee that we shall
always remain where we stand, and keep that which we possess.
The history of God's chosen people of old time, which the Apostle
made the ground of his warning, "Let him that thinketh he
standeth take heed lest he faU," might suffice to admonish us
that privileges can never be secure where the duties incident to
them are neglected. And it may teach us this further lesson : that
no ruin is so fearful as that which awaits those who have for
feited the highest privileges through unfaithfulness to the most
important duties. Indeed it needs no such signal example, nor
any special revelation, to assure us that whenever a high post is
unworthily filled, a weighty task consigned to incapable hands,
there is a violation of the eternal laws of Providence, a derange
ment of the natural order of things, which must be disastrous in
its consequences, just in proportion to its extent and to the mag
nitude of the Interests involved. And so we shall not be stretching
our view too far, even if It takes In all the manifold relations by
which the welfare of our country is bound up -with the destinies of
the world. It may be said -with truth, in more than one sense,
that nothing human is foreign to us. Not a pulse beats in the
heart of England that is not felt to the extremities of the earth.
And there stands not on English ground a home so lowly that it

374 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
may not be shaken by the recoil of events which come to pass in
the opposite hemisphere.
But perhaps it wUl be said, aU this may be true enough, but it
does not seem to have any direct bearing on the occasion which
has now brought us together. It does not prove that we have
need of anything more than to move steadily on in the same track
by which we have reached our present prosperous condition. It
may be a reason why we should not slacken our watchfulness and
diligence, but it furnishes no apparent motive for embarking in
any new undertaking. What has succeeded so weU In time past
may surely suffice for the future. But we can hardly wrap our
selves in this persuasion, unless we both overlook the most e-vddent
signs of the times, and shut our eyes to all that Is passing imme
diately around us. If there Is one thing that every day's expe
rience teaches more plainly than another, it is that the past is no
sure Index or adequate measure of the future. It is that we are
U-vIng on the eve of mighty changes in the state of the world. It
is that we have need to be prepared for many new and strange
emergencies ; to gird ourselves for trials and struggles such as our
nation never passed through before. So that even if it were true
that hitherto we had no shortcomings to reproach ourselves -with,
this would be no just ground of confidence In the sufficiency of the
provision we have made for the time to come. But how little does
even the most superficial, if it be but an honest review of our past
doings warrant such a self-complacency ! Alas ! every day brings
fresh disclosures to shame us out of it, to show how carelessly,
how slothfully, how selfishly, how unfaithfully we have dealt with
much, if not with most, of what has been entrusted to us. It is
perhaps the most hopeful symptom of our present state, that we
do not shrink from the inquiries which lead to this humUiatIng
result; that we do not refuse to confess our omissions and mis
doings ; and that we are making some earnest endeavours to redeem
past neglects, to repair present deficiencies, to husband our means
more thriftily, to turn our opportunities to better account.
And in no point has this consciousness of unsupplied wants and
unfulfilled duties been more widely and more deeply awakened

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOE THE MIDDLE CLASSES, 375
than with regard to the very subject which is now occupying our
attention — the teaching and training of the young. It would seem
as if we had just begun to open our eyes to the evident truth, that
this is indeed the most momentous of aU national concerns, the
condition of aU social weU-being, stablUty, and healthy develop
ment ; that the strength and wealth of a nation consist, not in
extent of territory, not In forts and arsenals, not in weU-filled
coffers, not in the variety and abundance of its material resources,
but in the quality of Its men, in.' the quaUty of their manhood ;
not merely their thews and sinews, but their minds, and hearts,
and souls ; and that this again depends, partly indeed on their
natural gifts, but stiU more on the way in which they have been
reared. And then, when we set ourselves seriously to inquire how
we had been conducting this great affair, it appeared that we had
left it in a great measure to take care of itself ; that we had been
trusting, if to anything, not to any efforts of our own for securing
the desired result, but to the operation of causes which had been
working almost in spite of us, to mitigate the evil consequences of
our apathy and improvidence.
Now however we see the fruits of this newly roused interest in
the subject springing up all around us, not only in schemes and
discussions, but in institutions for extending the benefits of educa
tion to the children of the poorest in the land. It was indeed
natural and praiseworthy that the movement should in the first
instance take this direction, that it should be drawn toward the
largest and most destitute class. And it would be difficult to over
rate the importance of elevating the moral and spiritual condition
of that class which Is the basis of the whole social edifice. But It
would not have been right or safe that pubUc attention should
have been so concentrated on this object as to overlook the claims
of those classes which stand higher in the social scale, or that it
shoidd have been assumed that for them there was no need of any
like exertions. Doubtless it Is the glory of a Christian State that
it regards all its children with an eye of equal love ; that It recog
nises their title to an equal share in every benefit which it belongs
to the State to dispense ; that it abhors the distinction by which,

376 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY REMAINS,
in the most enlightened communities of the ancient world, the
great bulk of the population was doomed to ignorance and debase
ment, while the highest intellectual and moral culture Avas jealously
reserved for the privileged few. It is the especial glory of our
own institutions that they place no Impassable barrier between
different degrees of men ; that they open a broad road, which
passes by every cottage door, for honest industry and honourable
ambition to make their way from the lowest rank to the very front
of the throne. But still parity of rights does not imply equality
of powers or capacities, of natural or accidental advantages. And
common sense forbids that we should lavish our care on those who
are least able to profit by it, while we -withhold it from those by
whom It would be most largely repaid. The class which is com-
peUed, from an early age to the close of life, to devote the greater
part of every day to the toilsome earning of its daily bread, may
be endowed with no scantier portion of the common heritage of
humanity than that which Is exempt from this necessity. But It
Is manifest that those who are subject to such a pressure must, as
a body, remain behind those who enjoy larger opportunities of
cultivating and exercising their natural endowments. Every one
who has had anything to do -with the education of the poor has
had painful experience of this fact. And It brings us to the con
clusion, that the class so providentlaUy privileged Is that which
affords the true measure of the national intelUgence, which exhibits
the genuine stamp of the national character, and is the legitimate
organ of the national mind and will : and consequently, that on
the inteUectual and moral condition of this class must mainly
depend the degree In which our people is fitted to fill the place and
to execute the work appointed for it among the nations of the earth,
II. And then comes the question, whether aU has been done
that lies in our power for the accomplishment of this great object.
But it would be a waste of our time to discuss this question. If
it admitted of a doubt. If the Inadequacy of the meaws previously
employed had not been deeply impressed on many thoughtful and
earnest minds, the building to be this day Inaugurated would never
have arisen. The plan which It embodies was grounded on the

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOE THE MIDDLE CLASSES, 377
conviction, suggested by most palpable facts, that the work of
education for the middle classes had on the whole been grossly
neglected ; that there had been a deplorable waste of the time and
resources dedicated to it, or available for it ; that it had been
aUowed in numberless cases, if not in the great majority of the
whole, to fall into incompetent hands, and had been degraded into
a mere Instrument of sordid gain. It was felt to be desirable that
it should be taken out of such hands, and committed to those who
would conduct it in a spirit of devoted zeal, befitting its weighti-
ness and sanctity, and not In a mechanical routine, but with a
clear apprehension of its nature and its objects. It was thought
possible at once to raise the average standard of education, and to
bring it within the reach of a larger part of the community. It
was believed that private endeavours, supported by the voluntary
aid of those whose hearts were stirred by the undertaking, would
suffice for the purpose. It was confidently hoped that the plan, as
soon as it had begun to be partially carried into effect, would work
its own way, and propagate itself by the simple attraction of its
Influence, and the example of its success.
It Is indeed clear that in this way only it could be reasonably
either expected or desired that such an undertaking should advance
and estabUsh itself. It must carry the pledge of Its prosperity and
permanence in itself. It must stand — if it is to stand — by virtue
of its o-wn inherent vigour, and not lean upon any outward stay. It
must recommend itself to general acceptance by its own efficiency,
and by the benefits which mark its progress, or it will soon pass
into the number of well-meant, but unsuccessful experiments. But
when we consider the class for which It Is designed, we find good
reason to trust that the hope in which it was conceived will not be
disappointed. Institutions for the education of the poor have, as
we well know, frequently to contend not only -with the indigence,
but with the apathy of parents, who have not knowledge sufficient
to appreciate the advantages offered to their chUdren, and cannot
be persuaded that they outweigh even the most trifling addition to
the weekly earnings of the famUy. In those of a higher grade,
such Ignorance and indifference are probably rare exceptions to

378 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERAEY REMAINS.
the general rule. It is commonly not from want of due anxiety
for their children's welfare, nor because they are blind to the value
of education, that they rest satisfied with the poorest makeshift
that may be offered to them in its name, but only because nothing
better has been placed within their reach. When they are con
vinced that it rests with themselves to obtain for their children a
training which will fit them for all the relations of life, will enable
them to make the best use of all the talents with which they have
been gifted, and of aU the opportunities which Providence may put
in their way ; in a word, will lay the firmest foundation for their
temporal and eternal welfare — when they are once assured of this,
we need not doubt that they will eagerly avail themselves of this
inestimable privilege, and wUl not readily take up with anything
short of it.
All therefore depends on the intrinsic merit of the system which
is to supersede the imperfect provision before made for this object;
and the consideration of the means to be employed ultimately
resolves itself into that of the principles on which the work is to be
carried on. It is Indeed a great point gained to be sure that here
there are principles in action ; to know that they have been the
spring, and will be the life of the whole undertaking, and wUl set
their stamp on every part of it ; that those who are engaged In
it are labouring both earnestly and thoughtfully, not from blind
impulse, but from a deep con-nctlon, which they feel to be worthy
of all their toils and sacrifices. This indeed is no security against
errors of judgment, but it Is a ground of reasonable trust that they
will not affect the main design; and wIU be amended as soon as
they are discovered, and that the principles on which it is worked
out will be In unison with the spirit in which It was formed. I
should Indeed hesitate to touch on this part of the subject, if I
was to speak as one who was either competent to bear witness, or
entitled to tender advice. But it will be sufficient to advert to
a few points, which seem to me indispensable conditions of real
and lasting success in such an undertaking, and which are more
or less directly involved in what has been already said of its
character and aim.

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOE THE MIDDLE CLASSES, 379
III. The principles which should guide its course are impUed in
the nature of its destination. They are not arbitrary rules, but
conditions necessary for making it that which it professes to be.
It is designed for the education of English youth in the middle of
the nineteenth century. And this simple description marks its
place in the present, and its relation to the past and the future.
Unless it answered to this description. It would not be a real living
thing, and would have no right to take up room in God's world,
and no power to occupy it long. Its business is not with human
nature in the abstract, it is not to bring up citizens of the world,
but It Is the fashioning of English minds and hearts, to fit them
for such work as belongs to English men. Those who are to come
under its training are heirs to as rich a patrimony as people ever
handed down to its posterity. Of them it may be truly said that
" the lines are fallen to them in a fair ground ; yea, they have a
goodly heritage." They number some of the most illustrious of
earthly names among their ancestors. They claim a share, by
virtue of their birthright, in a countless store of spiritual wealth,
amassed by the patient thought, and hard struggles, and perse
vering labour, and generous sacrifices of many generations, depo
sited In their national laws and institutions, in their language and
Uterature, in the opinions, feelings, and habits of society. The
history of their native land, the lesson of the nations, enriches
them with an inexhaustible treasure of heart-stirring recollections
and heroic examples. Among all Its vicissitudes there Is none
from which they need turn away with shame, or with unmitigated
regret ; none which does not reflect the Image of the national
character ; none in which there has not been an earnest, and not
a fruitless seeking and strl-ring for truth and right ; none which
has not contributed Its share to the attaining or securing of some
invaluable blessing, not only for their country, but for mankind.
It must therefore be the highest aim of the education to be given
to those who have been so signally favoured, to prepare them for
entering on this noble inheritance, to qualify them for the exercise
of the privileges to which they are entitled by their birth, and to
render them worthy of the name they bear. And for this end it

380 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
is plainly needful that they should learn to prize the good which
has fallen to their lot, and to feel the vantage-ground on which
they stand ; that they should be used to cherish the ties which bind
them to the past ; to love and venerate the wise and good of former
generations, and, dra-wing the chief nourishment of their own
spirits from the same sources as they, to grow up in communion
of thought, and feeling, and principle with them.
Every sound system of education — above all of English educa
tion — must be thus rooted In the past. It can only thrive as long-
as this connexion is preserved, and must wither and die if that be
severed. But the conviction of this truth, especially if it should
seem to have been overlooked or to be impugned, may lead to an
opposite extreme, equaUy dangerous. It may suggest a futile and
mischievous attempt to offer -violence to the eternal order of things,
to the law of continuity and progress, by which God works and
reveals Himself in the history of mankind. It may so exaggerate
the claims of the past as to withhold what is due to the present
and the future. A well-meaning but short-sighted zeal, in the
warmth of its admiration for some bygone period, may be tempted
to think it desirable, and to fancy it possible, to transport the
rising generation into that happy region, and to keep it immured
there, shut out from aU communication with the views, and wants,
and strivings of a degenerate age. But all such schemes are not
only visionary and idle, but also self-contradicting, faithless, and
godless : they Inevitably issue not simply in failure and disappoint
ment, but in a reinforcement of all the Influences which they are
meant to counteract, and an aggravation of aU the evils which
they pretend to remedy. How can we consistently profess to look
back with veneration and love to the past, while we deny our
sympathy and regard to that which has sprung from its loins ?
How can we "view it with an intelligent admiration. If we believe
that it has been barren of all wholesome and abiding fruits ? How
can we heartily rejoice in it as a dispensation of God's Provi
dence, when we shrink with dread and loathing from its divinely
appointed sequel ? How can we trust in Him as one who brings
good out of evil, whUe we represent Him as evolving evU out of

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOR THE MIDDLE CLASSES. 381
good ? And how, without an excess of presumptuous folly, can
we think to set any human device in the way of His chariot
wheels, and not expect that they wiU grind It to dust ? Such a
system of retrograde movement and unnatural constraint, so far
as it succeeded in working upon the minds of the young, would
mar the fairest features of that character which it is the proper
object of EngUsh education to unfold and ripen : its manline&, Its
truthfulness, its freedom, its love of the real and the practical.
For those on whom under God rest the best hopes of England for
the next generation, we must desire that they should go forth to
their allotted tasks, not only -with all the aids of knowledge suited
to the times in which they Uve and to their place In society with
which we can furnish them, but also -with a due sense of the hap
piness and the dignity of their calling. We would not have them
boast that they are better than their fathers ; but we would wish
them to feel, with humility and thankfulness, that they have been
in many things more highly favoured, more richly endowed : that
they have a broader field open to their endeavours, larger rewards
to stimulate their industry, more abundant helps to smooth their
way : though It may be also with peculiar trials, snares, and dlffi-
oulties besetting it. And so we would have them set their faces
toward the future with fresh spirits, and brave hearts, and elastic
hopes, and generous aspirations, and a firm trust In God, yet with
a solemn consciousness of dependence and responsibility, and a
deep conviction of their need of energy and watchfulness for a
prosperous and honourable career.
There may be room for much difference of opinion as to the
specific nature of the preparation best adapted to these ends. It
may not be easy to decide between the competing claims of different
branches of mental culture, or to Ught upon the right mean between
a course of study which concentrates the faculties within too narrow
a circle, and one which disperses them among too great a multi-
pUcity of objects. HappUy however these are not the points of
gravest moment, and on those which are most material the nature
of the Institution itself wUl still suffice to guide us to a safe con
clusion. A system of education adapted to the genius of our

382 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
people must be sound, soUd, and practical. It wiU strive to do Its
work thoroughly. It wIU not rest in any outward show, but -wiU
try to go below the surface, and to reach to the core and essence
of the thing it has to deal with. It wIU set less value on the
amount or kind of knowledge it imparts than on the exercise of
the intellectual faculties, and the degree in which they are trained
for the business of Ufe. But neither will It be satisfied with the
furnishing of means and the preparation of Instruments, but will
aim at taking possession of the central seat of government, and of
the powers by which the instruments are to be wielded, and the
means employed for the purposes of the agent. That is to say, it
will bestow its chief care on that habitual direction of the affections
and the will which constitutes the character, and which determines
the real worth and usefulness, of the man. In other words, it will
regard religion- — not reUgious knowledge, or the employment of
the memory and the understanding, or the imagination, upon reli
gious subjects, but religion in its application to the heart and the
conscience — as its great concern, that to which aU others are to be
kept constantly subordinate.
Here indeed it may seem that we have come upon ground where
aU reference to national distinctions must be dropped as common
and profane : where " there is neither Jew nor Greek ; neither bond
nor free." And no doubt this Is true, so far as regards the history
and fundamental doctrines of our faith. But in another point of
view there is no subject In which we have more need to remember
our national traditions, attributes, and privileges : none In which It
more behoves us to be on our guard against what is foreign, no
less to the broad lines of the English character than to the first
principles of Christian truth. We ought never to forget, and we
have now special occasion to bear in mind, on the one hand, that
our reformed reUgion was planted by the -wisdom of a gracious
Providence In our land, as in a congenial soil, where it would
strike deep root, and send forth mighty branches, and yield fruit
abundantly for the nourishment and the healing of the nations :
that it satisfied both the earnest searchings of the English mind,
and the instinctive cravings of the English spirit, and so inter-

ENGLISH EDUCATION FOE THE MIDDLE CLASSES. 383
t-wined itself with the fibres of the English heart. And on the
other hand, we are bound thankfuUy to acknowledge that it is to
this best of God's gifts we owe not only our national greatness, but
our social happiness : the noblest passages of our history, and the
richest blessings of our homes. And therefore we have reason to
believe that on the faithfulness with which we preserve this sacred
deposit imimpaired, on the steadfastness with which we guard it
against open aggression and insidious encroachments, on the care
and dUigence with which we hand it down to the next generation
— on this depend our prospects, not merely of power and glory,
but of well-being, honour, and safety for the time to come.
The plan of this Institution affords, as we trust, the best warrant
that could be devised to assure us that here this great object wiU
be kept steadily in view, that its rightful supremacy will be fully
recognised, and that it will be realised as far as human infirmity
permits. For the work -will be carried on by those who have been
already dedicated to a ministry which comprehends the mainte
nance and transmission of pure reUgion among Its most essential
functions, and who are bound by the most solemn vows " to draw
all their cares and studies this way." And therefore we may
venture to commit this work unto the Lord, and humbly to claim
a share in the promise that our thoughts shall be established : as
believing that this work falls in with that which He Is bringing
about for the education of this portion of His family, and through
it of those who are farther removed from the knowledge and
obedience of Him and of His Son : and that our thoughts are In
their measure in accordance with His own, as revealed to us in
His word and in His ways. But we would beseech Him so to take
this matter Into His hand, that whatever there is in this work that
is not of Him, but of ourselves, may be purged away and disappear
in the light of His countenance, and that all of it that is Indeed
His may grow and prosper under His mighty protection, and may
never go to decay or suffer hurt through the feebleness or imsteadi-
ness of the human hands to which It may be committed. We would
pray Him so to estabUsh our thoughts that they may be less and
less liable to waver and be carried about by any gust of passion.

384 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
any breath of worldly favour, any blast of vain doctrine, but may
be more and more firmly grounded in the unchangeable counsels
of His infinite wisdom : that our judgments may more surely
approve that which is true, that our affections may be more con
stantly drawn toward that which is divinely beautiful, our wills
be more steadfastly fixed on that which is supremely good : that if
there be any -virtue, and if there be any praise, we may think more
earnestly, more lovingly, more devotedly, on these things. And
we would implore Him without whom nothing Is strong, nothing
is holy, that He would vouchsafe so to fiU the house which we are
about to open with His presence, and to pour His blessing on its
inmates, that they may walk in it, as in His sanctuary, with a
perfect heart, and with minds stayed on Him ; that all their works
may conduce to His glory ; that their thoughts may be ever bent
on His service, and that He would help and govern them as those
whom He would bring up in the steadfast fear and love of His holy
name.

THE SPIEIT OF TEUTH, THE HOLY
SPIEIT.
A Sermon preached before the University op Cambridge, May I6th, 1869.

" When He, the ^irit of Truth, is come. He will guide you into all truth."
John xvi. 13.
The event which the present Festival brings before our minds
marks the culminating epoch in the Gospel history, and the date
of a new era, which may be fitly termed the Nati-vity of the
Church. This is the last of our historical Festivals. That of
next Sunday is the consecration of a dogma, not the commemora
tion of an event. This is not a mere ecclesiological fact ; it Is one
of the deepest practical meaning. What does it imply ? It implies
that the Church neither knows of, nor looks for, any event which
shaU constitute a Uke epoch, — Uke In kind, and not merely in the
degree of its importance, — until the " times of restitution of all
things," when her warfare shaU be accomplished, her labour ended,
her work finished : that the state of things in which we are now
living Is the last dispensation of Christ's Church miUtant here In
earth ; that the gift which she received as on this day is the whole
of the portion -with which she was endowed for the term of her
earthly career. And from this it may be Inferred, that nothing
essential was wanting to the Pentecostal Church, and that what
ever it possessed that was not to be permanently retained was not
essential. To find what was essential, and therefore to endure
throughout aU ages, to survive aU changes, outward and inward,
in her condition, we must ask, How did the Holy Spirit manifest
His Presence ?
VOL, III, C C

386 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
That the advent of the Paraclete was ushered in by some extra
ordinary sensible signs is so evident, that It has not been denied,
even by those who treat the whole as an outbreak of vulgar,
credulous fanaticism. These signs served the purpose of con
vincing the brethren that their Lord's promise was fulfilled, that
the expected Comforter had come. They passed at once out of
that state of quiet, prayerful waiting, in which they had remained,
without attempting any act but that of completing their number.
Into a full assurance of faith. If we cannot by any effort of
imagination form a perfectly distinct idea of the sensible pheno
mena which were, not indeed the groundwork, but the occasion
of this belief, we may console ourselves with the reflection, that
here, as In Horeb of old, the Lord was not in the rushing mighty
wind, nor In the tongues of fire, in which His operation could be
recognised by none but those who already believed ; but rather,
with regard to those who were yet outside the Church, in the stIU
small voice which echoed the appeal of Peter, when they were
pricked to the heart by his discourse, and, having come to mock,
remained to ask, " What shall we do ?" To the Apostles them
selves His' Presence was attested by the consciousness of a new
power, by which they were armed alike for suffering and for
action, with Indomitable courage, immovable confidence, and
unquenchable hope. This was an effect which they had been led
to expect by their Lord's parting words : " Ye shaU receive power,
after that the Holy Ghost Is come upon you." And the fulfilment
consisted, not merely In the strengthening of that which was
before weak in them, but In a new creation, a hitherto unfelt,
inteUectual, moral, and spiritual life.
It Is not however to this aspect of the event that the Church
directs our attention to the CoUect of the day, in which she may
be thought to trace the line of meditation which she deems most
appropriate to the Festival. There she insists on the " teaching
of the heart," which the faithful had received by "the light
of God's Holy Spirit," and treats "a right judgment In all
things " as the chief blessing we have to desire from Him, or at
least as the condition required to the end that we may " rejoice

THE SPIEIT OF TEUTH, THE HOLY SPIRIT. 387
evermore In His holy comfort," This again is a function which
holds a prominent place in our Lord's description of the character
and work of the Paraclete. He was " the Spirit of Truth " to be
sent to " guide " those to whom He should come " into all truth."
We are obUged Indeed to limit the breadth of this promise, as
weU by the nature of the case as by the facts of our experience.
We know that the truth into which the Apostles were to be led by
the guidance of the Holy Spirit was not even to include any part
of that which is held by some to be all the truth that man is
capable of learning ; that it was not to reveal any secrets which
are the objects of scientific research ; not to deepen our Insight
into the physical constitution of the universe, or to sharpen the
faculties by which we explore its various regions, whether for
the satisfaction of a noble curiosity, or to win fresh gain to the
material Interests of society.
It is not surprising, however much to be deplored, that some
of those who — as so many in this place — are engaged in rearing
or In surveying that vast and majestic fabric of purely human
knowledge, so beautiful In its structure, so rich in its contents, so
manifold in its uses, should find in it enough to satisfy all their
inteUectual cravings ; and, as they carry it on, or mark its con
tinual upgrowth, should persuade themselves, like those workers
of old, that they are building them a city and a tower, whose top
may reach unto heaven, and command an unobstructed -view of aU
things visible In heaven and earth. It is no wonder that those
who are so occupied should be disposed to look down with a feel
ing akin to contempt on other spheres of knowledge, and to ques
tion the reality or the value of aU truth which is foreign to their
system. But, at whatever cost, we must frankly admit that the
truth which is the substance of our Lord's promise, and which it
was a main end of the mission of the Holy Spirit to impart, is
such as does not at all concern the results of scientific inquiry, and
contributes nothing to its discoveries. We may beUeve it to be of
a higher order, of larger appUcation, of infinitely greater value ;
but we admit, or rather we earnestly contend, that it belongs to
an entirely different field ; and we only desire not to be drawn
c c 2

388 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
into the error of either confounding the one with the other, or of
seeking to depreciate the value, or to circumscribe the compass, of
that in which our own work does not lie.
But even after we have thus separated the kind of truth which
it is the province of the Holy Spirit to teach faithful hearts, from
that which man acquires by the spontaneous exercise of his
natural faculties, we find that even in that order of things to
which the promise of a supernatural guidance unquestionably
belongs, its fulfilment can only be understood under considerable
limitation. If It was to be taken In the fulness of its literal sense,
there would be no mystery in our religion that has not been
unveiled, no depth in our theology that has not been fathomed.
The scope of the promise must evidently be restricted by the
object and design of the teaching. And there was no danger of
any mistake in this respect on the part of those to whom the
promise was made. They were familiar with the sense in which
the terms knowledge, wisdom, understanding, instruction, and the
like, are used In the Old Testament, especiaUy in the Book of
Proverbs ; and when they were admonished by their Lord just
before His departure, that "it was not for them to know the
times or the seasons which the Father had put in His own power,"
He plainly indicated the character and the measure of that truth
into which they were to be guided. It was truth needful and
profitable for them ; such as would make them wise unto salvation,
and fit them for the work they had to do In His service. It
was that which Timothy was led to expect by St. Paul when he
wrote, " The Lord shall give thee understanding in aU things."
It is In the same sense that the Apostle describes doctrine as the
profit to be reaped from the study of the Scriptures ;* for when he
elsewhere speaks of things " contrary to sound doctrine," the
things which he enumerates are aU gross transgressions of the
moral law.f This is the sense in which the Church on this day
teaches us to pray that we may have a " right judgment in aU
things." It is not an Ulumination of the speculative inteUect, but
a quickening and guiding of the moral sense, and for practical
* 2 Tim. iii. 16. f 1 Tim. i. 10.

THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH, THE HOLY SPIRIT, 389
purposes ; enabUng us to discern between good and evU, not as
they are presented to us in the abstract formulas of ethical systems,
but as they appear to us in the realities of life, where they are
often so blended together as to lose their proper shape and colour,
and to render it one of the most difficult of problems to distinguish
one from the other, though issues of infinite moment may hang
upon our choice.
Accordingly we find that the terms on which the new converts
were admitted Into the Church on the day of Pentecost, though,
in the moral point of view, so hard, that nothing short of the
mightiest operation of the Holy Spirit could have enabled any one
to accept them, were. In their demands on the InteUect, so light
and simple, that they would now hardly seem sufficient for very
tender years. St. Peter's answer to the question, " What shall
we do ?" was, " Bepent and be baptized every one of you in the
name of Jesus Christ, for the remission of sins." To repent and
be baptized In the name of Jesus Christ, — to pass out of one
inward state Into Its opposite, to transfer their affections from the
objects toward which they had been habitually drawn, to others
by which they had been constantly repelled ; to fix their faith and
hope on One whom they had hitherto scorned and hated ; — this
was Indeed a great thing, too great for man's unassisted strength.
But the truth proposed for their assent, though It required a
strenuous effort in the surrender of the wIU, was open to the
capacity of the most unlearned and ignorant. The only confession
of faith exacted from the three thousand neophytes who were con
verted by the preaching of St. Peter appears to have been that
contained In the Baptismal Formula prescribed by Christ Him
self ; and St. Peter's language seems to Imply that he used a still
more compendious form, treating the three Sacred Names as vir
tually included In that of Jesus Christ : which was also deemed
sufficient In the case of the Samaritan converts,* of the Ethiopian
eunuch, t and of the disciples whom St. Paul found at Ephesus,
baptized only "unto John's baptism." J It is true that in this
Baptismal Form lay the germ of a vast theology. There is no
* Acts -vdii. 16. t Acts viii. 37. J Acts xix. 5.

390 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS,
question in the Sum of Aquinas that may not be said to be wrapped
up in it. But as to such, the mental state of those primitive
believers was one of Implicit, inarticulate faith, which was only to
be developed in other minds, in the course of ages, into systems of
which they had no consciousness or foreboding.
If, after having contemplated the picture exhibited In the Acts
of the little household of faith which was gathered round the
Apostles at Jerusalem, we let our thoughts drift down the stream
of time, and observe the change which has taken place, when the
grain of mustard seed has waxed a great tree, we feel as if we
were transported out of a patriarchal tent Into the court of David
or Solomon; and it is not without difficulty that we recognise
the Identity of the medlseval with the primitive Church under
such widely altered circumstances. And the difference consists
not merely In the enlargement of local area, in the increase of
numbers, in the elevation of worldly position, or In the manifold
visible consequences of this outward aggrandisement. We find it
accompanied with a doctrinal development bearing a like propor
tion to the simplicity of the original creed. The question arises
— and It Is warmly debated in our day — What view are we to take
of this development ? Is it to be regarded as a gain, or as a burden
and a yoke to the Church ? And how far Is It to be ascribed to
the promised agency of the Spirit of Truth ?
This question may and should be kept apart from the historical
circumstances under which the development took place. It is not
, a decisive answer to the question, to point — as may easily be done
— to the wildernesses of arid unfruitful speculation, to the arenas
of strenuously Idle controversy, to the battle-fields of theological
rancour armed with the weapons of a carnal warfare, or the stIU
more dreadful fields of blood shed on the scaffold and at the stake,
in the name of religion, and to the greater glory of God, through
which the stream of Ecclesiastical History so often winds its
mournful course. There is no necessary connexion between such
scenes and the unfolding of religious dogmas. But irrespectively
of these accidents, the general tendency of modern thought is
apparently Indifferent or adverse to that precision of ecclesiastical

THE SPIEIT OF TEUTH, THE HOLY SPIEIT. 391
definitions which was once universally regarded as the noblest
employment of a Divinely enUghtened inteUect. Nor does the
question turn on the accuracy of the definitions, or on the
character of the development, as genuine or spurious, healthy or
morbid. The objection is not taken from a Protestant point of
view, or confined to what in this place I may still venture to call
the aberrations of the MediEEval Church, which are still proceed
ing before our eyes to ever-lengthening degrees of extravagance.
It Includes much that is not denied to be true, but is not admitted
to have contributed to the well-being of the Church.
We cannot do justice to this question unless we bear in mind
that the attitude of the Church, in the evolution of her theology,
was at first, and in the main throughout, one of self-defence. She
did not advance, by a spontaneous impulse, to the conquest of new
realms of thought. She only resisted aggressions which threat
ened her freedom and her peace. And many of the errors which
she was early compeUed to combat were not only unauthorized
additions to her simple creed, not only wild fantastic dreams of
disordered Imaginations, but were intimately connected with prin
ciples which tended to subvert the whole moral law, and which
would have deformed her character, and have poisoned the very
springs of her life. The doctrinal writings of the Apostles are
mostly polemical, forced from them by the need of guarding their
flocks against such dangers : and the controversial element is ever
subordinate and introductory to the weightier matters of holy
living, on which they felt the real interest and importance of the
controversy to depend.
It was impossible Indeed to contradict error -without the asser
tion of the opposite truth. But it may be admitted that the
positive teaching was never strictly confined -within the bounds of
the occasional necessity, and that it was constantly tending to
reach farther and farther beyond them. This It is that we some
times hear deplored as a cumbrous superfluity and morbid excres
cence, which wasted the strength of the Church, and diverted her
activity from the proper work of her heavenly calling. Probably
however none would dispute the right of minds which feel the

392 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY REMAINS,
attraction of the study, to devote their faculties to such specula
tions, in which so many powerful thinkers and holy men have
found the highest and happiest employment of their lives. Few
would deny that they are supplying a real need of kindred minds
when they bring logical sequence, light, and harmony into spheres
of thought which were previously dark and confused. But here
we must distinguish, as we do in many secular studies, between
common and special uses. The public safety may require that
some should dedicate themselves to the art of war. They may be
no braver, may not love their country better, or be more wlUing
to sacrifice themselves to Its service, than those who are occupied
with civil pursuits. But courage and patriotism might be of no
avail In the hour of need, without military science and skiU.
These are a common good, though it is not necessary that all
should possess them. And so we do not undervalue the work of
the theologian, or deny its usefulness, though to the mass of
Christians It remains an inaccessible mystery. But still we hold
that the best thing he has. If he is Indeed a Christian, is that
which he has in common with the most unlearned and Ignorant of
those who "have been -with Jesus." It is that which it has
seemed good to the Father " to hide from the wise and prudent,
and to reveal unto babes."
The Spirit of Truth is also and above all the Holy Spirit. It is
as such that he appears throughout the Bible, from the first page
of Genesis to the last of Bevelatlon. No doubt we must resign
ourselves to the consciousness of our utter InablUty to trace His
working through the successive stages of nature and of history.
We must reconcUe ourselves to the admission that " God's ways
are not our ways, nor His thoughts our thoughts." Is that so
hard a confession for a creature whose dweUIng-place is as a grain
of sand on the seashore ? But yet it is given to us to see, in the
light of experience, that the result of that brooding of the Spirit
of God over the seething chaos has been an ever-clearer manifesta
tion of a loving will, presiding over its development, of a reign
of law, order, beauty, and goodness, gradually prevailing in the
midst of seeming planlessness and confusion, and culminating in a

THE SPIRIT OF TRUTH, THE HOLY SPIRIT. 393
kingdom of God upon earth. The Spirit of Truth is essentially
one with the Spirit of Holiness. We can indeed distinguish, in
theory, between the operations which belong to the one and to the
other of these characters, but we cannot conceive them as reaUy
apart from each other ; and, without supposing such a separation,
it is hard to believe that His Ught ever illuminates the intellect,
without, in some measure, purifying the heart. We are at least
bound to require the clearest evidence In each alleged instance,
before we admit the fact of a mechanical, unmoral action, exerted
by the Holy Spirit on the mental faculties. We would not Indeed
presume to lay down a groove for an agency which Is Ukened by
our Lord to " the wind blowing where it listeth." We can well
imagine that the Spirit does not always proceed by the same
method. It may be that sometimes He enlightens the heart
through the mind, by dispelling prejudices which prevent us from
exercising a right judgment In practical severance between good
and evil, though his ordinary course is in the opposite direction
— from the heart to the head — overcoming the resistance of a per
verse wiU, to open the way for the reception of unwelcome truth.
But in every case we must believe that the final object of the
whole process is the assimilation of the human soul to His own
nature, by that sanctlfication which is the supreme " will of God,"
and the proper working of His truth. Therefore our Lord
prayed, " Sanctify them by Thy truth : Thy Word Is truth."
Whether it be reduced to its simplest expression, or elaborated
into a technical system, this truth is equally precious in itself.
But to those who receive it, it Is so only in the degree in which it
is felt, loved, and lived.
It is not indeed conclusive against the soundness of the doctrinal
development, that the work of sanctlfication did not keep pace
with It ; that, on the contrary, progress on the one side ran parallel
to decUne and degeneracy on the other ; that the growth of intel
lectual activity concurred with that of sluggishness and inertness
in the moral sense; that the sharpened rigour of theological
definitions was accompanied by the relaxation of godly discIpUne ;
that the assembUes in which those definitions were framed feU

394 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERAEY EEMAINS.
more and more under the influence of personal interests and
unholy passions ; that the ascendancy of orthodox doctrine was
simultaneous with the outpouring of the spirit — not of grace, but
— of religious persecution ; that it was when the doctrinal system
had reached a degree of fulness which left room for little subse
quent addition, that the Church adopted the maxims and the
instruments of the False Prophet, and sheathed the sword of the
Spirit, to draw that of Charlemagne and of Godfrey ; to drive
herds of conquered heathen to the waters of Baptism ; and to expel
the Infidel from the Holy Places, which were to become scenes
and nurseries of a debasing superstition. All this, I repeat, proves
nothing against the soundness of the development. But It may
suggest a doubt as to the absolute necessity and the supreme
Importance of acquisitions which, if not purchased at this cost,
were counterbalanced by such loss and hurt. It may lead us to
ask ourselves what spirit we are of : It may moderate our expecta
tions as to the results of methods of instruction founded on
principles which have borne fruits so unlike those of the 'Spirit.
It is hardly possible to meditate on the import of the present
Festival without having our thoughts turned to those awful words
of our Lord, "Whosoever speaketh against the Holy Ghost, It
shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, nor In the world
to come." It was characteristic of a period when the love of the
Church was waxing cold, while controversial zeal was blazing with
sevenfold fierceness, that the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost,
so stamped with the doom of Irremisslble guilt, was interpreted to
consist in an error with regard to the position to be assigned to
Him In His relation to the other persons of the Blessed Trinity ;
that Is, in the failing to comprehend clearly, or to enunciate cor
rectly, a mystery hidden from the ken of man in the profoundest
abysses of the Divine Being.* Few perhaps in our day carry their
deference to antiquity so far as to adopt this exposition of our
Lord's meaning. The context indeed in which the words stand
shows plainly enough, that what He had in view was not a mere
* Basil, De Sp. Sancto, c. 28. Cyril Hierosol., Cat. 'xvi. 1. Ambros., De Sp,
SaHoto, i. u. 3, 46, 47.

THE SPIEIT OF TEUTH, THE HOLY SPIEIT. 395
speculative opinion, which, however erroneous, might be held with
a sincere con-riction of its truth. We may weU doubt whether, in
the sight of God, any such con-viction can be a sin. But we may
be sure that it is not a sin beyond the reach of forgiveness. The
difficulty is rather to conceive how there can be such a state — one
into which Divine mercy cannot find entrance — on this side the
grave. It would be usurpation of the Divine prerogative to attempt to
single out any particular form of sin as that which was designated
by Christ. But we may venture to say that. If there be a sin
which, by the immediate effect of its commission, cuts off the
possibUIty of repentance, that is unpardonable sin. Such may be
the sin of deliberate suicide. And if there is — as we cannot doubt
— a sin against the Holy Ghost which cannot be forgiven, that Is,
because it Is a moral suicide. But we must remember that suicide
has its stages and degrees. There is an interval between the
thought and the resolution : between the resolution and the deed :
between the commencement of the deed and its consummation :
and in each of these intervals there is room for repentance. The
man who has Inflicted oh himself what he meant to be a mortal
wound has been guilty of the sin, but not in the same degree as
If, having failed in his attempt, he was afterwards to tear away
the bandages by which friendly hands would have saved his life,
and so to complete his self-murder.
The contemplation of the finished act, whether of physical or of
moral suicide, is in itself simply saddening and perplexing. It
carries us Into regions where we find no guidance for thought, no
footing for action. But the consideration of the steps which lead,
sometimes from a very remote point, and by a very gradual
approach, to this fearful catastrophe, may be fuU of instructive
warning. This warning is appUcable to Churches as well as to individuals.
The Church of Sardis had a name to Uve, and was dead : that is,
death was steaUng through her whole frame : the parts which it
had not yet reached were ready to die. This was not a calamity
which befell her from without, but was a process of corruption

396 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY REMAINS.
arising from her own fault, but still capable of being arrested by a
timely repentance. The condition of the Church of Laodlcea was
not less deplorable, and in one respect far more dangerous : for her
real misery was aggravated by an Infatuation, under which she
Imagined herself to be in fuU possession of every good which she
most lacked. But this delusion was not an involuntary, innocent
error. It was no doubt the fruit of pride and self-complacency,
fostered by a habit of self- exaltation In which all communities,
civil and religious, are too apt to indulge. It may be also that in
one sense she really possessed the advantages which she attributed
to herself : that her condition was outwardly fiourishing, but that
she was destitute of the one thing needful, and that so the things
which should have been for her wealth became unto her an occa
sion of falling. This ignorant self-conceit was no doubt a great
obstacle In the way of her repentance ; but it was not an Insur
mountable bar. She was not yet struck with judicial blindness.
She had not yet sinned against the Holy Ghost beyond the reach
of forgiveness. Being poor, she had said, " I am rich, and
increased with goods." Being bUnd and naked, she had said, " I
have need of nothing." But it does not appear that, having
wandered far away from the truth, and having led multitudes
astray, she had said, " I am infalUble," It was reserved for the
Angel of another Church to advance that pretension, as the
ground of an absolute dominion over the reason and conscience of
mankind. A charge was brought against Manes and Montanus, and other
old hereslarchs, that they pretended the Paraclete had become
incarnate In their persons. Impartial inquiry, however, has
shown that their language was misunderstood or misrepresented,
and that the privilege of which they boasted, however groundlessly
and presumptuously, was not of such a kind as to dishonour the
Majesty of the Holy Ghost. Can so much be said of pretensions
which not only Imprison Him in a human mind, but inseparably
annex the exercise of His very highest function, as the Spirit of
Truth, to an official succession of men? Manes and Montanus
might have given some colour to their claims by the eminent

THE SPIRIT OP TRUTH, THE HOLY SPIRIT. 397
sanctity — at least austerity — of their lives. That would not have
estabUshed the fact, but it would have made It possible to conceive
that the Holy Spirit might vouchsafe to dwell In vessels so fitted
for His reception. But it is hard to say whether it derogates
more from His dignity to suppose that He freely chooses to pour
the most precious of His Charismata through the most polluted
channels, or that He Is constrained to do so by some magical speU ;
that He always stands ready to await the result of the most cor
rupt worldly intrigues, and to set His seal to their success : giving
the clearest light of His truth to those whom He leaves in the
grossest moral darkness : enabling them to decide the subtlest
questions of metaphysical theology with unerring tact, while they
stumble against what St. Paul caUs "sound doctrine," in the first
rudiments of godly life. It would be unjust to reproach the
Church of Bome with the misfortune of ha-ring been not unfre
quently governed by some of the worst of men. But when we
recollect the character which she claims for them all, we cannot
lament that a fiction which so degrades and blasphemes the Holy
Ghost, and divorces orthodoxy from morality at the very fountain-
head of both, should so often have been put to a crucial test. Her
apologists are anxious, as in a question of life or death, to vindi
cate Liberlus from the charge of Arianism, and Honorius from
the suspicion of having favoured Monothelite error. They seem
unconcerned when Borgia is placed upon the altar, and condemns
Savonarola to the stake.
These reflections are, unhappily, not foreign to questions which
are now agitating our o-wn Church. But there is one practical
inference which seems Indisputable. That claim to personal InfalU-
bility, which has been advanced of late with growing boldness, and
may perhaps be affirmed by a new definition of the Council which is
to supplement the decrees of Trent, is either rightful or wrongful.
If it is valid, it is the duty of our Church and of every other now
separate from Rome to humble themselves before her in the dust,
and to seek to be admitted as reconciled penitents within her pale.
But as long as we repudiate this claim, it seems hardly consistent
with either reason or charity to encourage the delusion of those

398 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
who maintain it by importunate slghings and strivings after a
union which to them can only mean unconditional submission.
And when we mourn over the old division between the East and
the West, are we sure that we have not rather reason to be deeply
thankful for a Pro-vidential mercy, which preserved the Universal
Church from a more oppressive spiritual despotism than any
branch of it has yet suffered ?
But the occasion seems to call for a more special application to
the case of Individuals, Those Ephesian disciples who had not so
much as heard whether there was a Holy Ghost had, no doubt,
much to learn. But though they knew so Uttle of His nature and
office, as expounded In our treatises of Divinity, still, inasmuch as
they were already disciples, fit to be baptized in the name of Jesus,
we cannot doubt that they had been, in a measure, and for the
most important practical purposes, unconscious subjects of the
Spirit's gracious Influence. And need we be untrue to our own
con-victions, if we cherish a hope that the like may be the case
with some in our own day, who, though apparently alien from the
Church, uninitiated in her ordinances, unable to reconcile their
speculations -with her doctrine, as it has been presented to their
minds, nevertheless, by the blamelessness of their lives, by the
earnestness of their search after such truth as they are able to
grasp, and by their active efforts for the benefit of their fellow-
men, show that they are not altogether strangers to the Spirit of
Truth and Love ? But yet the great inteUectual and reUgious
struggle of our day turns mainly on this question, Whether there
is a Holy Ghost ? And for those who are engaged in the studies
of this place, it Is necessary albove all things that they should
make up their minds, and not halt between two opinions on this
vital point.
What is most Important is, that they should clearly understand
the alternative of that belief which is now on their lips, though
they may not yet have grasped it with the energy of a personal
conviction. That alternative is really the substitution of the creed
of Baal and Ashtaroth ; that is, of the active and passive powers of
Nature, not Indeed under the same names which they bore in the

THE SPIEIT OF TEUTH, THE HOLY SPIEIT. 399
old mythologies, but under the philosophical titles of Force and
Matter. There is indeed a' wide difference between the two beUefs
in outward form. The modem does not personify its objects ; it
does not address itself to the imagination ; it excludes every kind
of worship and all devotional feeling. But it is equally founded'
on a myth, which speaks only to the ear, and leaves a void in the
brain, no less than in the heart. It affords no more satisfaction to
the unquenchable craving of the human mind after an origin and
an Author of being. It is not indeed polluted by foul and cruel
rites ; but its clear tendency, however often counteracted In par
ticular cases by an honourable Inconsistency, is to stifle every
generous impulse, to check every noble aspiration, to chill every
unselfish affection, to make virtue a dream, self-sacrifice an amiable
hallucination, moral responsibility an empty sound.
But to those who cUng to the belief in a Holy Ghost, and
acknowledge His power, there is the danger of a correspondingly
enhanced responsibility. If there is an unpardonable sin against
the Holy Ghost which may still be committed, it must be one to
which those are most liable who most earnestly recognise Him
with an intelligent faith. It is only such who can grieve, quench,
or do despite to Him. But this they may do in two ways. They
may place themselves out of the reach of His agency, and block
up the avenues through which He would enter to dwell in their
hearts, by wilful, indulged, unrepented sin ; they may also expel
Him, when He has taken up His abode there, by the admission of
e-ril spirits, which cannot endure His presence, and with which
He cannot share His habitation. This is that " falUng away
after the tasting of the heavenly gift," which in the Epistle to
the Hebrews is said to make renewal impossible. That may refer
to an act of irrevocable apostasy ; but viewed as a state of mind,
every such lapse, the longer it lasts, becomes more and more
hopeless. Let us beware of applying a false test to our spiritual condition.
The amiable, pious, I might almost say saintly Cowper, under the
influence of a remorseless theology, was haunted by the delusion
that he was the victim of a horrible decree, predestinated to glorify

400 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY REMAINS,
God by his eternal reprobation : that his state was that of a -wretch
struggUng with the waves In a dark night, while by the glare of
the angry lightning he sees the vessel out of which he had fallen
at an ever-widening distance. He woke, we trust, from that
ghastly nightmare to find himself in the light of a Father's coun
tenance, and to hear his Saviour's voice saying, " Friend, come
up higher ! " May none here have to pass through such agony
into the joy of their Lord !
But there is a comfort far worse than such despair, and one
which far more easily gains admission Into human breasts. We
read that Cromwell, on his death-bed, under the Influence of the
same theological system, found repose in the thought that once, in
a time long past, he had been the subject of Divine grace. As to
the change which had since then passed on him, he appears to
have been conscious that it was not for the better, but for the
worse ; and therefore he was glad to look across the Interval to the
brighter phase of his inner life. A like experience, my brethren,
may be reserved for some of you, who are at the outset of your
career full of ardour and of hope. A time may come when a long
retrospect may show that you have been unfaithful to the light
which was once in you ; that you have let the tenderness of your
conscience be seared by sensual indulgence ; that you have
exchanged the fine enthusiasm which warmed your youthful
bosoms with pure affections and noble resolves, for the maxims of
a hard, cold, greedy worldliness ; that you have renounced that
devotion to truth which was once your dearest treasure, for some
paltry bribe. So it has been with others ; so It may be with you.
But at least may the Divine mercy preserve you from finding
comfort in, or, which is more to be feared, notwithstanding such
a consciousness. Bather may the contrast, should it unhappily
arise, between the present and the past, be so brought home to
your minds as to pierce your souls, before it Is too late, with a
bitter but wholesome anguish, the harbinger of a true repentance,
a holy comfort, an abiding peace !

THE TWO MALEFACTOES CEUCIFIED
WITH CHEIST.
A Sermon preached in St. David's, Carmarthen, on Good Friday.

" Then were there two thieves crucified with Him, one on the right hand, and another
on the left." — St. Matthew xxvii. 38.
" Thei'e were also two other, malefactors, led with him to be put to death. And when
they icere come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified Him, and the
malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left." — St. Luke xxiii. 32, 33.
The Son of Man has been Ufted up in exact fulfilment of His own
prediction, "as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness."
That was in fact the first stage of His exaltation to a throne of
glorious majesty. But to the eye of man it was simply the con
summation of a cruel torture, and exposure to the foulest ignominy.
One of the circumstances which aggravated the seeming disgrace
of the pubUc execution was that which is recorded in our text.
And it was probably contrived by our Lord's enemies for that pur
pose : it w^s at least an additional gratification of their maUce. If
His cross had stood alone on the top of Calvary, there might have
been many among the bystanders who, though knowing Uttle of
His life or doctrine, yet, from their general recollections, or from
the report they had heard of His public appearance and habitual
occupations, would have been ready to believe that He was only
paying the penalty of the (possibly just) offence which He had
given to the priests and rulers by His new teaching. He might —
they would think — ^have deserved death, even such a death ; but
His guilt was only that of a fanatic or enthusiast — weU-meaning
perhaps, though on that account the more dangerous,- And so,
even though they abhorred that which was imputed to Him, they
VOL, HI. D D

402 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
would not be able to look on Him without a certain kind of respect,
which we cannot withhold from any one who suffers for opinions
which, however erroneous, he sincerely entertains. They could
not regard Him as, in our sense of the word, a criminal. But
when they saw Him associated in His punishment with two ordi
nary malefactors, they would naturally suppose that He had in
some way resembled them in their crime ; that He likewise had
been convicted of some flagrant breach of human and Divine laws,
and had forfeited all title both to respect and to pity. Whether
with this purpose or not. His murderers unwittingly fulfiUed the
Scripture, which had described the Man of Sorrows as "numbered
with the transgressors." And this Is an aspect of the great scene
which the Church at this season sets before us, that deserves our
most earnest attention. These three figures reflect a very Interest
ing and instructive light on one another. How marvellous —
independently of the fulfilment of prophecy — were the dealings of
Divine Providence with the two men who thus shared our Lord's
sufferings ! For the last three years during which He had been
going about in the exercise of His ministry through aU parts of
Palestine, they had most probably been living In the same country.
There ihay have been times when they were not far from the very
place In which He was engaged in His work of mercy. Yet it was
moraUy impossible that they should ever have joined the crowds
who flocked to hear the Word of God from His lips. There may or
may not have been an outward hindrance, such as fear pf the risk
of being recognised and detected. But there was a moral obstacle
which, -without some Di-vine interposition, was quite insuperable.
They were evU-doers, who "neither feared God nor regarded
man." They did not even outwardly submit to the laws of society,
but lived in open, continual war against it ; and thus they were
distinguished from all the classes who attended the preaching of
John the Baptist, who, however sinful in their lives, all foUowed
some lawful, and more or less respectable, calling. But these men
belonged to the utterly disreputable criminal, dangerous class.
They were familiar with deeds of violence, and probably with
bloodshed. They were at home only in the haimts of wickedness

THE TWO MALEFACTORS CEUCIFIED WITH CHRIST, 403
and infamy. For them and their like, no circle of which Christ
was the centre could have any attraction, any more than our
churches for highwaymen or housebreakers. On the contrary,
every such gathering would be sure to repel and scare them from
it, as if it had been girt with a wall of flame. Humanly speaking,
the only way by which they could be brought near to Jesus was
that which actuaUy came to pass : that their end should coincide
with His ; that they, the wild, reckless enemies of law and order,
should be placed side by side with the Just and Holy One, as His
feUows in guilt, to witness and share His dying agony : so close
that they could observe every change of His countenance, and
hear every word that He uttered as He hung on the accursed tree.
But that which it most concerns us to consider in this astonishing
spectacle is, that it is the first example presented to us in history
to iUustrate the power of the cross of Christ, Our Lord had
declared, " I, if I be lifted up from the earth, wIU draw all men
unto me," And the Evangelist who records this prediction adds,
" This he said, signifying what death He should die." To His
disciples at the time this saying was no doubt, like many others
which they heard from Him, very mysterious and perplexing ;
they could not have understood in what sense He was to be lifted
up ; stiU less how He was then to draw all men unto Him. Well,
now He has been lifted up, as He had signified. Now the time has
come that He should begin to draw all men unto Him. And on
whom should this power be exerted, but on those who were nearest
to Him ? The Marys, and the beloved disciple, hardly needed or
could be drawn closer to Him. It was by the tenderest love that
they had been brought to the foot of His cross. But the two
malefactors presented a subject every way suited for the display
¦of Its attractive virtue. None could need it more ; none could put
it to a harder or a surer test. " I, if I be Ufted up from the earth,
wIU draw aU men unto me." The words did indeed need to be
interpreted by the event, before it could be ascertained either what
was the meaning, or whether, whatever It might be, it was to hold
to the full extent of the Uteral acceptation, or only with some
quaUfication and restriction. There are two points which might
D D 2

404 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS,
seem open to doubt : the effect of the dra-wing, and the persons to
be drawn. Antecedently to experience. It might have been not
unreasonably supposed that the effect of the " drawing " would
be to bring aU who were so attracted to the uplifted Sa-viour into
the most intimate union with Him. And the word "aU," as it
stands without any express limitation, might seem to admit of no
exception to include the whole race of mankind, past, present, and
to come ; so that every child of man should sooner or later be
adopted into the family of Christ. But this construction, however
probable in itself, however conformable to the best feelings and
the noblest yearnings of the human heart, has not been borne out
by the facts which have hitherto come within our knowledge. It
does not appear that all have been drawn — have been brought
under the influence of the cross in any sense ; and even among
those who have, there is the greatest possible inequality and
diversity in the measure and the mode of its apparent operation.
Of this diversity the two malefactors afford a most lively and
instructive example. We must observe that the circumstances of
these two men were to all appearance exactly similar. AU that we
know of them is, that they were malefactors, partners in crime ;
by their own confession and admission justly condemned to the
severest penalty of the outraged law. These, it may well be
thought, were not circumstances very favourable to the reception
of any moral or religious impression. In this respect it might be^
said that they must put the efficacy of the cross to the hardest
possible test. If they yielded to its power, who could ever resist
it ? On the other hand, it is no less evident that they enjoyed
some singular advantages. St. Paul considered it as a great aggra
vation of the fault of the Galatlans that "before their eyes Jesus;
Christ had been evidently set forth, crucified among them." But
what was that In comparison with the privUege vouchsafed to the
companions of the Saviour's sufferings, who beheld Him, not as in
a glass, not through the medium of sign or figure, but had His
Uving person UteraUy set forth before their eyes, crucified between
them ? Who have ever since been placed in a situation where the
virtue of the cross has been brought to bear so directly and so fuUy

THE TWO MALEFACTOES CEUCIFIED WITH CHEIST, 405
on their whole being ? If they were insensible to its influence,
what certainty can there be in any case that it wiU prevail over
the obstacles opposed to it ? And we may add another spiritual
advantage which arose out of their unhappy condition. They were
on their death-beds, with the full consciousness that their last hour
was inevitably near at hand ; but at the same time in full posses
sion of aU their faculties. And experience proves that this is a
state peculiarly fitted for the admission of religious truth into the
mind, and, above aU, into the conscience. Ears that have been most
resolutely closed against it during Ufe have been kno-wn to open
to it at the felt approach of death. Hearts that had seemed to be
cased in adamant have at such seasons been found to break, and
gush out in tears of godly sorrow. It is sometimes argued that
man can have no right to take away his brother's life, however it
may have been forfeited to penal justice, because the life so taken
may involve the loss of an immortal soul, which might be saved if
time were aUowed for repentance. But experience does not seem
to show that the prolongation of Ufe is more Ukely to produce this
effect than its sudden shortening. In truth, this is a work which
depends entirely on the agency of Divine grace. The utmost that
any human means can accompUsh in it is to remove obstacles out of
the way. But for this end, can any means be more efficacious than
a summons, ringing through the depths of the guilty soul, " Set
thine house in order,. for thou shalt die, and not live?" Such was
the call which these two men had received : a stern but wholesome
shock, which snapped every tie that had bound them to the world,
chased away the iUusions of appetite, the dreams of hope, roused
them to a sense of the great realities of their being, awakened the
long-sUent voice of the inward monitor. Could any preparation
be better suited to make room for the attraction of the cross?
Well, my brethren, we know what was the issue : one was taken,
the other left. That which succeeded completely with the one,
utterly failed with the other. The one embraced, the other spurned,
the crucified Bedeemer, In the one, short as was the time, narrow
as was the space, left to him for action, we perceive what, even
if they had not been stamped with our Lord's approval, would

406 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY REMAINS,
have seemed most promising tokens of a true conversion : the
lively, though undeveloped germs of faith, hope, and charity ; the
self-abasement of a penitent confession; the entire surrender of
himself to One who seemed to be reduced to the same level of
misery and helplessness with himself and whose only visible title
to kingship was the halo of truth and holiness which encircled
His bleeding brow ; but in whose behalf he found boldness to
remonstrate with his guilty associate.
But that which so humbled, softened, and transformed the one,
not only wrought no such effect on the other ; it rather served to-
exasperate and envenom the ferocity and cruelty of his character ;
to steel him against pity and remorse ; to make him forget his o-wn
suffering in the fiendish pleasure of embittering the agony of One
who at all events had never offended him. So far was he from
being dra-wn to the dying Saviour, that the original spiritual dis
tance between them was -widened by the temporary bodily near
ness. So far was he from being lifted up with Christ from the earth,
that, through Christ's uplifting, he sank to a stiU lower depth of
inhuman devilish wickedness. Then, my brethren, what are we to
say as to the power of the cross ? How was it exerted in this first
trial, which was In many respects so decisive ? How, with His
example before us, are we to interpret our Lord's prophecy, " I
-will draw aU men unto me ? " Confining ourselves to this one case,
and waiving aU larger questions as to great masses of mankind, are^
we to conclude that the virtue which went out of the crucified
Bedeemer was directed only to one of the two malefactors, and
acted on him with Irresistible energy, while the other was left in
his previous natural condition ? That would not only be dreadful
to believe, but presumptuous to think, unless we had been expressly
assured of it. Let us not imagine that the difference In the result
proceeded from any arbitrary variation in the wIU either of the
Son or of the Father. Let us not doubt that the love of Jesus was.
dra-wn out uniformly and equally toward aU who came -within its-
reach ; toward Judas, as toward John ; toward the Impenitent, a&
toward the penitent malefactor. The virtue of the magnet is in
itself always one and the same ; but its operation depends on the

THE TWO MALEFACTORS CRUCIFIED WITH CHRIST. 407
quality of the objects which are set before it. And this illustration
applies not only with equal, but with far greater, force to things
spiritual ; for otherwise they would not be spiritual at aU, but
material and mechanical. Whenever we reason about a power, like
Divine grace, which acts upon the souls of men, we shaU be liable
to fall into the most fatal errors, unless we take Into account the
awful freedom of the human will. This, and this alone, sufficiently
explains the contrast which strikes us in the case before us, and
reconciles it with the essential truth of Christ's word, " I wUl
draw all men unto me." We observed that the two malefactors
were placed in exactly similar circumstances, which were partly
favourable, partly unfavourable, with regard to the impression
which the nearness of the crucified Saviour was in itself adapted
to make on them. But we see from the event that they possessed
no advantage common to both which might not be rendered fruit
less, and that they laboured under no common disadvantage which
might not be overcome. And we may fairly conclude that It Is
not on such circumstances that the success or failure of any move
ment of a Divine converting influence in the soul ultimately
depends. But we must remember that the similarity of situation
was merely outward. We know a Uttle of them as they appeared
to the eyes of men, but nothing whatever of their inward history,
and their condition in the sight of God, And in this there may
have been the widest possible difference between them. To God
alone is it known what were their several temptations and trials ;
how they were led Into their e-vil courses, and how each of them
foUowed the course into which he had been led. The career of
the one may have been a continual progress in wickedness. A
riotous youth, in which he cast off the yoke of parental authority,
along with the fear of the Lord ; hated knowledge, despised reproof,
and made a mock of sin ; may have steadily ripened — as it usuaUy
does — into an utterly corrupted and hardened manhood, in which
he worked all iniquity with greediness, pursued his wicked work,
not more for the gain which it brought than for its own sake ;
delighted in corrupting others, and seducing them into his own
ungodly ways ; grew at length to make e-ril his good, and good

408 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
his evU, so that when he met perfect goodness face to face, it only
kindled his fiercest hatred, and became to him an object of scorn
and mockery. The course of his fellow, though seemingly parallel,
may have been indeed directly contrary. It may have been rather
through weakness than through wilfulness that he had turned
aside from the right way ; rather by the force of adverse circum
stances than by his own depra-ylty that he was ImpeUed to cast in
his lot among the e-vil doers. He may have been, as the poet
says, " more sinned against than sinning." And he may have been
growing more and more weary of the chain which bound him to
his lawless trade and his cruninal companions ; more and more
deeply loathing them and himself, and Inwardly groaning for
deliverance from that bondage of corruption, and from the body
of his Uving death, until he found himself in the presence of the
Deliverer, In whom he at once recognised the object of his secret,
earnest, though hopeless desires ; was renewed in the spirit of his
mind, became again as a little child, received the kingdom of God,
saw and heard, believed and adored.
Does it seem to any of you, my brethren, that the history of
these two men, whatever it may have been, can be nothing to you,
because it is so unlike your own that It can serve no purpose,
either of example or of warning, in which you are or can be con
cerned ? My brethren, there is at least one point of resemblance
between their case and ours ; and it Is the most important of all.
However manifold, and however widely diverging from one another,
the courses of our lives, they must aU come to one end — " we must
all appear before the judgment-seat of Christ ; " and then each of
us must take his place on the right hand or on the left of the
Judge, to hear his final doom. But that place will be the same
which we may have already made and taken for ourselves upon
earth. That sentence will be only the solemn publication of the
great issue of our earthly trial, as it may already have been regis
tered in our own consciences here below. If we are then either
accepted or rejected by Christ, it will be only because we had first
accepted or rejected Him. And then, along with this awful fact,
take another, which is not less certain, though not equaUy familiar

THE TWO MALEFACTORS CEUCIFIED WITH CHRIST, 409
to all of us ; which to some of us may be quite new. And this is,
that at every moment of our lives we are either accepting or
rejecting Christ, turning either toward Him or away from Him.
This bent of our spirits is not the less real, or the less fraught
with the gravest consequences, because we are not always con
scious of it. If we are rejecting Christ, the thoughtlessness which
prevents us from being aware of our true condition is not so much
the cause as the effect of a deep-seated alienation of the wUl, It
Is true, God be thanked, that in our case, as long as we live, the
rejection is not necessarily final. There is the great difference
which separates our case from that of the two who first tested the
virtue of the cross. Through God's mercy, we are not called upon
at present to make a choice which is to determine our eternal
destiny, and which, if made amiss, wiU leave no room for repent
ance. The offer of salvation through Christ, the invitation to
come, to entrust and surrender ourselves to Him, is repeated to all
of us over and over again. Many of those who consciously reject
It now are emboldened by the thought that it wiU not be too late
to accept it hereafter ; perhaps draw a delusive comfort from the
example of the penitent malefactor, to whom it was made, not
throughout a long life, but once for all at the point of death. Be
assured, my brethren, that the rejection, the oftener it is repeated
or the longer it is continued, renders the final acceptance more
and more difficult, more and more unlikely. It is continuaUy
increasing the danger, and in the same degree aggravating the
guilt, of final impenitence. But more especially is this the case
with regard to every fresh occasion on which the offer is pressed
upon us with peculiar urgency : as when, in the sacrament of His
dying love, " Jesus Christ is e-vidently set forth crucified among
us ; " or when, as at the present season, the Church endeavours to
occupy our meditations with the history of His death and passion.
Every such occasion, if it does not draw us nearer to Christ, keeps
us farther from Him; it is a new Unk in the chain which is
binding our wUl in more and more hopeless bondage ; it is a fresh
pledge which we give to the enemy of our souls, that his, not
Christ's, we will be in the hour of death and in the day of judg-

410 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
ment. Let none so waste the present opportunity, so abuse the
riches of God's long-suffering. Open your hearts to the caU which
is now resounding in your ears. Take your stand now where you
would wish to be found in the end ; not among them that perish,
to whom the preaching of the cross is foolishness, but among them
which are saved, to whom it is the power of God,

THE EESUEEECTION NOT INCEEDIBLE.
A Sermon preached at Carmarthen on Easter Day.

" Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise tlut
dead?" — Acts xxvi. 8.
The question which St. Paul here asks may at first sight appear
abrupt and unconnected with the context. But when we consider
the occasion on which the Apostle was speaking, we shall soon see
that it was perfectly natural and pertinent, being intended to meet
an objection which, if admitted, would have been fatal to the cause
which he was pleading. He was vindicating himself in the pre
sence of an illustrious and splendid audience — composed partly of
heathens, and partly of Jews — before the Boman Governor Festus
and the Jewish King Agrippa, together with the chief captains
and principal men of the city, from the charges which had been
brought against him by the Jews of teaching a false and pernicious-
doctrine. But aU these charges turned upon one point : it was,
as the Boman Governor stated it, the question of " one Jesus, which
was dead, whom Paul affirmed to be alive." This fact — the resur
rection of Jesus — was the warrant of his mission, the groundwork
of his ministry. Unless this was a real fact, his conversion was^
an illusion or an imposture ; his innovations on the reUgion of the-
fathers were unauthorized and profane ; his teaching could only
pervert and mislead those who Ustened to him. But if it was a
thing incredible that God should raise the dead, then there was an
end of the question ; it foUowed at once that the fact on which he
relied was a dream or a fable, the ground on which he stood sank
from under him, the keystone of his theological system fell to the.

412 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
ground, the practical application of his doctrine was -nsionary and
fruitless. If the dead rise not, it was in vain for him to allege the
history of his own experience ; it was vain for him to preach a
risen Saviour; it was vain for him to reason of righteousness,
temperance, and a judgment to come ; his preaching was vain ;
and the faith of those who were persuaded by it was also vain —
beginning In error, and ending in vacancy. Therefore he regards
this as the point on which his whole defence rests. And on a
previous occasion, when he was brought before the Council of his
own nation, he declared that it was touching the resurrection of
the dead that he was caUed In question. Here however it may
be asked. Does this correctly represent the real state of the con
troversy between the Apostle and his adversaries ? Might they
not deny the resurrection of Jesus without questioning the power
of God to raise from the dead ? Doubtless in the abstract they
might do so ; the general doctrine did not by necessary inference
involve the particular fact. But it is therefore the more worthy
of observation how closely they appear to have been connected
together in the Apostle's mind. He speaks as fully convinced
that nothing but a general prejudice against the crediblUty of the
thing could prevent any one from yielding to the force of the
o-vidence furnished by the history of his own conversion. And
this shows that, with regard to himself, that event, with all its
marveUous circumstances, was as deeply impressed upon his con
sciousness as the reality of his own existence ; he had no more
doubt about the one than the other, and he was therefore as sure
that Jesus had risen as that he himself was alive. And he believed
that his testimony must carry conviction to every mind which was
not closed by prejudice against the truth. We must also notice
the form in which he meets the objection. It is merely in the
words of our text. He does not follow them up -with any train of
reasoning to prove the credibility of a resurrection. He merely
appeals to his hearers themselves to consider whether they have
anything to urge against it that could outweigh such proof as he
had received of it. He takes it for granted that, though they
might not actuaUy believe the doctrine, they would not venture to

THE EESUEEECTION NOT INCEEDIBLE. 413
maintain that it was in itself incredible. And this he did without
reference to their peculiar opinions as Jews or heathens. He was
addressing himself indeed immediately to King Agrippa, and
through him to the Jewish part of his audience. And among the
Jews there was the sect of the Sadducees, which said there was no
resurrection. But they said so, not because it was even with them
a thing incredible that God should raise the dead, but only
because the doctrine did not appear to them to be clearly revealed
in that portion of Scripture to which alone they attributed a
Divine authority. And so, when he preached to the philosophers
at Athens, some indeed " mocked when they heard of the resur
rection of the dead ;" they mocked, as actually unbelieving, and
requiring perhaps some more philosophical kind of proof to satisfy
them. But " others said. We will hear thee again of this matter."
It was not one of which any could undertake to say that it was in
itself Impossible and absurd.
It may seem perhaps that if the question in the text was even
in that age so nearly superfluous, both with regard to Jews and
Gentiles, that it might be considered as Uttle more than a mode of
reminding the hearers of an acknowledged truth, it cannot be more
needed for Christians at this day. But it may be no less useful in
the way of admonition now than it was then. And it Is a question
which may be asked in more senses than one, and which wUl
admit of different answers accordingly, which it may not be
unprofitable or unseasonable for us to consider. When it is asked.
why a thing should seem ¦ incredible to men, the question may
relate either to the nature of the thing itself, or to the persons to
whom it is proposed for their beUef ; and if it is Incredible to them,
that may be either because it plainly contradicts the common sense
and reason of mankind, or because there is something in the state
of their minds or dispositions which prevents them from beUe-ving
it, though to others it may appear highly probable or even certain.
In other words, the proposition may be either absolutely incredible
according to the constitution of the human mind, or only relatively
incredible with regard to the inteUectual and moral condition of
particular persons. Now let us apply this distinction to the doc-

414 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERAEY EEMAINS,
trine of the resurrection from the dead, and Inquire, first, whether
it is absolutely incredible, or even hard to beUeve ; and next, by
what classes of persons it is Ukely to be thought incredible, or at
all events to be treated as if it was so.
I. And first as to the absolute incredlbUity. And here we may
¦observe that when it is asked, why should It be thought a thing
incredible that God should raise the dead ? the question is not
simply whether the thing Is beyond God's power to effect. There
would be such an extravagance of presumption and absurdity in
pretending to set such a Umit to the Divine omnipotence as no
one could fall Into who was worth reasoning with at all. None of
the adversaries whom the Apostle had to deal with would have
denied God's ability to raise the dead. The Sadducees themselves
would no doubt have considered such a denial as blasphemous
folly. It Is Implied in our very notion of the Divine nature that
with God all things are possible, unless we choose to consider con
tradictions — intellectual or moral — as exceptions which quaUfy
this truth. But things which are acknowledged to be possible
-may, nevertheless, be rejected as incredible on various grounds.
They may be -within God's power, but not in His wiU. They may
be Inconsistent with that which He has made kno-wn of Himself ;
they may be at variance with His laws, and with the established
-order of His natural or His providential government. Objections
of this kind, whether well grounded or not, may seem at least to
be free from the charge of arrogance and profaneness. But yet,
when we consider them a little more closely, we find that there
.are very few cases in which they keep within the bounds of
reasonable caution, and still less of pious humility. For they
commonly proceed upon some false estimate of our own faculties
or on our own knowledge. Implying that if we are acquainted with
a very minute part of God's works or ways we are able to compre
hend the whole ; that we may form safe conclusions as to the deep
things of God from that which lies at the surface, much as if any
one should pretend, from the appearance of the soil in his field, to
describe the contents of the globe thousands of miles under ground,
or should deny that any form of being which is not suited to the

THE EESUEEECTION NOT INCREDIBLE, 415
condition of our planet can exist in any of the heavenly bodies. It
is true this is not exactly the same thing as circumscribing the
Divine power, but it is something nearly as foolish and irreverent.
It is in effect to limit the Dl-yine -wisdom. It is making our
thoughts the measure of God's thoughts, and our ways of God's
ways, and thus restricting the range of the Divine operations
within the narrow compass of our understanding. Many do this
who would shrink from foUowing up their own reasoning as far as
it would lead them, and still more from expressing the result in
plain words. For this would be as much as to say that God will
never do what they are unable to comprehend or imagine. These
remarks apply with fuU force to the doctrine of the resurrection
from the dead. It is not pretended by any one that this doctrine
contradicts anything that we know with regard to the course of
God's deaUngs with His creatures. On the contrary, it affords an
explanation of many things which would be otherwise obscure
and perplexing in His moral government. AU the arguments
against it turn In the end on man's ignorance, and are only good
if that be taken as the standard and limit of God's knowledge.
Such was the reasoning which St. Paul refutes in the first Epistle
to the Corinthians : " Some man will say. How are the dead raised
up ? and with what body do they come ? " which Is the same thing
as saying, I will not believe the effect unless I can imderstand the
process by which it is wrought. The Apostle shows, in answer to
this cavil, that the doctrine Involves no greater difficulty than
arises in every change from one state of being to one another, and
that the like objection would compel us to deny the reaUty of
numberless things which are famUiar to our experience, but equaUy
mysterious and inexplicable to our reason. The process by which
the body is restored — ^whatever it may be — cannot be more wonder
ful than the transformation of the seed into the flower and the
fruit. The successive stages of vegetable and animal Ufe are
miracles which are constantly taking place before our eyes — and
they imply one which stUl more surpasses the power of man to
conceive — the original act of creative wUl by which the first
elements of the material universe were brought into being. The

416 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS,
discoveries of modern science throw no new Ught on this subject ;
they leave it just as It was ; they neither magnify the apparent
difficulty, nor show any new way of getting over It, The Apostle's
question remains as unanswerable as ever -with respect to any
argument that can be drawn from the appearance of nature, " Why
should It be thought incredible that God should raise the dead ? "
Not certainly because there would be anything more surprising,
or (If one may so speak) less to be looked for, in such an exertlqn
of His power than in that by which He first caUed them Into
being. Some persons indeed have needlessly perplexed them
selves and others by curious speculations as to the changes which
bodies may undergo after they have been committed to the earth,
so as to render it, as they think, physically impossible for the
same particles to be all restored to their original place, as in case
they should have entered into the composition of more bodies than
one. Now, it Is true we might, if it was necessary, safely leave it
to the Dl-rine wisdom to pro-vide means for preventing such mix
ture and confusion. But the whole question might better have
been avoided, for it is wholly foreign to the doctrine of Scripture
and the teaching of the Church on the subject. We know that
" we must all appear before the judgment-seat of Christ, that every
one may receive the things done In the body, according to that he
hath done, whether it be good or bad." And in conformity to
this, and many other declarations of Scripture, the resurrection of
the body is one article of our creed. But Scripture does not
inform us that the body which shaU appear before the judgment-
seat is to be composed of the identical particles which crumbled
away In the grave. This would be quite unnecessary for any
purpose of retributive justice. We know that throughout life the
substance of our bodies is undergoing continual change, which
does not at all affect that consciousness of personal identity on
which moral responsibiUty entirely depends ; and the body itself
is not the subject, but merely the instrument of reward and
punishment. St. Paul himself speaks of the resurrection as accom
panied with some great change in the very texture of our bodily
frame. It would appear, therefore, that both the language of

THE EESUEEECTION NOT INCEEDIBLE, 417
'Scripture and the ends of the resurrection, so far as they have
been revealed to us, may be fuUy satisfied without the supposition
of an absolute material identity. We confess that " all men shall
rise again with their bodies," with bodies for all practical purposes
the same as those which had been dissolved in the dust ; the same
in their outward aspect, so as to distinguish one person from
another ; the same in their structure, so as to be equally capable
of ministering to every spiritual operation — of giving an account
of their works, and of receiving their consequences, whether good
or evil. This Is enough for our faith ; it is enough for our reason,
and it ought to be enough for our curiosity. We might inquire
farther, whether there is any reason why it should be thought
incredible that God should raise the dead, as being a thing incon
sistent with His attributes and dispensations as the moral Governor
of the universe. But here the difficulty Is aU on the other side.
The question is rather whether the doctrine of the resurrection is
not required to -vindicate God's wisdom and holiness, justice and
mercy, in His dealings with mankind ; and this has been ever felt
as a most powerful argument in favour of the doctrine, even by
those to whom it had not been revealed as an article of faith.
And therefore we may proceed at once to the second head of our
inquiry. A proposition, we observed, may be incredible either in
its own nature or in relation to those who are called upon to admit
it. So that God should raise the dead may not be incredible in
itself — it may be actuaUy believed by many — and j'ct it may be
thought incredible with. others, and we were to consider how and
with whom this is likely to be the case.
II. And here we must observe, that the less a doctrine is capable
of being proved by strict demonstration, the more its acceptance
will depend on the disposition of those to whom it Is proposed.
And again, when It relates to matters which very closely concern
the Interests and feelings of mankind, there wIU be the less likeli
hood that it should be adopted or rejected on an impartial view
of the arguments which may be brought for or against It. Now
the doctrine of the resurrection is one as to which it is impossible
for any thinking man to be indifferent. It must excite hope or
VOL. III. e e

418 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEARY REMAINS.
fear in every one who is not sunk Into a savage apathy. It must
set men a-thinhing what they may expect to gain or lose by it.
It Is a question which concerns every man much more than the
duration of his own earthly life, or the continuance of the world he
lives in. For this can only make the difference of a few years to
him, whereas there is no one who does not feel that a resurrection
impUes a state of existence to which no possible term can be
assigned. Then, again, if we were only informed that the dead
shall Uve again, that might mean nothing more than another life
like the present — whether longer or shorter — one chequered in
like manner with good and evil, but, no more than this, subject to
any known rule or law by which any one could foresee or forebode
his future destinj'. But if we beUeve that God shaU raise the
dead, we cannot help beUeving at the same time that this Is to be
done for some determinate purpose, involving our future happiness
or misery, and Intimately connected with our present condition
and character. No one dreams of a resurrection which is not
associated with the Idea of this life as a state of probation. And
so the doctrine is one which affects not only our future prospects,
but our present conduct, habits, and pursuits. We cannot seriously
embrace it without feeling ourselves strongly moved to the things
which we should otherwise prefer to leave undone, and to leave
undone what otherwise we should wish to do. It is not only a
deeply stirring, but an immediately practical question, and there
fore one on which every man's judgment is sure to be more or less
influenced by his inclination.
And suppose a man — and you will not need to go far to find
such a character — sunk, I do not say in vice, or even in what Is
commonly caUed sensuality, but in sense ; that is to say, one who
has no conception of any enjoyment which he does not receive
from or immediately through the senses ; who, as the Apostle
says, " minds earthly things," is wrapped up in them with all his
mind, and heart, and soul ; never felt a longing for any other kind
of happiness than such as he finds here below ; has no fault to find
with the present life except that It is too short, thinks it good for
him to be here, and only laments that his earthly tabernacle is not

THE RESURRECTION NOT INCREDIBLE, 419
an everlasting habitation ; when we meet with such a man as this,
can we be at a loss to understand why it should be "thought a
thing incredible with hiin that God should raise the dead ?" He
knows with certainty of one change, which will strip him of
everything he possesses hero. He cannot believe that there shall
be another to take place merely for the purpose of restoring to him
what he has lost, and enabling him to begin some new round of
sensuous delight. This he cannot believe ; and a change of any
other kind, with any other object, he is so loath to believe, that it
embitters all his present comfort seriously to think of it. Having
been always content with something very little raised above a
mere animal existence, it is hard for him to look beyond a close
such as awaits the beasts that perish.
Again, those who, though they may not make a mock at sin,
yet think lightly of the difference between sin and holiness ; who
are very well content with the state and character of the world, in
a moral point of view, as it is ; who do not believe that there is
much to choose between one man and another ; who are slow to
give credit to any examples of eminent virtue, and ready to find
an excuse, on the score of natural constitution or defective educa
tion, for the worst offenders ; who look coldly and Incredulously
on all schemes for the moral improvement of mankind, neither
believing, nor in their heart wishing, that they should succeed in
effecting any material change— persons who entertain such views
will be apt to think it a thing Incredible that God should raise
the dead. The only ground which is assigned, either by reason or
revelation, for such a proceeding — the calling men to account for
their works — is one which directly contradicts their whole theory
of human Ufe. And it must be remembered this is not a merely
speculative theory ; it Is one which regulates the whole course of
their own conduct, even to its minutest details. If they abandoned
it, they would lose all the comfort of their present easy, careless,
reckless way of treating things and persons ; thej^ would have to
try not only the dealings of others, but their own, by a different
standard ; by one as to which they are conscious that, whoever
else may come up to It, they themselves fall fearfully short of it,
E E 2

420 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
And so we may see how some, who set out from quite an opposite
starting point, may be brought to the same conclusion of practical
unbelief Where there is a strong sense of the evU and guilt of sin,
yet without any earnest effort or desire to be delivered from it, and
consequently its dominion is confirmed from day to day, there
will be the strongest of all motives for shutting out of the mind
the doctrine of the resurrection from the dead. When Felix
had been made to tremble at Paul's reasoning of righteousness,
temperance, and judgment to come, he would have listened gladly to
any Sadducee or Epicurean who should have undertaken to prove
to him that there was no resurrection. So, when Festus heard of
a risen Christ, in whose name Paul preached repentance, and works
meet for repentance, to Jews and Gentiles, he easily persuaded
himself that the preacher was mad. The most frivolous arguments
will satisfy men when they want to believe a lie, or to reject an
unwelcome truth. Indeed, when truth is on one side, and passion
and appetite and corrupt habit on the other, there will be no great
need for sophistry and false teaching. There will be a shorter and
easier way of reaching the same end.^ The truth ha-ving been long
neglected and despised, held in unrighteousness, and treated as if
it were no better than an idle tale, comes at last of itself to appear
as such to the man's own darkened understanding. That is the
judicial blindness which Is the most fearful penalty of long-
continued unfaithfulness to the light. To persons in such a state
it matters little whom or what they hear. They would not be
persuaded, though one rose from the dead.
Thus, then, we have seen with whom and from what causes it
may be thought a thing incredible that God should raise the dead.
But it will not appear incredible to those who think highly of the
intellectual and moral capacities of human nature ; who believe
that they have never yet been unfolded to their utmost extent,
and that they are not to be measured by the most eminent display
which has yet been, or ever will be, made of them, under the
limitations of our present condition. It wiU not appear incredible
to those who not only believe man to be capable of a continual
progress In holiness, but feel in themselves a longing after it, a

THE RESURRECTION NOT INCREDIBLE, 421
hunger and thirst, not to be satisfied with any righteousness short
of that of the kingdom of heaven ; and who regard the Church on
earth as an image, however faint, of a blessed society. In which,
through an immediate connexion with its Di-vlne Head, such
desires will be constantly quickened, nourished, and strengthened
— fulfilled to the utmost, and yet never palled or satiated. It will
not appear incredible to those who regard the glory of God as the
supreme end of all His works and ways, and who earnestly wish
to see It shown forth in the final triumph of truth and goodness
over falsehood and evil. And therefore, even before life and
immortality were brought to light through the Gospel, it did not
appear Incredible to the wisest and best among the heathen. On
the contrary, in the grossest darkness of ignorance and supersti
tion, they still clung to this belief as the mainstay of all their
hopes, their chief comfort and guide, amidst aU the troubles and
perplexities of this mortal life. Will they not rise up in the judg
ment against many of the men of this generation, yea, against
many professed members of the Church of Christ, and condemn
them ?
I must confine myself to a very few brief remarks by way of
practical conclusion.
There is, as we have seen, a very striking contrast between the
class of persons who accept the doctrine of the resurrection, and
those with whom it is thought a thing Incredible. We would
not urge this contrast as a decisive argument in favour of the
doctrine ; but we would observe that it supplies an answer to
those who would demand stronger evidence of its truth. If the
evidence was in itself more convincing, it would not so well
serve the purpose of a moral test, or be so weU adapted to all
the ends of a state of probation. As it is, it is strong enough
for those who are prepared to receive it ; and none are unprepared,
save through their own fault. However sufficient it might be to
satisfy every reasonable mind, it would never of itself overpower
an evil heart of unbelief.
Again, if those who, trusting to their own faUIble reason, have
ftrgued themselves Into a speculative disbelief of this doctrine.

422 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
will nevertheless stand condemned by their own consciences, how
shaU it fare with those who, whUe they profess to hold it, have
lived themselves in a practical unbelief of it ? Those who now,
Uke FeUx, tremble at the thought, but yet turn not from their
evil ways, may learn in time to scoff at It like Festus. But the
hardness of an Impenitent heart will not screen them from the
righteous judgment of God ; it will only be the means of treasuring
up unto themselves wrath against the day of wrath. Whether
believed or not, the truth will remain the same ; and if they
wllfuUy put it from them, though they will have made It power
less for their good. It will be so much the more effectual to their
endless ruin.
We may further observe, that the comfort which this doctrine
imparts to those who embrace It with an efficacious and practical
conviction depends not so much on the prospects which It opens,
and the hopes which it ministers, as on the principles out of which
their belief springs, and the effects which it works in them. And
therefore it Is deep and steady, abiding and progressive. They
have the promise of the life that now is, and of that which is
to come ; and in the Immediate partial fulfilment they find an
assurance of the final perfect consummation. Their present
strivings after holiness are an earnest of their future mastery
over sin ; their present peace a foretaste of their future joy.
Whatever haze of doubt and fear may gather round them, what
ever changes and chances may betide them in this mortal Ufe,
they have this hope as an anchor of the soul, sure and steadfast,
on which they will ride secure, however tossed by the waves of
this troublesome world.
And therefore — as more especially befits this high solemnity
— all thanks and praise be rendered to Him who has brought life
and immortality to light through His glorious Gospel ; who has
not only overcome death in our nature, but opened unto us the
gate of everlasting life ; who not only, in His own victory over the
grave, gives us a sure pledge of our resurrection, but, by His word
and His Spirit, dispels the mists of error and prejudice which
arise out of the corrupt heart to darken the truth, and makes it to

THE RESURRECTION NOT INCREDIBLE. 423
shine, not only upon our minds, but upon our hearts, -with a heal
ing and purifying Ught, so as to fiU both our hearts and minds
¦with a peace which passes all understanding, and which keeps
them in the knowledge and love of God through Jesus Christ our
Lord.

MISCELLANEOUS

DIOCESAN SYNODS.
A Letter to the Rev. Canon Seymour, -svith some Remarks on a Letter of
the Rev. J. W. Joyce.

Arerg-wili Palace, Carmarthen,
March 14«, 1867.
Beverend Sir,
I take the earliest opportunity of redeeming my promise,
that I would answer your letter as soon as I should be able to
make some necessary references to books which I had left behind
in the country. Let me however first of aU assure you that no
apology whatever was needed for your animadverting on any part
of my Charge.* You are quite right In believing that it was
intended to be submitted to the judgment of the Church and the
Public. And I will add that, if I had considered an Episcopal
Charge as a document like a Papal Allocution, too sacred for
criticism, none of mine would ever have been delivered ; I should
have confined myself on such occasions to matters of fact esta
blished by documentary evidence, and not open to dispute, and
should have reserved the expression of my opinion on debatable
questions for some mode of pubUcation which would entitle them
to the benefit of free discussion. At the same time, I hope I have
never forgotten that the circumstances of a Visitation Charge
impose an obligation on the Bishop to weigh all his statements of
opinion with more than ordinary care and caution,
I did not hesitate to undertake to answer your Letter, not merely
as coming from one who is entitled to much respect as a distln-
* [Charge of 1866.]

428 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITEEARY REMAINS,
guished member of the Lower House of Convocation, but as con
taining a complaint of Injustice alleged to have been done by me,
not to himself alone, but to many others. I beUeve indeed that
I might very safely have left this complaint to the judgment of
those who would take the trouble to compare your Letter with my
Charge, But this is so much more than could be expected, if
from any, from more than a very few readers of your Letter, that
my silence would probably have been construed as evidence of my
inablUty to meet a charge which yet I had not the candour to
admit. I believe that I shaU be able to clear myself from it with
Uttle more trouble to myself or to the reader than the making of
a few extracts which will need but very brief comment.
The gist of your complaint Ues in two passages of my Charge.
The first Is contained in the paragraph beginning near the bottom
of page 43,* and I am forced to transcribe it.
" If the promoters of this movement had any ground for congratulating
themselves on its success, as indicated by the number of signatures
attached to the Declaration, it could only be with a view to some ulterior
object, for which it might prepare the way, and though no such aim was
openly avowed, subsequent proceedings appeared to show what it either
was or might have been. Such was the chief, if not the sole motive, of
the wish which was expressed in both Houses of Convocation and else
where for the renewal of Diocesan Synods. It was hoped that these
assemblies might be made available for the promulgation of ' some decla
ration of faith as to matters which were thought then to be in danger.'
They might serve other purposes, but this was evidently foremost in the
minds of those who conceived the project."
You are wlUIng to waive the question as to the object of those
who promoted or signed the Declaration, as being able only to
answer for your o-wn. But I cannot pass over the account you
give of It without a word of remark, because, while you e-ndently
consider your account as contradicting my statements, It appears
to me to be in perfect accordance with them. I believed, and stUl
believe, that the object of the Declaration was to prepare the way
for an " ulterior object," and I thought I had sufficiently described
» [VoL ii, p, 123, Collected Edition.]

DIOCESAN SYNODS, 429
that object when I said that it was " to counteract the effect of
the Judgment in the case of ' Essays and Beviews.' " You state
that the object was " simply to save the Church, so far as such a
protest could do so, from the imputation of accepting Judgments
which they (the signers) believed to be contrary to the faith of
the Church." But after due allowance for the looseness of the
expressions, which you would hardly maintain to be strictly accu
rate, this is quite consistent with my statement. You could not
mean that any aggregate of individuals could be so Identified with
the Church, that an expression of their private belief could over
rule or reverse a decision of the Supreme Court of Appeal, or
contract the latitude of opinion among the Clergy which that
decision had sanctioned. For this purpose the Declaration in
itself, even if it had been clearly and candidly worded, and If the
methods employed for obtaining signatures had been less open to
just censure, would evidently have been utterly futile. But it
might contribute to prepare the way for the attainment of that
object; and I endeavoured to point out the connexion in which
the Declaration stood to other movements, which seemed to me to
have been set on foot in the same direction and with the same
view. On this point however, so far as regards Diocesan Synods,
you " very positively assure me that I am mistaken." Here we
are fairly at issue, and the decision must depend on the evidence
which each is able to produce.
At page 5 you write as if I had given only two references In
support of my position. At page 12 you add a third ; but to my
great surprise you appear to have overlooked a fourth, which
occurs in the same page (63) * of my Charge, and which Is In some
respects more important than any of the others. To this I will
advert presently. But I must premise a general remark. When-
-ever we find " a declaration of faith " expressly assigned as an
object, for the sake of which the restoration of Diocesan Synods
was desired, we are sure that this was present. If not uppermost,
in the minds of those who gave it utterance. But there Is no
reason why it might not be present, and even uppermost. In the
» [Vol. ii. p. 130, Collected Edition.]

430 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS.
minds of persons who did not express It. On the contrarj', the
presumption Is, that It existed where it was not expressly dis
avowed. Does this appear to you too bold an assertion? You
yourself, with a candour which I cannot sufficiently admire, and
for which I am the more thankful, as I had less right to expect
such a proof of It, have furnished me with the strongest possible
ground for my position. After citing the Besolution of the Arch
deacons and Bural Deans of the Diocese of Oxford, to which I
refer at page 53 * of my Charge —
" That the cheumstances of the present times peculiarly call for such a.
gathering (Diocesan Synods) for the guardianship of faith,"
you observe —
" Your Lordship's allusion is especially to this last resolution. Framed
at a time when the mind of the Church of England was piained and
harassed by the publications of Dr. Colenso, and the Judgments respect
ing two authors of 'Essays and Reviews,' no one can be sui-prised that
such a resolution as this was adopted in connexion with the two first.
And there can be no doubt that at such periods, if Diocesan Synods were
sitting, the particular trouble which agitated the Church would come
under their notice."
Nothing can be more clearly true. But, as I fully admit they
fact, I claim the benefit of the irresistible Inference. And indeed
your observation seems to me almost to supersede the necessity
for any other evidence in support of my assertion, both as to the
close connexion between the object of the Oxford Declaration
and that of the proposed restoration of Diocesan Synods, and
as to the importance attached to this object, in comparison with
others, In the minds of those who desired to see Diocesan Synods-
restored. At page 7 however you direct my attention to what you con
sider as the real " starting-point " of the movement In behalf of
Diocesan Synods. You think you have found it in " a memorable
paper drawn up by certain members of the Lower House of Con
vocation," Including my revered friend Archdeacon Hare and the
* [Vol. ii, p. 130, Collected Edition.]

DIOCESAN SYNODS. 431
present Bishop of Ely, in November, 1852, with a view to promote
" the revival of the long- suspended functions of Convocation,"'
One does not at the first glance very readily see how this subject
was connected with the renewal of Diocesan Synods. But you
supply the missing link, by an extract from that paper, which
may be considered as containing the germ of a proposal for the-
admission of the Laity into Convocation, which was actually made
there, but without success. And thus those who desired to
"procure some means by which the Laity may join in counsel
with the Clergy for furthering the efficiency of the Church " wer&
led to resort to the revival of Diocesan Synods for that purpose.
I do not at all question the accuracy of this historical statement r
but when you imagine that it convicts me of a mistake, with
regard to the motives which I attribute to the advocates of
Diocesan Synods, it appears to me that you have yourself been
misled, partly by a misconception of my position, and partly by
the ambiguity of the term, Biocesan Synods. I have not denied,
but on the contrary expressly admitted, in the passage which you
cited from my Charge, that Diocesan Synods might serve other
purposes besides that of a " declaration of faith." On the other
hand, I have not asserted that all the friends of Diocesan Synods
wished to use them, either solely or above all, for the purpose of
such a declaration, and I accept with entire confidence what you
state as to your own motives. I cannot feel quite equal confidence
— notwithstanding your assurance — as to the motives of others
who have not expressed them : and I observe that, even with
regard to yourself, you do not absolutely disclaim the doctrinal
object, but only deny that it was foremost In the minds of those
who have been " active in endeavouring to obtain the renewal of
Diocesan Synods." I find it indeed very difficult to reconcile this
disclaimer with the above-cited Besolution of the Oxford Arch
deacons and Bural Deans, who consider the " guardianship of the
faith" as the object which peculiarly calls for the proposed
" gathering," or even with your own subsequent candid admission,
already noticed, that "no doubt, if Diocesan Synods were sitting,
the particular trouble which agitated the Church would come

432 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
under their notice." It is hard to beUeve that, if it occupied
any place at all in the "notice" of the Synod, it would not
be the very foremost place, and that, by the Clergy at least, it
would not be considered as the subject of incomparably greatest
importance. Your historical statement therefore does not seem to me conclu
sive against my view, though I readUy admit that it is not decisive
in my favour. But it certainly does not exhaust the history of
the movement ; and I think you have hardly done justice to my
argument, when you entirely ignore my account of the " starting-
point" to which I refer the origin of the movement. This is the
more surprising, because it occurs in one of the pages of my
Charge (p. 63) from which you have made an extract. I am
obliged to reproduce the passage, as without It my view of the
history, which you have placed in so different a light, cannot be
understood, much less fairly judged. Having observed that " there
is a purpose for which the Diocesan Synod, in its primitive form,
is eminently well fitted — that is, the purpose of proclaiming any
foregone conclusion, and of passing resolutions by acclamation,
without a dissentient voice " — I proceed as follows : —
" This function of the Diocesan Synod is recognised by a highly
esteemed writer on the subject, whose work appeared when the Church
was deeply agitated by the Judgment of the Judicial Committee of the
Privy Council in the Gorham case, as one main ground for recommending
the revival of those Synods with ' a close adherence to the primitive
model.' (Joyce's England's Sacred Synods, p. S6.) It would serve 'for
the plain assertion of any article of the faith which may have been
notoriously impugned.' And in the Diocese in which an article of faith
was supposed to have been impugned by the decision of the Judicial
Committee in the Gorham case, such a Diocesan Synod was assembled,
and did make ' a plain assertion ' of the article. This example has not
been forgotten."
In proof of this last assertion, I referred to the Besolution of
the Oxford Archdeacons and Bural Deans ; and you have cited this
reference, but without any notice of the statement which it was
intended to prove or illustrate. I cannot but think that my
account of the starting-point of the movement is more accurate

DIOCESAN SYNODS. 433
than yours. It seems to me at least to estabUsh beyond a doubt
that the idea of a revival of Diocesan Synods was not derived, by
a remote filiation, from the "paper" of November, 1852, but had
been previously not only conceived, but reaUsed in -visible actuaUty.
I know of no reason for supposing that Mr. Joyce was singular in
his opinions or wishes, or that his views as to the most important
business of a Diocesan Synod have ever ceased to be those of a
majority of the Clergy both in and outside of Convocation. The
movement for promoting co-operation between the Clergy and the
Laity, stimulated by the exertions of Mr. Henry Hoare, ran in a
parallel direction, neither opposing nor superseding the other.
Bat their proximity appears to have created some confusion, to
which perhaps I am mainly indebted for your Letter, For the two
" projects " — that of lay co-operation, and that of declaration of
faith — do not exclude one another, either in the nature of things
or In the minds of those who take an interest in either of them.
My subject led me to dwell, though by no means exclusively (see
p. 46 * of my Charge), on. the earUer project. You have dwelt
on the later, so as to keep the other as much as possible out of
view. I observed that you appear to have been misled by the ambiguity
of the term Biocesan Synods. In fact, whUe using this term, we
have been speaking of two different things, and your remarks on
the one do not touch that which I said of the other. Only, I used
the term In the proper sense of a Diocesan Synod, "in Its primitive
form," as It is described by Mr. Joyce, You applied the term to
an assembly constituted on a new plan. This ambiguity was
noticed in the debate on your motion in the Lower House of Con
vocation. To Archdeacon Hale it appeared that a great difficulty
might be avoided by giving up the word " Synod." " I am
myself," he said, "opposed to formal Diocesan Synods. ... At
the same time I am as anxious as any one can be to promote
the union of the Clergy and Laity," Lord A, Compton thought
" there may be some risk lest these united Synods of Clergy and
Laity should render it more difficult to hold real Biocesan Synods,
* [Vol, ii. p. 128, CoUected Edition.]
VOL. Ill, i" F

434 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
consisting of the Clergy alone." You yourself, referring to these
remarks, said, "I have always contemplated the Bishops sum
moning Synods consisting exclusively of Clergymen." I think it
would not be too bold an assumption to believe that you must, at
the same time, have contemplated the high probability — not to
say certainty — that the "chief, if not the sole" business of such
Synods, whenever there was any " trouble " in the Church, arising
from questions of doctrine, would be, as it was at Exeter, " some
declaration of faith." Such, at aU events, I understand to be the
view of Dr. Jebb, when he said In the same debate (Chron. of
Convoc, p. 1509), "I think It is the duty of the Synods of the
Church, and of all assembUes of the Church which possess authority
— it should be their business now to assert the true doctrine of the
Church." Their business. That must be either their sole, or at least
their chief business. Was I then so far wrong when I said that
such an assertion or declaration was the chief, if not the sole motive
of the wish expressed for the renewal of Diocesan Synods ? Sir
H. Thompson says, "I cannot Imagine any subject In which the
Church feels an Interest, that would not be brought before such
Synods." In what subject does the Church feel a greater interest
than in the " trouble " which was then and Is still present ? It is
to this that I understand Archdeacon Denlson to refer, when he
observes, " We have had enough of this fighting about words in
the Oxford Declaration. There were things said Irregularly in
the Judgment, and no doubt the Declaration has met it with
something irregular also ; but what is wanted is the expression of
the Church." Though I do not pretend to be able to reconcUe
these words with those of a sentence which occurs only a few lines
above : " It is admitted that questions of doctrine are not to be
touched." If we keep this distinction in view, it will be seen that I have
said nothing of Diocesan Synods to prevent me from regarding
the general object of those which you proposed with sympathy
and approbation. I can truly say, with Archdeacon Hale, that
though I am opposed to the assembling of Diocesan Synods for
some purposes, " I am as anxious as any one can be to promote

DIOCESAN SYNODS, 435
the union of the Clergy and Laity," If I question the expediency
of the kind of Synod which was the subject of your motion, it is
partly because I share the doubts of Chancellor Massingberd, who
asked, "What is the use of these Synods?" I do not know
whether he was satisfied with the answer he received, I was not.
But I must own that I also view your project with some degree of
positive distrust, I can however assure you that the "appre
hension" which you think it so "evident" that I felt, "that such
-Synods would diminish the power of Bishops," Is one which never
entered my mind, and is as remote as possible from my habits of
thinking and feeling. What I really apprehend Is, that it may
be found exceedingly difficult, if possible, to secure the benefit,
whatever it may be, of the Synods, by whatever name they may
be called, which you advocate, so as to avoid the mischief which
seems to me to be threatened by the purely Ecclesiastical, or, as
Lord A, Compton caUs them, " real Diocesan Synods," which you,
and probably many others, "have always contemplated." The
occasion on which you then spoke did not require you to explain
your view of the relation In which these two kinds of Synods
would or ought to stand to each other : whether, for instance, you
thought it desirable that one of each kind should be held annually,
or that the mixed Synod should be held regularly, the pure one
only on special occasions. But it seems clear that nothing would
be easier than to contrive some arrangement by which the same
gathering of Clergy and Laity might be made successively to
assume either character, and to serve both purposes. The arrival
of the Clergy might be made to precede that of the Laity, or the
stay of the Clergy might be prolonged after the departure of the
Laity, so as to afford time for any proceedings in which the Lay
members of the Synod were not deemed competent to take part.
It might even happen that In some dioceses the scruple, which
could alone render such a temporary separation necessary, might
not be felt by the greater number of the Clergy.
Hence I cannot derive unalloyed satisfaction from your state
ment — undoubtingly as I believe it — of -the motives with which
you advocate the renewal of Diocesan Synods, but which could
ff2

436 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERAEY EEMAINS,
have no effect on the course or the issue of the movement. And I
am not completely reassured by your suggestion at p, 13, that
" no subject should be introduced without the permission of the
presiding Bishop," I need hardly remind you that aU Bishops do
not take exactly the same view of that which is expedient for the
interests of the Church ; and if a measure was adopted which I
considered as mischievous, it would not appear to me less dangerous
because it had been sanctioned by a Bishop. But I am not sure
that every Diocesan Synod would be practicaUy so under the
Bishop's control that he could prescribe the course of its pro
ceedings. In theory it may be so. But the exercise of such a
power might place him In a very Invidious and unhappy position.
I have thus endeavoured — with what success others must judge
— to show that I had good ground for the statement in which you
believe yourself to have convicted me of a mistake, I am still
more anxious to clear myself from the charge of injustice, especiaUy
injustice so crying that you are moved to say, " A more unjust
imputation than that which is cast by your Lordship upon a large
body of your brethren in the ministry, I have scarcely ever read,"
I hope to satisfy you that this charge of injustice has arisen — as
with your habitual gentleness you half suspect — from a misunder
standing. Indeed, unless I have wasted my labour, what I have
already said must have enabled you to comprehend that the
language of which you complain was not meant to apply to any
" effort on behalf of Diocesan Synods, the characteristic feature of
which Is the endeavour to give to the Laity a place in the Councils
of the Church, which they now have not," however appropriate
It may be to "real Diocesan Synods, consisting of the Clergy
alone." In these last I think it may be properly said that the
Church is "identified with the Spiritualty," in the sense that —
as Mr. Joyce expresses It In the Dedication of his work on Synods
— :" questions touching the law divine have been held to belong to
the Spiritualty ; " so that, when such questions are to be discussed,
the Laity must entirely disappear, or. If aUowed to be present,
only on condition that they have no voice in the deliberation, or
merely echo the decision of their pastors.

DIOCESAN SYNODS. 437
But it also seems clear that you have overlooked the point of
my aUusion in the passage which you cite from page 67 * of my
Charge, where I speak of the period before the Beformatlon as
-one " to which so many of our Clergy are looking back with fond
regret, as to a golden age, which, if it were permitted to man to
roll back the stream of time, and to reverse the course of nature
and the order of Providence, tUey would gladly restore." I had
imagined that the reader would at once understand me to be
speaking of the party whose proceedings occupy so large a part of
my Charge, I do not know whether you would admit that I had
a right so to speak of the Bituallsts : and this may call for a word
of explanation,
I do not pretend to dive into the secrets of any man's conscious
ness, I should not, for instance, think it right to affirm that the
EngUsh Church Union is the focus of a Jesuitical conspiracy for
bringing our Church, first to the feet, and then into the arms, of
Bome, But I claim a right to express my opinion that if such
was the object of the Union, no proceedings could have been better
fitted for the attainment of that object than those it has actuaUy
adopted, I know that the President has lately issued an Address,
in which he speaks of " our beloved Church," I have no right
or -wish to question the sincerity and warmth of his love for the
Church, But it might, in his mind, be consistent with the view
that the greatest of all blessings for the Church would be a
euthanasia or nirvana, by which she would breathe her last In the
bosom of her ancient mother, and with most zealous exertions for
the hastening of that happy consummation, I have a notion that
Archbishop Manning retains this kind of affection for the Church
of his early days. I would not even undertake to say that the
object of those who drew up the Beport on BituaUsm was to give
the greatest possible encouragement to the Bomanizing party, and
to play into its hand. But no protestations of a different Intention
on the part of those persons — however I might give them credit
for perfect sincerity — would in the sUghtest degree shake my
conviction that such is the actual tendency and effect of that
* [Vol. ii. p. 140, Collected Edition.]

438 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY REMAINS.
Beport, when I see that it is so framed as In fact to serve the
ends of that party, by masking its most characteristic features, by
adopting its most glaring faUacies, and by describing it in terms
of eulogy, which are only just so far as they are utterly Irrelevant
to the main question.
I beUeve that I have now said as much as the occasion requires
on the subject of your Letter, and that. If I had nothing else to
deal with, I might conclude at once. Perhaps I owe you some
apology for making a Letter, which was originally designed solely
for you, the vehicle of an answer to one which I have since
received from Mr. Joyce, and which he informs me may be found
in print in the John Bull newspaper of Saturday, February 23rd.
The public convenience, no less than my own, obliges me to take
this opportunity of publicly answering Mr. Joyce, though I am
reluctant so to associate your name with his, which you have, it
would seem, studiously avoided Introducing In your letter, even
where the occasion appeared to suggest, if not to require it. I
am the more reluctant, because there is a tone of asperity in Mr.
Joyce's Letter, which presents an unpleasant contrast to the mild
ness of yours. I do not however complain of that tone, nor of
the resentment which it betrays ; but I do complain of that which
has been the cause of both. For they are the effect of a miscon
ception, which, as I beUeve, a moderate degree of attention to the
part of my Charge which Is the subject of Mr. Joyce's complaint
would have rendereft Impossible. As It is, I may adopt your
strongest language with regard to myself, and can truly say, a
more unjust imputation than that which has been cast upon me by
Mr. Joyce, I have scarcely ever read.
The pecuUar hardship which I suffer from It is this, that Mr.
Joyce first echoes my own sentiments, says the very same thing
which I have said in my Charge, and then reproaches me, as if I
had overlooked or gainsaid it.
The passage of my Charge occurs at page 68,* and I am obliged
to transcribe as much of it as will enable the reader to understand
and appreciate the force of Mr. Joyce's objection : —
* [Vol. ii. pp. 141, 142, Collected Edition.]

DIOCESAN SYNODS. 439
" It is not a light evil that men should be taught to consider them
selves as living in ' galling fetters,' and an ' ignominious bondage,' [this
is an allusion to the language of Mr. Joyce, 'Ecclesia Vindicata,' p. 220,
where he speaks of a ' statesman ' who ' would free the Church of this
nation from galling fetters, in which she is now ignominiously bound,']
if this is not a true description of their real condition. But those who
have been so taught, if they are conscientious and honourable men, -will
not be content to sit down and weep, but will strive with all their might
to break their fetters and to regain their freedom. And it will be impos
sible for them, even with the example of their guides before them, long
to forget that after all these fetters are self-imposed, and this bondage a
state of their own choice ; that they have only to will, and their chains
will drop off, and their prison doors fly open."
I then proceed to say that —
" There are voices enough on the outside, bidding them to come forth,
and inviting them to take refuge " — in the Church of Rome ; but that, if
they are not prepared for such a step, " they may find room nearer at
hand for a new Church, in which they may enjoy the shelter without the
control of the State."
On this Mr. Joyce has allowed himself to make the following
comment : —
" In the foregoing passage your Lordship suggests, that for such per
sons among the Clergy and Laity of the English Church as have learned
to be dissatisfied with the present constitution of the Court of Final
Appeal in Ecclesiastical Causes, there is an alternative refuge. It is also
said that under the supposition of their being ' conscientious and honour
able men,' they ' will not sit down and weep.' Thus it appears that in
your Lordship's opinion their conscience and honour are in some sort
compromised, unless they arouse themselves to take shelter in one of the
refuges which your Lordship has pointed out."
I appeal to you, as a candid man, not just now at aU prepos
sessed in my favour, whether there was ever a grosser perversion
of language, and whether this is not a process by which the Holy
Psalmist might be convicted of atheism. For did he not write a
verse in which we read "There is no God?" Mr. Joyce repre
sents me as saying that conscientious and honourable men, who
take his view of the present highest Court of Appeal in Ecclesi-

440 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS.
astlcal Causes, Instead of sitting down to weep, will "arouse
themselves to take shelter in one of the refuges which I have
pointed out." What an extraordinary oversight that Mr. Joyce
should have failed to observe that, if I say that conscientious and
honourable men, who share his views as to the actual condition of
the Church, wUl not be content to sit down and weep, it Is because
I expect — not that they wiU " arouse themselves to take shelter "
in a refuge of any kind, but — that " they wIU strive with all their
might to break their fetters, and to regain their freedom ! " And
is not this the line of conduct which Mr. Joyce, being himself a
conscientious and honourable man, would think right ? Is it not
that which he has himself pursued ? Was not this the " main
object" of his works on Synods (see the Dedication), and the sole
object of his " Ecclesia Vindicata ? " The "statesman" indeed,
whose advent he foreshadowed in the latter work, the future
emancipator of the Church, has not yet appeared. But probably
Mr. Joyce does not despair of his arrival, and trusts that a good
time is coming, when " the requirements of the State and the
conscience of the Church will be satisfied at the same time," by a
" plan " " consigning in the last resort the correction of offences
to the civil power, and meanwhile providing for the due inter
pretation of the national faith by those to whose guardianship it
has been by God committed." [Between ourselves, does not this
mean that the clergy are to decide the question of heresy, and
then to hand over the offender to the secular arm ?]
I do not know Mr. Joyce — or unfortunately you — even by sight.
But the Idea I have formed of him from his writings and speeches
leads me to Imagine that a patient biding of a better time, though
under very untoward and trying conditions, may probably be
more suited to the gra-vity of his character and the maturity of
his discretion than a headlong plunge to seek "shelter" in the
unknown. And as even the calmest and sagest of men are apt to
be more or less governed by their wishes in their estimate of pro
babilities, he may think that he sees grounds of hope in the
present ferment and agitation, and in the general aspect of
Church affairs, which to others are quite invisible. But cannot

DIOCESAN SYNODS. 441
you — Is Mr. Joyce himself unable to conceive it possible that
there may be many who share his views, and are keenly sensitive
to the misery of those galling fetters and that ignominious bondage
under which he is writhing, but who are not gifted with his
strength of mind or power of endurance ; who can perceive no
sign of his " statesman " coming into power, or even into being ;
who put no trust in the help of any Synods, Diocesan, General, or
oven Pan- Anglican ; and who, when they look around them, can
see no prospect of deUverance, and are thus led to ask in despair,
" What shaU we do ?"
But is it quite fair to represent me, as Mr. Joyce has done, as
" suggesting " rash and desperate courses to those who are in this
state of perplexity ? It is not I who have Intimated an opinion
that " their conscience and honour are in some sort compromised "
unless they take shelter in either the Boman Communion or a
Free Church. But would Mr, Joyce deny what I have said, that
" there are voices enough on the outside, appeaUng to their sense
of duty and of honour, bidding them to come forth and inviting
them to take refuge In " the Church of Bome ? What said Dr,
Manning in his " Letter to an Anglican Friend," headed " The
Crown in CouncU on the Essays and Beviews ?" He wrote (p. 23),
"It is of no use, it is not, I must say, manly, or real, or truthful,
to pretend that the Church of England, or those in it, are free
from compUcity in the decisions of its own tribunals," And I
dare say you know his practical conclusion, and that he ends his
letter with a prayer "that many may. In this moment of con
fusion, come forth from the spiritual captivity in which they are
bound, and return to the liberty" of the Papal Church, Dr.
Manning probably found in his own personal recollections strong
ground to hope that this prayer would be granted. I am aware
that the writer of the Autobiography in " The Church and the
World" believes that Anglo-Catholics of her school are in no
danger, either from the force of Archbishop Manning's arguments
or from the efficacy of his prayers. But I do not know whether
Mr. Joyce has so completely abandoned what she calls the " sec
tarian notion of an Anglican Church as a distinct entity " as fuUy

442 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERAEY EEMAINS,
to share her confidence. But at aU events he will not say that I
have invented or misreported the utterances of the " voices on the
outside," which invite the captives to seek refuge in the Boman
Uberty, And I would ask you first to observe how much stronger
are the terms in which Mr, Joyce describes the " spiritual cap-
tl-vity " of his brother churchmen than any that are applied to It
by Dr. Manning, and then to say whether the impression made
by "the voice on the outside " Is not likely to have been deepened
by Its accordance with the louder and more impassioned strains of
the voice from within ? And again, have I done anything more
than state a simple and unquestionable fact, when I point to the
possibility that those who are as vehemently dissatisfied as Mr.
Joyce, and on the same ground, with their present position, if
they should recoil from submission to the Papal authority, may be
tempted to take refuge in a Free Church ? Would Mr. Joyce
maintain that the question which caused the disruption of the
Kirk was more Important than that which agitates the Church of
England, with regard to appeals In matters spiritual ? Or does
he only think that the perfervidum ingenium Scotorum hurried the
Scotch seceders Into excesses from which we are sufficiently
secured by the coolness of our national temperament ? Let me
only say that I have no Interest In affirming or denying either
proposition. The remainder of Mr. Joyce's letter is chiefly occupied with an
argument to show that — -
"Though the existence and action of the Court (of Appeal), being in the
estimation of many persons an encroachment on the rights of the Church
of England, and a grave scandal to our national jurisprudence, supply
without doubt very valid reasons for their endeavours, as conscientious
and honourable men, to obtain a reform of the Court ; yet they supply
no shadow of a reason at all for deserting the Church of their Christian
birth, of their earliest love, of their present fond affections."
If this argument had been addressed to Archbishop Manning,
though indeed it would have been little more than one assertion
opposed to another, it would at least have been to the point. But
that It should have been addressed to me ; that it should have been

DIOCESAN SYNODS.- 443
for the purpose of enlightening and convincing me that Mr. Joyce
points out that " the distinction between the authoritative voice
of the national Church and the judgment of a law court is very
broad and very obvious :" that he should suppose this distinction
had been overlooked by me, who in the very Charge of which he
complains, and within a very few pages of the passage which is
the subject of his Letter, wrote (p. 64), "A wrong decision of the
Court, as It is now constituted, can only affect the position of
individuals in the Church, but leaves the doctrine of the Church
just where it was " — this is not only very strange, but something
which, as I observed, I feel as a pecuUar hardship. Have I ever
intimated an opinion that the objection to the present constitution
of the Court of Appeal is a sufficient " reason " for any one whd
entertains It to secede from the Church ? On the very contrary,
it is just because I think that it is no reason at aU, that I both
deplore and disapprove of rhetorical exaggerations, such as have
fallen from Mr. Joyce, which ine-vitably tend to inflame the
passions and to interfere with a calm exercise of " reason," and
therefore give the greatest possible advantage to those who would
seduce conscientious and honourable men from their allegiance to
the Church. On the other hand, I have never presumed to lay
restrictions on natural sensibility. It is only through want of
attention to my language that Mr. Joyce supposes me to have said
that " conscientious and honourable men," under the influence of
his opinions, " will not weep." I only said they would not be
" content to weep," but would " strive ;" just as he thinks it their
duty to do. It was therefore quite needless for him to say that
they are " ready to justify their tears." I have never even
exhorted Mr. Joyce himself to dry his ; much less required him
to justify them. And indeed none but artificial tears need a justi
fication ; those which spring from the heart speak for themselves.
But I do not understand what " conscience " or " honour " has
to do with this questionable sign of an emotion which might lie
too deep for tears. Conscience and honour may spur men to
action : but it is surely no part of their proper functions to bid
any to " sit down and weep,"

444 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS.
I wiU not detain you any longer on a matter in which you have
no personal concern. I entertain a lively hope that what I have
written may satisfy you, I feel a stronger persuasion that you
wIU think It ought to satisfy Mr, Joyce.
I remain, Beverend Sir,
With the highest respect,
Your obedient Servant,
C. St. David's.
Eev, Canon Seymour,
P,S. — Mr, Joyce's Letter has been inserted in the Guardian of
ihB 20th of March,

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OF 1867.
A Letter to the Lord Archbishop op Canterbury.

My Lord Aechbishop,
When I received your Grace's Circular, requesting my
presence at a Meeting of the Bishops in visible communion with
the United Church of England and Ireland, in September next, it
happened that I was so much occupied with other matters, that I
was obUged to lay it aside for further consideration. When I
again perused It -with the attention due to the subject and the
-writer, I felt that I ought not simply to acknowledge the receipt,
and either accept or decline the invitation, -without informing your
Grace of my opinion -with regard to the proposed Meeting, -viewed
in the light of your Circular. My first impulse was to do this in
a private letter to your Grace, But, on further reflection, it
appeared to me that it would be hardly right to make your Grace
the sole depositary of my -views, and that if I thought them worth
communicating at all, I was bound to submit them to the judg
ment of the Church. My own position in this affair is so far
pecuUar, that I trust I shall not expose myself to the imputation
of egotism or presumption by the publication of my sentiments.
I was not present when the question was discussed at Lambeth ;
and the debate on it in the Upper House of Convocation was con
fined within a narrow compass. And not only so, but the little
I said on that occasion was said under an impression which I
.afterwards found to have been erroneous. I then imagined that
I stood alone among our brethren in my unfavourable opimon of

446 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY EEMAINS,
the proposed measure. I have since learnt that I am not a soUtary
exception to the general unanimity.
WhUe for these reasons I am anxious to explain my -views more
fuUy than I have yet done, I feel that It would be scarcely fair to
your Grace to put them before you alone. Already your position
with respect to this question is one which affords a striking
example of the heavy burdens attached to your high dignity. You
have to bear the apparent responsibility of the chief share in a
proceeding of great Importance to the Church, but of doubtful
issue, and, as some think, attended with considerable danger.
And yet, such have been the circumstances In which you have
been placed, that you can hardly be said to have been a free
agent. For after such an expression of a general wish as has
been addressed to your Grace by many of your suffragans, by
representatives not only of the Colonial, but of the American
Episcopate, and by a majority of both Houses of -the Convocation
of your Province, whatever might have been your private opinion,
it was almost morally impossible for you to withhold your consent.
And therefore what I have to say in the way of objection to
this measure concerns your Grace less than others, with whom,
in my judgment, the heavier weight of responsibility really
rests. Whatever may be thought, according to men's hopes or fears,
of the prospects of the proposed Meeting, your Grace at least is
no doubt fuUy sensible of the grave importance of the step you
have been induced to take. It is without example in the annals
of our Communion. It Is confessedly In the nature of an experi
ment, and one of so costly a kind, that it cannot be expected to
be often repeated. Whatever harm might arise from Its failure
would probably be Irreparable ; and it Is subject to the risk of
failure In more ways than one. The experiment will have failed,
if the attendance of Bishops from beyond the seas should be com
paratively smaU. It -wiU have failed still more sIgnaUy and
grievously, if the attendance should be very large, but the prac
tical result either null, or very smaU in proportion to the great
ness of the effort. The Intended Council has been made a subject

TPCE EPISCOPAL MEETING OP 1867, 447
of pleasantry by some who believe that Its highest merit wUl be
harmless insignificance. But I am sure your Grace -wiU agree with
me that it would be a serious misfortune If that pleasantry should
be justified by the event, and the Meeting should pass away with
out leaving any trace in the history of the Church. Clearly, I
think, such an experiment should not be made without an adequate
motive on the one hand, and on the other -without aU the precau
tions that prudence could suggest to ensure its success. I felt
grave doubt on the first head, even before I received your Grace's
Circular, by which it has been rather confirmed than dispelled.
On the other hand, perhaps I had no right to expect to find any
information in the Circular ; but certainly I have found none,
there or anywhere else.
In the first half of the Circular your Grace recounts the various
requests which you have received from the Metropolitan and
Bishops of Canada, from the Bishops assembled at Lambeth, and
from the two Houses of Convocation, by which you were "moved
to call together the Meeting so earnestly desired." Nothing can
be clearer or more satisfactory than this statement of the circum
stances under which you came to this resolution. They were
such — as I have already observed — as made It almost impossible
for you to act otherwise, even if you had been much less hopeful
than you appear to be of a happy result. But when you proceed
to describe the objects and the business of the Meeting, I no
longer find the same perspicuity or distinctness ; but, after the
closest attention I could give to your language, am left in very
painful doubt and perplexity. The terms used are large enough
to include every conceivable subject of ecclesiastical deliberations ;
but the only distinct allusion to a definite object is made for the
purpose of excluding it from the range, if not of discussion, at
least of practical conclusions. And this single specific exception
is very remarkable, and will call for further notice.
But I do not find a word to indicate that, in your Grace's view,
there is anything in the circumstances of the present time that
renders such a Meeting necessary or peculiarly desirable : any
language which would not have been equally appropriate if the

448 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
Meeting had been summoned for the year 1877, or If the intention
had been that It should be henceforth held yearly. The only
reason that can be gathered for fixing on the present year rather
than any other Is, that this happens to be the earliest opportunity
which your Grace could take for complying with the requests you
had received. For the vaUdity of the grounds on which they
were made, your Grace may perhaps justly think that the appU-
cants, and not you, are responsible, and you may have wisely
abstained from making any allusion to them. But the fact
remains that in the Circular there is no hint of any special
seasonableness In the present juncture for the convoldng of such
an assembly. And as Its recurrence, except at very long Intervals,
neither has been nor could be contemplated for a moment by any
one, it must be supposed that the effect produced by this year's
Meeting Is expected to be so great as to last, and be seen, and felt
for a long period, perhaps for a whole generation to come ; that it
wIU form an epoch in the history of our Church, like those of
several Great Councils In other Churches and Beligions. I yield
to none in the heartiness of my wish that such may be the case.
But I cannot shut my eyes to the possibility of another alterna
tive ; that the effect produced may be so nearly null, or so far
negative, as to extinguish every desire for a renewal of the unsuc
cessful experiment. No one could have so much reason to deplore
such an event, as weU on personal as on public grounds, as your
Grace ; and therefore I hope that you wUl be the more inclined
to forgive me. If I should seem to dwell by preference on the
gloomy side of the subject, to suggest nothing but objections and
difficulties, and to look coldly on the prospect of advantages which
others anticipate with eager and fervent longing. The view on
the other side is no doubt the more agreeable ; but the less
hopeful view, if it should tend to inspire caution, may be the
more useful, as it may be the means of averting the danger which
it foresees. And yet It may be that I appreciate the value of the benefits
shadowed forth by your Grace, as Ukely to spring from the Meet
ing, as fully as any of those who paint them in the most glowing

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OP 1867. 449
colours. I am glad indeed to observe that your Grace has
refrained, as I think most judiciously, from touching on one
advantage, the prospect of which seems to have dazzled some
minds : the effect of the Meeting, considered simply as a demon
stration, an exhibition of the greatness and the strength of the
AngUcan 'Communion. I cannot help suspecting that those who
have been fascinated by the image of this spectacle, had first cast
a longing eye on those which have been so frequently exhibited
at Bome during the reign of the present Pope, who is said to take
a peculiar pleasure in bringing his Bishops together by hundreds
from all parts of the globe, not indeed for the transaction of any
serious business, from which he would rather keep them away,
but simply to enhance the splendour of a gorgeous ceremony, and
to exalt the visible majesty of the pontifical throne. But even if
the meeting to be held in September next should include every
Bishop " In visible communion -with the United Church of Eng
land and Ireland " — which is from various causes practically
impossible — nothing could be more unwise than to in-vite a com
parison between It and those which the Pope gathers round him
in St. Peter's, to witness the canonization of a new saint, or the
promulgation of a new dogma, either in point of numbers or (In
theatrical phrase) of effects. Not only have we nothing to show
that would not present a pitiable contrast to those glistering files
of brocaded copes and jewelled mitres which adorn the Boman
spectacle : but, unless the Meeting was to be held, not, as your
Grace proposes, at Lambeth, but In Westminster Abbey or St.
Paul's, we could show no spectacle at all. There would be nothing
to meet the public eye, except In a newspaper, where the number
present might be stated ; and it would fall short, probably, by
several hundreds, of the Papal gatherings.
Still, I would not say that the Anglican demonstration, on the
scale which seems to be anticipated, would in itself be absolutely
useless; and it seems to me a mistake to think that it would
answer the same purpose, if the statistics of the AngUcan episco
pate were gathered from an almanack. It Is not so. The actual
presence of the assembled Bishops would show something which
VOL. HI. G G

450 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS.
could not appear in the almanack. It would show not only that
the Anglican Communion numbered so many Bishops, but that
there was some attraction in that communion capable of drawing
them from remote parts of our world-wide empire, and from lands-
not included in it, to Its centre. That is a fact which I do not at
all wish to ignore or undervalue. And I should be sorry to think
so meanly of my episcopal brethren as not to feel sure that the
Meeting which -will be gathered round your Grace at Lambeth
next September will be as far superior to the Boman assemblages,
in an intellectual, moral, and spiritual point of view, as it wUl be
inferior to them in average numbers and in richness of costume.
It will be composed, not of splendidly attired puppets, but of
men ; each with a mind, a will, a voice of his own, and with per
fect Uberty of speech and action, brought together not merely to
be gazed on, or to echo any one's dictation, but to co-operate, accord
ing to their free individual judgment, for purposes In which they
take a more or less lively interest.
But would any one seriously maintain that, because such a dis
play of Unity would be gratifying and cheering to the friends of
the Church, therefore it affords a sufficient motive for summoning
Bishops to leave their Dioceses, and undertake long, laborious,
and expensive journeys? Certainly, your Grace, who has not
thought it worth while even to allude to this object, cannot be
supposed to entertain such an opinion. But it appears to me
that a like remark appUes to those objects to which you have
pointed, as of sufficient importance to justify the unprecedented
step which you have taken, in convening an assembly of such an
extraordinary character. The time of the Meeting is, as I learn
from the Circular, to be divided between acts of common wor
ship and "brotherly consultations." Let It not be supposed that
I think lightly of the benefit which every one present may
be expected to derive from each of these occupations. But
" brotherly consultation " may be held In various ways ; and
the benefit wiU depend very much on the circumstances under
which it is carried on. If it happened that half-a-dozen Bishops
of the same communion were staying for a few days at the same

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OF 1867. 451
place, nothing could be more natural or fitting than that they
should avail themselves of the opportunity, by seeking one
another's company, interchanging the results of their experience,
and discussing topics of the day, in which they took either a
general interest, as Churchmen, or as specially concerned in the
government of their several Dioceses. Such a Conference might
prove very edifying and instructive to all, and might suggest a
wish that a like fortunate chance might bring them together
again. That It should lead them to resolve that, though living
very far apart, and constantly occupied -with duties which left
them very scanty leisure, they would come together again,
expressly and simply for the same purpose, would be much less
probable, and of much more questionable propriety. But that a
hundred Bishops should meet by appointment for the sake of such
a Conference would, I imagine, be generally thought not only
very unwise, on account of the glaring disproportion between the
value and the cost of the object, but because it would Imply the
same kind of mistake into which a man would faU, who, having
very much enjoyed the conversation of a few friends at a smaU
round table, should expect to find the Uke pleasure at a large
public dinner. Whatever purpose may be answered by the great
Meeting which your Grace has summoned, it wiU certainly not
be that of " brotherly consultation," such as might be held in the
case I was supposing. It may be some other, far more interesting
and Important. But what that is, is just the point on which I
most desire information, and am unable to find It in your Grace's
Circular. It Is true your Grace proceeds to say of the intended "bro
therly consultations : " — " In these we may consider together
many practical questions, the settlement of which would tend
to the advancement of the Kingdom of our Lord and Master
Jesus Christ, and to the maintenance of greater union in our
Missionary work, and to Increased intercommunion among our
selves." These words at first sight suggest the Idea of some
definite and valuable practical results, which may be expected
from the Conference. But, on closer inspection, one sees that
gg2

452 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS.
they do not necessarily imply any such thing, and that they leave
it very doubtful whether any such thing was passing in your
Grace's mind. For need I observe that it does not follow,
because there are "many practical questions, the settlement of
which would tend " to most desirable ends, that therefore the
consideration of these questions by all manner of persons should
lead to any practical result ? There is nothing to prevent a ques
tion of supreme national Interest from being debated In the Cam
bridge Union Society, as weU as in the House of Commons, If,
notwithstanding, the proceedings of the two assemblies do not
excite our curiosity in an equal degree, it is not because it always
happens that less abiUty or eloquence Is displayed by the younger
men. If their speeches were much the better, we should read
them -with the same comparative Indifference, because they lead to
no decision of the slightest practical moment ; and the only benefit
they yield consists in the exercise of the Debate Itself. And so,
in the proposed episcopal " consultations," the questions discussed
may be of a thoroughly practical nature, and yet the discussion
may not bring them one step nearer to a " settlement." The terms
of the Circular just cited are so large and indefinite, that I cannot
make out whether your Grace even contemplates that effect, or
would be satisfied with something very far short of It.
In one clause, indeed, I seem to catch a glimpse of a more pre
cise meaning ; it Is that which speaks of " the maintenance of
greater union in our Missionary work." It appears that there
has been some waste of strength through the concurrence of Eng
lish and American Missions of our communion in the same fields.
If this is so, it is certainly desirable that some arrangement should
be made for a better economy of Missionary labour ; and this, no
doubt. Is a practical object. But not only must it be quite
unnecessary that the attention of a great Assembly of Bishops
should be occupied by such details ; this would be as great a
waste of labour as that which it Is proposed to remedy. Not
only, I say, is this quite unnecessary, but it seems evident that
such an Assembly is just the least of aU fitted for such work.
The "increase of intercommunion among ourselves" is an

b

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OP 1867. 453
immediate necessary effect of a Meeting which is itself an act
of intercommunion. How far it may also tend to a further sub
sequent Increase will probably depend on the success of this
experiment. But, anyhow, this could hardly be described as part
of the business of the Meeting, which Is the thing I wish clearly
to understand.
So far, however, I could only say that, under the guidance of
the Circular, and with all the aid I could get from other quarters,
I have been unable to discover any sufficient motive, occasion, or
object for the proposed Meeting, or any reason for supposing that
the thought of such a Meeting would ever have occurred to your
Grace's mind, but for the requests which you received, or that it
would have occurred to any one on this side of the Atlantic, If It
had not been suggested by the Canadian Address. But when I
look further into the Circular, I meet with statements which raise
graver and more positive objections, as they seem to me to point
to facts which show that the present juncture is not only not the
most convenient season for such a Meeting, but one In which it is
singularly ill-timed.
The passage last cited is immediately followed by these very
remarkable words : — " Such a Meeting would not be competent
to make declarations, or lay down definitions on points of
doctrine. But united worship and common counsels would
greatly tend to maintain practically the Unity of the Faith,
whilst they would bind us In stralter bonds of peace and brotherly
charity." I do not know how far I may myself have had some share in
calling forth this explanation, as it seems designed to quiet appre
hensions, such as I had expressed, as to the object of the General
Council desired by the Canadian Synod. I read it with pleasure
and thankfulness, as evidence of your Grace's wise and charitable
intentions ; but In itself It does not go very far to relieve me from
doubt and misgiving. The proposition as to the competency of
the Meeting is unfortunately ambiguous. It admits of two senses :
in the one it is perfectly true, but not so in the other ; and in the
sense in which it is true, it offers no safeguard against the danger

454 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERARY REMAINS,
I apprehended ; while, in the sense in which it would offer such
security, it is not true.
It is quite true that such a Meeting would not be competent to
"make declarations, or lay down definitions on points of doc
trine," in the sense that such declarations or definitions would
have the slightest degree of legal authority or practical effect, or,
as affecting the doctrine of the Church, would be worth more
than blank paper. Indeed, this is so true, and so evident, that I
can hardly believe your Grace can have meant your statement to
be understood In this sense, in which, as a general proposition, it
is superfluous, and, if considered as bearing on actual circum
stances, presents no guarantee that it -will have any effect on the
proceedings of the Meeting. We hold in this sense that the
Pope was not " competent " to define the dogma of the Immacu
late Conception. And yet he did so. In the same sense the sub
scribers of the Oxford Declaration were utterly Incompetent to
make it. And yet they did so. I hope, indeed, that the rebuke
which your Grace has Incidentally, and perhaps unconsciously,
administered to the authors of that Declaration, wUl make a
wholesome impression on them. That which your Grace declares
to be beyond the competency of the Meeting which you expect to
receive at Lambeth, even if it should include every Bishop of our
communion, was treated by them as within the competency, not
only of grave and learned Doctors of Divinity, but of the youngest
Curate just admitted into Holy Orders, But there is a sense in
which It cannot be denied that they were competent to do, not
indeed that which they affected to do, but that which they
actuaUy did ; for it was nothing more than, as free-born English
men, they had a clear right to do. In that sense they were fully
competent to do it. It may have been a mere waste of ink and
paper. But what law forbids an Englishman to waste his paper
and his ink ?
But this ambiguity of your Grace's statement deprives it of aU
value as an indication of the course which the proceedings of the
Episcopal Meeting may be expected to take In this respect. At
the utmost, it could only be construed as signifying your Grace's

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OP 1867. 455
personal opinion and wishes to be against occupying the time of
the Meeting with the making of declarations, or the laying down
of definitions on points of doctrine. Some may doubt whether
this is the true construction, especially in the absence of any
•explanation as to the subject of those " common counsels," to
which your Grace looks as " greatly tending to maintain prac
tically the Unity of the Faith." But on the assumption that the
words are to be so understood. It would remain to be seen, when
the Meeting takes place, whether it shares your Grace's opinion
and wishes on this head, or. If it should be otherwise, whether
you would think it right to enforce compliance with your own
opinion and wishes against those of the majority. This would, I
think, be contrary to your Grace's practice, even in assemblies
where your position is one of higher authority than you could
claim over all Bishops of our Communion.
And so we are led to inquire, with some interest, whether
there are any means by which we may conjecture, -with more or
less probability, what are the opinions and feeUngs which are
likely to prevail in the Meeting on this head ? There are two
documents, which have been now for some time pubUc property,
which throw light on this question. The one is the Address to
your Grace from " The Provincial Synod of the United Church of
England and Ireland in Canada, assembled at Montreal, in Sep
tember, 1865," printed In the Appendix to the Bishop of Mon
treal's Sermon, entitled a " A Pan- Anglican Synod." The other
is the Beport of the Committee of the Lower House of Convoca
tion, appointed to consider another Address of the same Canadian
Synod, presented to the Houses of Convocation of the Provinces
of Canterbury and York. In the first of these documents they
describe the " painful " and " intense alarm " which had been
excited in the minds of many members of the Church by two
causes — by the recent decisions of the Judicial Committee of the
Privy Council In the cases of " Essays and Beviews," and also of
the Bishop of Natal and the Bishop of Capetown ; and by the
apprehension "lest the tendency of the revival of the active
powers of Convocation should leave them governed by Canons

456 BISHOP THIRLWALL's LITEEAEY ' EEMAINS.
different Trom those in force In England and Ireland, and thus
cause them to drift into the status of an independent branch of the
Catholic Church — a result which they would at this time most
solemnly deplore ; " and they conclude with an entreaty that your
Grace would " convene a National Synod of the Bishops of the
Anglican Church, at home and abroad, who, attended by one or
more of their Presbyters, or laymen learned in Ecclesiastical law,
as their advisers, may meet together, and under the guidance of
the Holy Ghost, take such counsel, and adopt such measures, as
may be best fitted to provide for the present distress, in such
Synod presided over by your Grace."
I have at present no need to consider whether the prospect of
a difference between two branches of the Church in their respec
tive Canons affords just ground for the " Intense alarm " which
It appears to have excited in Canada. But though the epithet
" intense " may seem stronger than " painful," It cannot, I think,
warrant the supposition that the second of the two causes of alarm
creates more " distress " In the minds of Canadian Churchmen, or
is deemed by them of greater Importance than the first. One may
safely assume that the reverse is the fact, and that the doctrinal
question occupies a much larger and more prominent place in their
view than the question of Canons. And it is clear that the second
cause of alarm cannot in the least weaken the operation of the
other. And so, though there Is a very remarkable difference
between the Address of the Canadian Synod to your Grace, and
that of the same body to our two Convocations, It is not such as to
raise any doubt about the feelings which continue to animate the
Synod, probably -with unabated force. In the second Address,
from whatever cause, which I have never yet heard or seen
explained, the topic of doctrine, which fills so conspicuous a place
in the first. Is entirely omitted ; and the ground assigned for the
wish there expressed for a General, or — we may say — Pan-
Anglican Council, is "the threat of isolation, which recent
declarations in high places have indicated : " that Is, " declara
tions " "in reference to the position of the Colonial branches of
the Mother Church."

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OP 1867. 457"
I must own that I am very much surprised that such terror
should have been excited by that "threat" of what is caUed
"isolation," but which seems to amount to nothing more than
relaxation, or, at the worst, a severance of a political connexion.
And I think that by this time that terror must have been greatly
aUayed, If not entirely removed, by the exceUent Paper published
by the Bishop of Montreal, in the Appendix to his Sermon, In
which his ChanceUor, Mr. Bethune, shows most clearly, that there
is no ground whatever for alarm or anxiety on that score. It was
certainly in no spirit of hostiUty to the Church that the late Secre
tary for the Colonies undertook, by a stroke* of his pen, to sever
the last formal tie by which the Canadian Episcopate remained
dependent on the Crown. And when that noble Lord was caUed
upon to vindicate that proceeding, he was applauded for it by one
of our brethren, in strains to which the chairman of the Libera
tion Society, if he had been present, would have listened with
agreeable surprise, and -with eager assent. It seems almost an
affront to the intelligence and good sense of Canadian Churchmen,
to doubt that they have now recovered their tranquillity of mind
so far as regards the "threat of Isolation," and are fully satisfied
with the " guarantees for maintaining unity of doctrine and dis
cipline between the different scattered branches of our Church in
the Colonies," pointed out by Chancellor Bethune, even without
the last, of a General Council, which he seems to have added, out
of courtesy to the Synod which had so earnestly solicited It in
their Memorials, rather than from his o-wn conviction of Its neces
sity, as he takes care to guard his o-wn opinion -with the significant
proviso, " If more be needed."
Thus, then, it appears that among the various grounds stated
in the two Addresses or Memorials on which the Canadian Synod
rested their request for a General Council, the only one of which
we can presume with any confidence that it has still any weight
in their minds, or that they would now think it worthy to occupy
the attention of the Council, is that which stands foremost in the
Address to your Grace — the question of doctrine. But there Is
no reason whatever to suppose that this has lost anything of its-

458 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITEEAEY REMAINS.
importance or urgency in their eyes. And if we turn to the other
document to which I referred, as affording means for at least a
probable conjecture as to the opinions and feeUngs which are
likely to prevail in the Meeting of September next — the Beport
of the Committee of the Lower H!ouse of Convocation upon the
Canadian Address — we are led to the same conclusion. The Beport
presents this very remarkable fact. The only document which the
Committee had officiaUy before them, the only one which they
were appointed to consider, and of which they were supposed to
have cognizance, was the Address to the two Convocations. Yet,
when they proceed to consider " the principal advantages to be
derived from " such a Council as they think " most to be desired,"
it might seem as if it was the Address to your Grace that was
present to their minds, and the topic first put forward in that
Address, that which had chiefly engaged their attention. For the
first of the principal advantages they enumerate is this : — " To
afford an opportunity for the Churches of the Anglican Com
munion to confer together upon the questions or errors which may
appear in these days to imperil the acceptance of ' the Faith once
deUvered to the Saints.' " There can therefore be no doubt what is
the subject which in the opinion of the Committee, and of aU who
share their views, should take precedence of aU others at the Meeting
in September. It is that suggested by the Address to your Grace,
But could your Grace consistently aUow of such a proceeding ?
Is it desirable, or indeed morally possible, that a great assembly
of Bishops should confer together on question or errors which
appear to imperU the Faith, without even attempting to come to
any conclusion, but so as studiously to avoid doing so ? And yet
how other-wise can they escape the necessity of trenching on that
ground from which they are warned by the Circular to keep
aloof: of "making declarations, or laying down definitions on
points of doctrine," for which your Grace has declared that they
are not " competent?" And then let me request your Grace to
consider for a moment the singular position in which you stand with
regard to the Canadian Synod, Your Grace receives an Address,
to which you return a favourable answer. You finally resolve to

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OF 1867, 459
accede to the wish expressed in it, and even in a larger measure than
the Synod had ventured to hope. But, at the same time that your
Grace announces this resolution, you -virtually exclude from the
deUberations of the Meeting which you have called the one sub
ject which was represented by the Canadian Synod as the main
ground of their request, and which the Committee of the Lower
House of your Convocation rank foremost among the advantages
to be derived from such a CouncU. Is there not reason to fear
that our Canadian brethren may think themselves rather hardly
treated, as if they had asked bread, and your Grace had given
them a stone ? May it not be that they would have felt less dis
appointment if you had withheld the boon which they had so
earnestly solicited, altogether, than now that they receive it
clogged with conditions which must in their estimation deprive It
of almost all Its value ?
I am not even sure that they will assent to your Grace's state
ment as to " competency," In the breadth in which it is laid do-wn
in the Circular. " If indeed " — they might say — " it was a
scientific Congress, we should own that we were not ' competent '
to speak with authority on questions which might be proposed to
it. But we cannot admit that a Synod of Bishops is not com
petent to make declarations of faith, or to lay down definitions on
points of doctrine." Your Grace might reply, that you did not
mean to question their learning or the soundness of their theology,
but only the practical effect of their decisions. They might rejoin
that, so long as they were permitted to bear their testimony to the
truth, they should be content with whatever weight It might have
on the mind of the Church. Perhaps it would turn out that your
Grace and they were reasoning from entirely different standing-
points, which must prevent you from coming to a mutual under
standing : that you were thinking of an Established Church, they
of purely voluntary associations, bound by no law but the wIU of
their members. A proceeding which, from the one point of -view,
might justly seem useless and mischievous, may from the other be
regarded as necessary and highly expedient. That may be a
reason why your Grace should deprecate the introduction of the

460 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERAEY EEMAINS,
subject at the Meeting, but it does not prove that you wUl find
yourself able to exclude it.
The statement that the Meeting " would not be competent " for
one specified purpose, naturally suggests the question, What are
the purposes for which it would be competent ? There are several
as to which its competency Is in every sense unquestionable. It
would be competent to " unite together in the highest acts of the
Church's worship," and In effusions of " brotherly charity." All
present would be competent, according to their various gifts, to
make learned, eloquent, pathetic speeches. The Meeting would
be competent to discuss all manner of questions, speculative and
practical, concerning the Church. Indeed, as to this, the difficulty
would probably be to regulate the discussion, especially as the
Bishops could not weU be drafted into sections, so as to allow a
moderate time for one- tenth of the subjects proposed. I have
already said that I do not deny that all this would be edifying
and profitable. But I cannot admit that any amount or quality
of speech, which does not terminate in some kind of action or
work, is an object sufficient to require or justify the bringing our
whole episcopate together. The question which most interests
me, and which I think deserves your Grace's first attention, is,
for what kind of action or work would the meeting be compe
tent ? I believe It wUl be by Its works, and not by its words,
that It -will be either justified or condemned. But this is a ques
tion which I do not find It easy to answer. It may be said that It
wIU be competent not only to " consider," but to pass Besolutlons
on "many practical questions." But a Besolution, however prac
tical may be the question to which it relates, is no more than a
form of words, and, unless It be carried into effect, an empty form.
A Besolution adopted by the Meeting unanimously might bind
those who were parties to it as long as they continued to hold
the same opinion. The unanimity would perhaps be a sign
of causes at work, which would have produced the same effect if
no such Besolution had been passed. But the vote of the majority
would not bind the minority, still less the absent, to any course of
proceeding at variance with their own convictions.

THE EPISCOPAL MEETING OF 1867. 461
I can assure your Grace that, while offering the foregoing-
observations, I have been quite aware that they may be whoUy
superfluous ; that there may be nothing in them that had not
before occurred to your mind, or that you have not maturely con
sidered. It is possible that you have already taken steps, or at
least conceived a plan, for organizing the business of the Meeting,
so as to guard against all dangers, and to ensure, not only a fugi
tive enjoyment, but some practical, valuable, and abiding results ;
and it may be your Intention to communicate the particulars of this
plan to all whose attendance you have in-vited, before the Meeting
takes place. But as it is only through the Circular that I know
anything of your Grace's designs, I felt myself constrained to
express the doubts and misgivings which it suggested to me, just
as if It was the last communication I had reason to expect on the
subject. I have not yet replied to the invitation contained in the Circular ;
and your Grace -wiU now understand why I am not at present
prepared to do so positively and definitively. It would indeed be
-with extreme reluctance, and only for what appeared to me very
grave reasons, that I should decUne any invitation of your Grace,
and especially one of such a nature, I should accept It with some
repugnance, if I had no better ground than I find in the Circular
to beUeve that the result will be useful or honourable to the
Church. In no case Indeed should I think it right to avail
myself of your Grace's permission "to send in a list of subjects to
you for consideration and discussion." I believe It to be much less
likely that there will be a scarcity of subjects, than that there will
be more than sufficient to fill the allotted time. And the terms of
the invitation are such as rather suggest the idea of a Church
Congress than of a Council of Bishops. And I must say franldy
that, the subjects being given, I should expect the discussion they
receive at a Church Congress, where aU orders and classes of
Churchmen meet, to be more instructive than one In which none
but Bishops take part.
But if I knew, or had reason to believe, that the subjects to be
brought before the Meeting are such as those, the discussion of

462 BISHOP THIELWALL's LITERARY EEMAINS.
which Is considered by the Committee of the Lower House of Con
vocation as among " the principal advantages to be derived from a
Council of the several Churches constituting the Anglican Com
munion ; " If the Meeting is " to confer together upon questions
or errors which may appear in these days to imperil the accept
ance of the Faith once delivered to the Saints ; " if It Is " to pro
vide a broad basis upon which to found attempts to bring about
Intercommunion with other portions of the Church Catholic ; " if
it is " to discuss and affirm the common principle of ' a right
ecclesiastical discipUne,' as 'one of the notes of the true
Church;'" if It is "to consider the principles upon which Con
stitutions and Canons applicable to the whole body of the
Anglican Communion may best be framed ;" if it is "to devise
a course of procedure by which Ministers of the Church, whether
Bishops, Priests, or Deacons, accused of denying the Faith, or
infringing the discipline of the Church, may be duly tried, in a
mode recognised by the whole Communion, as just both to the
accused and to the Church ; " then I should feel myseK obliged
to make some kind of protest against these proceedings, and that
which I should think most consistent with my respect for your
Grace would be to stay away from the Meeting. I am not
anxious to hasten a separation between Church and State ; and,
until that is accomplished, the discussion of such questions —
unless considered as preparing the way for separation — would
appear to me, whether the Meeting Is or is not " competent " to
entertain them, as premature, and much worse than a mere waste
of time. I would fain hope that your Grace may be of the same
opinion. I remain, your Grace's faithful Servant,
C. St. David's.
Aberg-wili Palace, March, 1867.

APPENDIX

APPENDIX.

Speeches of the Bishop op St. Da-vcd's m the Uppeb House op
Convocation op the Peo-vih-oe op Canteebuet, on the Eevision
OP the Bible, deliveeed Peb. 10th, 1870, Airo on Feb. 14th
AND Feb. 16th, 1871 ; togethee -with two Lettees occasioned
BY THE FiEST Speech.

The Bishop op St. David's — I wish to say a very few words on this
question, because, though I assent generaUy to most of what has been
said by the Bishop of Winchester, and am quite prepared to accede to
his motion, my assent does not rest precisely upon the same grounds.
I cannot quite take the same view which he seemed to do as to the
absolute duty of the Church to correct every error which it may find to
exist in the Authorised Version of the Scriptures. It appears to me
that that would involve the necessity of a constant course of revision
and alteration, for which I think we cannot be prepared. And this
leads me to observe that I think the Bishop of Winchester has under
rated some of the objections which have been hitherto made to entering
upon this great undertaking. Let me, however, say that I should
most entirely assent to his proposition if the defects of the Authorised
Version were supposed in any degree to affect the truth of any doctrine
contained in Holy Scripture. Then I should say it was the bounden
duty of the Church not to let an hour pass -without undertaking the
work. But I cannot admit that its importance, great as it is in my
mind, is of that kind. I do not believe that any revision which could
ever be made of the Authorised Version would be found in the
slightest degree to affect any doctrine which the Church holds. There
fore it is not on that ground that I rest my assent to my right rev.
brother's motion. I think it may be said there are three causes which
have hitherto prevented the Church, and those of its members who are
best qualified to judge of the necessity of this undertaking, and who
most feel the imperfection and inadequacy of the Authorised Version,
from recommending that such a work should be undertaken. One of
these I beUeve to be that there has been a very general opinion that the
A-OL. III. II H

466 APPENDIX.
study of Biblical criticism is one which, especiaUy in this country, is
making continual progress, and making fresh and not unimportant
discoveries, and that it was upon the whole more prudent to wait until
it should have reached a more advanced stage, when this undertaking
might have been entered upon with a faUer prospect of complete
success. I beUeve that is a consideration which has influenced not a
few minds amongst those who in general would most ardently have
desired a revision of the Authorised Version. Another objection I
beUeve to be one which my right rev. brother of Winchester appeared
to me to pass over too Ughtly, but which appears to me a very grave
objection indeed, at least one that deserves most mature consideration.
It is, that we might possibly construct and send forth a version of the
Scriptures which would not enjoy such a universal reception as is the
case with the present version ; so that, in fact, there might be such a
thing as a Church Bible and a Dissenting Bible. I think aU my right
rev. brethren will agree with me that this would be an evil for which
scarcely any advantage that could be gained by a new version would
be sufficient to compensate. This induces me to think that an addition
to the resolution of the Bishop of Winchester would be very desirable,
and I do not see why it should not be perfectly practicable, that we
should call in the aid of some of the more eminent and distinguished
among the Dissenters to join in the revision now proposed. I think
great advantage woidd be gained by this, even if it only had the efi^ect
of reconcUing the minds of our Dissenting brethren to the undertaking.
This appears to me, indeed, to be an essential condition of its success.
There is a third objection or difficulty, over which, also, I cannot help
feeUng that my right rev. brother has passed too Ughtly. I must own
it is my beUef that, when the Authorised Version has received aU the
amendments of which it is capable, and which it absolutely requires,
this win be found to have effected a very great change in many parts
of the Bible, and I think one effect of this wUl be that it wiU. deprive
many of the Clergy, and perhaps stUl more of the Dissenting ministers,
of some of their most favourite texts — I mean in reference rather to
their o-wn use than for the teaching of others ; there may be not a few
who would feel that it is really to inflict an injury upon them to make
changes entaiUng this privation, and they may be thus led to feel a
secret objection upon other than the professed grounds to the revision
of the Authorised Version, which may, in fact, lead to serious difficulty.
I may cite as an instance of the way in which I think this would
operate, the words of Haggai, "the desii-e of aU nations," in -n-hich
the phrase of the original does not really apply to a person, but
means "the precious things of all nations," a change which would
prevent many from using it as it is commonly used. Another phrase
which is printed in large capitals, in the portion appointed for the

APPENDIX. 467
Epistle on the Twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity, is "the Lord our
Righteousness," which is well ascertained not to be a correct transla
tion of the original text, and it would only be in a circuitous and
indirect way that the same use could be made of it under a correct
translation as has hitherto obtained. I, however, qiute agree with
the Bishop of Winchester that these are not objections which ought
to prevent us from engaging in such an undertaking, though I cannot
say I am myself affected by a sense of the danger of incurring obloquy
and reproach, as if we were impairing the truth of Qod's Word. That
reproach might be just if the effect of the present Version was to veU
objections which other-wise might arise to the doctrines of the Church.
I do not believe that to be the case, and therefore I should not feel
myself in the least moved by any reproach of the kind. The simple
groimd on which I should desire the revision and improvement, so far
as our present knowledge goes, of the Authorised Version, is, that I
am sure it would be of inestimable advantage and value to the mass
of EngHsh readers, both for pubUc and private reading. I am myself
most deeply impressed with the extent of its imperfection and inade
quacy, and I think a great deal depends upon the question of extent.
We ought not to conceal from ourselves that it wUl very materially
alter the general character of the text of Scripture ; but that is not a
reason for abstaining from the work, but rather the reverse, so long
as we are sure that this alteration wUl have the effect of presenting
to the general reader the mind of Scripture more truly and effectuaUy
than has hitherto been done. On that ground it is that I shaU give
my vote for the resolution. At the same time we must be prepared to
find that the improved version, when it has been made, wUl only gain
ground gradually, though I do not consider that this is any real evil
or objection, but rather a recommendation, since it wiU be less Hkely
to give offence to many. With those limitations I give my cordial
assent to the motion.

LETTERS OCCASIONED BY THE FOEEGOING
SPEECH.

ON THE INTEEPRETATION OF HAGGAI ii. 7.
To the Editor of the Bock. nth March, 1870.
SiE, — I shaU be obUged to you if you wiU have the goodness to
insert in your paper the foUowing remarks on a letter of Mr. Fausset,
which appeared in the Rock of Tuesdaj^, the 1st instant, but which I
only saw in print some days later.
H u2

468 APPENDIX.
I must obseiwe that Mr. Fausset has confined himself to the task of
defending the received version. He has not attempted to point ouf any
objection to that which he rejects, except that he considers it (as I
hope to show, quite erroneously) as Anti-Messianic. He does not deny
that in itself it is perfectly clear and inteUigible, perfectly consistent
-with the rides of Hebrew sjTitax, and in perfect harmony with the
whole context. If, therefore, he had been completely successful in his
attempt to get rid of every objection that has been raised to the received
rendering, he would only have placed the two interpretations on a
footing of equality. But I think he wiU hardly suppose that he has
satisfied those who take an opposite view, as completely as he may
have satisfied himself. And when the question is between two inter
pretations, one of which is free from aU difficulty, whUe the other is
open to such grave objections as to appear to many competent judges
absolutely inadmissible and grammaticaUy impossible, that which is
free from difficulty wUl have a clear claim to preference, though some
thing may be aUeged which may be thought in some degree to weaken
the force of the objections raised against the other. In these matters
we must always be content with something short of mathematical
demonstration, and generaUy with the result of a balance of jiroba-
bUities. Mr. Fausset appears to me to have enoi-mouslj- underrated the
gra-vity of the chief difficulty which he attempts to remove. It is that
which stands third in his enumeration : that of the plural verb. Its
importance would have entitled it to the foremost place, though even
if it had been cleared away, it would have left others standing. To
critics whom Mr. Fausset would neither reject as deficient in Hebrew
scholarship, nor charge -with Anti-Messianic tendencies, it presents the
aspect of a solecism, Uke that which we should have had in the Vulgate,
if it had translated, " Venient desideratus." This is the impression it
made on Hengstenberg, whose words are so apposite to our present
circumstances, and come with such pecuUar weight from such a -writer,
that I cannot forbear quoting them: "The comfort of the heathen"
(Luther's translation, ' da soil denn kommen aUer Heyden Trost') had
struck such deep root in the field of practice, in hymns, sermons, &c.,
that most of the commentators shrank from the thought of abandoning
an interj)retation which had grown so dear to them in a way which was
not that of critical research. Its imtenableness was most distinctly
affirmed by Oal-nn among the early writers, and appears clearly from
the foUo-v\Tng reasons : 1. According to it the plural =1H2 admits of no
justification." {Christologie, ui. i. p. 226.)
So KiJhler {die Weissagimgen Haggai's, p. 72), having observed that
the words which we translate "the desire of aU nations " -were under
stood by Luther and most of the earUer commentators of the Messiah

APPENDIX. 469
proceeds to say, ' ' But this interpretation is utterly impossible (voUig
unmogUch), if it were only because the subject •H'^l?!! has the
plural 1N2 for its predicate ; for this iDoints, by necessary inference,
to the fact, that the subject is conceived as a coUective noun." Turning
homeward, I find that Mr. Whiston, in his Paraphrase of the Minor
Prophets, translates "their desirable things shaU be brought," and
observes in a note, " The above translation is approved by the Septua-
gint, Cal-vin, Houbigant, Heberden, Seeker ; and even Newcome places
it in the margin as the true sense of the Hebrew, though in the text
he foUowed the Received Version ;" and quotes from Heberden, " The
EngUsh translators of the Bible have foUowed the Vulgate against the
plain construction of the Hebrew text, and have differed from aU the
other old translators."
On the same side, as to the present question, are the critics of great
name who prefer rendering "the choicest" or "best" among the
heathen ; to which there is no objection, but the want of harmony
with the context, and the obscurity of the description. In the sense of
"desirable things" the same expression is used, 1 Samuel ix. 20
(where the meaning is fixed beyond question by the contrast with the
asses, and is expressed in the Welsh translation, ' ' hoU bethau dymunol
Israel "), and Daniel xi. 37 ; and Kohler happUy remarks that the use
of r/^u instead of rj^ovai in the Septuagint indicates that to, eKXiKTo.
tS>v (BvSiv refers to things, and not to persons.
With aU this before us, it wiU, I think, hardly be maintained that
the "correction" now under consideration is one of those which can
be properly represented as long ago " weighed by competent scholars,"
"rejected," and exploded. On the contrary, there appears to be a
great preponderance both of authority and of evidence in its favour,
whUe the interpretation which is stULin possession of the Received
Version is constantly losing ground in the field of BibUcal criticism.
AU that Mr. Fausset aUeges in support of his grammatical paradox
is that "the masculine verb 1W3, joined to a feminine coUective noun,
plainly intimates that not mere abstract desUableness, but the desirable
man is meant." The question, however, is not as to abstract desirable
ness, but as to the concrete, desirable things. The intimation which
Mr. Fausset thinks so plain was before the eyes of Hengstenberg,
Kohler, and the rest, and to them it was so far from plain that they
did not perceive it at aU. This plainly shows that it is a mere sub
jective arbitrary fancy ; but untU this capital point is settled, it would
be premature and useless to discuss those which precede it in Mr.
Fausset's Ust. I have no dispute with him on either ; and as to (2), I
shoidd freely admit that, when it is once ascertained that the Messiah
is designated by the words translated "the desire of aU nations,"
Mr. Fausset's explanation may weU be accepted as in itself con-

470 APPENDIX.
sistent with the truth, though there would stUl remain the difiiculty,
that according to it the meaning is expressed by a description so
obscure in itself, without a paraUel in the Old Testament, and at the
same time so directly and inevitably suggestive of a totaUy different
sense. But (4) leads me to remark that Mr. Fausset himself beUeves that
the prophecy is to be fulfiUed exactly in the way described according
to the interpretation which he rejects. "Then," he says, "shaUthe
nations bring those precious offerings which now ye so much miss."
What, then, -with regard to Messianic propheoj', is the difference between
the two interpretations ? Simply that in the one there is no express
reference to the coming of the Messiah. That omission might be of
some importance if Haggai were the only prophet of the Old Testa
ment. But there can be no doubt that he and his readers were famiUar
with the writings of the elder prophets. They knew that the " jprecious
offerings of the nations " involved tho previous coming of the Messiah,
that it was when "the Redeemer had come to Zion" (Isaiah Ux. 20)
that the influx of " the desirable things " described in chapter Ix. was
to ensue. In a word, the doctrine which Mr. Fausset strives to estabUsh
by artifices of interpretation, which tends to bring our BibUcal criticism
into discredit, is contained, though not directly, yet by clear and neces
sary impUcation, in the rendering which he stigmatizes as Anti-
Messianic, though both in itself, and in the view of those who adopt it,,
it is not one whit less Messianic than his own. The interests of
" revealed truth " are not in the remotest degree concerned in the
question. When I spoke of "favourite texts," I Uttle expected that
my forebodings would be so soon and so signaUy reaUsed. The
anxiety and alarm which have been expressed on the subject are^
indeed, truly deplorable. But I do not feel that it is I who am
answerable for them.
Having occupied so much of j-our space, and being myself at present
pressed for time, I must defer the consideration of the passage ia
Jeremiah to a future occasion. I am, Sir, yours, &c., C. St. David's.
Aberq-wili Palace, Carmarthen.

APPENDIX. 471
THE BISHOP OF ST. DAVID'S ON JEREMIAH xxiii. 6.
To the Editor of the Rock. March, 1870.
SiE, — I must now ask you to afford room for a few remarks on
Jeremiah xxiii. 6.
I wiU set out from a passage as to which there is no doubt, in the
- hope that it wiU be found to throw Ught on that which is in dispute.
Ezekiol closes his prophecy with the new name of the New Jerusalem :
" The name of the city from that day shaU be, The Lord is there : "
Jehovah- Shamtnah. Here there can be no question either as to the con
struction, that our translators have rightly inserted the copula, or as to
the meaning of the name, which is equivalent to the Lord's dwelling-
place — the City of the Divine presence.
Now, if we compare this name with that of Jehovali-Tzidlcenu in Jere
miah xxxiii. 16, it seems clear that the construction is exactly the
same ; that the two words do not stand in apposition, but in the relation
of subject and predicate ; that the meaning is, not the Lord {ivho is)
our righteousness, but the Lord {is) our righteousness. It is a sym
bolical name, expressing the facts that in the Messianic time Jehovah
is to be the righteousness of Jerusalem, to bestow righteousness upon
her, with aU its attendant blessings. According to the other construc
tion, the name Jehovah would be given to Jerusalem.
And then, when we proceed to consider xxiu. 6, the first question is,
why should it be supposed that the construction in the one place is
different from that in the other ? The burden of proof certainly rests
^\ith those who maintain what is intrinsicaUy so very improbable.
Niigelsbach (in Lange's Bihelwerh) observes that Jeremiah is his own
best interpreter, and infers that as xxxiii. 16 undoubtedly relates to
Jerusalem, so xxiii. 6 must relate to Israel. This is also Ewald's
opinion. But I prefer that of Hengstenberg {Christologie, ii. p. 464),
who refers the suffix, for which he justly contends as indispensable,
not to Israel, though this is the immediate antecedent, but to the
King who " shall reign and prosper, and shaU execute judgment and
justice in the earth." To me, Kowever, it appears that this is not the
material point, and that it has diverted attention from the really
important question, which is not whether the suffix is to be referred to
Israel or to the King, but what is the true construction of the name,
to whichever it is appUed ; whether, consistently with analogy, it can
1 10 considered in any other Ught than that of a sentence, compendiously
describing the Messianic condition of a people whose righteousness is
the Lord, who " in the Lord have righteousness" (Is. xiv. 24). It is
in substance exactly equivalent to Ezekiel's Jehovah- Shammah ; for

472 APPENDIX.
where the Lord dweUs, there dweUs righteousness — and to that winch
the Psahnist says of the " City of God," that " God is in the midst of
her " (Ps. xlvi. 5). That is her name, the description of her true cha
racter and condition, more fuUy expounded (Rev. xxi. 3, 4). (Com
pare also Ezek. xUii. 7.)
There is a historical fact which seems to me strongly to confirm
this conclusion. It has been observed by many, and recently by Pro
fessor Plumptre in his Billical Studies, p. 54, that the weak and
unprincipled Zedekiah most probably assumed that name with refer
ence to Jeremiah's prophecy ; but it is impossible to conceive that he
meant by this to take to himself the name of Jehovah. AU that he
could have imagined was, that he might be the king in whose reign
the promise was to be fulfilled.
I therefore submit that the sense of the passage is not correctly ren
dered without the insertion of is in itaUcs. The Lord is our righteous
ness. This would perhaps render the text less serviceable for the use
which is commonly made of it, but it would not in the sUghtest degree
affect its appUcation to Him who was "made unto us righteousness "
(1 Cor. i. 30). With this very sUght modification it would remain (in
the words of Professor Plumptre, u. s. p. 55) "true at once of the
Divine King and of the New Jerusalem, the city of the U-ving God,
that the one should be caUed by the name of the Lord our Righteous
ness, and the other accept it as the law of its existence."
I am, SU, yoiu's, &c., C. St. David's.
Aberg-wili Palace, Carmarthen.

THE REVISION OF THE SCRIPTURES.— " THE WEST
MINSTER SCANDAL."
A Speech delivered in the Upper House of Convocation on
February 14th, 1871.
The Bishop op St. David's — I think I may venture to say there is
none of your lordships — I might even add, no one Uving — who is more
perfectly disengaged than myself from everything in the nature of per
sonal interest of any kind in the matter, for my share of it has been
stiietly limited to the part I took in the debate on the general question
when it was before the House. It may be in the recoUection of several
of your lordships that I stated some of the objections which had actuaUy
been made to a Re-vision, and the drift of what I said was, how desirable
it was to engage the assistance of aU the other reUgious bodies of the

APPENDIX. 473
country in the work, and that without such assistance the undertaking
could have but a very sUght chance of general success, and might lead
to mischievous divisions and schism on the subject. After that time I
had no opportunity of being present at any meeting of the Committee,
or on any subsequent occasion when the matter was discussed. With
regard to what has been caUed the Westminster scandal, I never
inquired into it. I never knew what had happened until I saw it in
the newspapers, and never had an opportunity of expressing any
opinion on the subject, and it is not my intention now to express any
opinion, because I conceive that is a matter entUely unconnected with
the question before us. Whatever my opinion on the subject may be
— whether I thought it something to be highly approved of or strongly
disapproved of, my view of the question before us would be the same.
At the same time I cannot help mentioning the impression on rdy mind
-with regard to what occurred. It appeared that if it had not been for
that incident it was highly probable that no step would have been
taken with a view to the alteration of the resolution which had been
adopted. And I could not help observing another fact which struck
me very much. I do not mean to say that any one has expressed any
thing beyond his genuine feeling — and I believe many persons have
been shocked by what is caUed the Westminster scandal — but I think
the persons who expressed themselves most strongly in that sense were
persons who disapproved of the revision altogether. I cannot help
feeling some Uttle doubt as to the broad fact laid do-wn by the Bishop
of Winchester respecting the general unanimity on the subject. I can
not say I have yet heard anything that convinces me that there is such
unanimity of opinion in deprecating the appointment of a person or
persons holding Unitarian or Socinian -views to a place in the Old or
New Testament Company. I think the very fact that a Unitarian was
elected to be a member of the New Testament Company by a number
of Bishops is a conclusive proof on the point that opinions are divided.
But whether a majority, and an overwhelming majority, is on one side
or the other, must be something very difficult to ascertain. We have
heard of the opinions expressed by the American Bishops, and I was
struck, as the Bishop of Winchester was speaking, with one expression
— the Westminster scandal. I thought that appUed to the in-vitation
given to the Unitarian, but I did not clearly understand whether in
the letter which he read he aUuded to the solemnity, or to the invitation
to become a member of the Committee.
The Bishop op Winchestee — I meant emphaticaUy the in-ritation of
a man who denied the Godhead of Christ to attend at the celebration
of the Holy Communion in Westminster Abbey.
The Bishop op St. David's — I am glad to hear that, because it
greatly simplifies the question. I do trust, and fuUy expect, that such

474 APPENDIX.
an in-ritation wUl never be repeated, and that we shaU resolve that it
shaU not be repeated with our consent. That is a fact belonging to
the past, and it is not worth whUe to express my o-wn feelings on the
subject. I think I should be going out of my way to do so. My great
object is to confine the question to that which I conceive to be the real
point in the debate. I have listened -with great attention to the speech
of the Bishop of Winchester, and to that of the Bishop of London, but
neither of them adverted for one moment to that which I conceive to
be the point on which the whole question turns. Perhaps I ought to
take some degree of shame to myself ; but it is a fact that, having in
process of time to take a share in the meetings of the Old Testament
Company, a great many gentlemen were unknown to me both by person
and by name. I knew nothing whatever of them as to then- reUgious
opinions. They might have been Unitarians, Deists, or Atheists for
anything I knew ; but it never occurred to me that that had anything to
do with the matter. I considered them merely in the light of eminent
scholars, who were capable by their learning and ability of conducing
to the success of the work on which they were engaged. Whatever
I had heard of their private religious opinions would not have altered
my opinion on that point. I do not see how the divergences of the
Unitarian doctrines, whatever they may be, — for the names of Socinian
and Unitarian comprise such an infinity of varieties that it is impossible
to apply the same language to the opinions of the whole body, — I do
not see why the divergence of opinion from the doctrines of the Church
renders them, or any eminent scholar belonging to their body, less
capable of expressing their opinions and affording very valuable assist
ance in the work. That pouit has not been touched upon, and that
seems to me to be the only point on which the whole question turns.
But if there is anything of the kind, I want to know how it is that it
does not apply to the admission of Jews to the Old Testament Company.
It has been assumed that there is no objection to the admission of Jews
to that body. I should have imagined that questions verging to the
same point of our Lord's Di-rinity are involved in the interpretation
of the Old Testament ; and that in the interpretation of the prophecies
there are divergences of opinion only less important than the departure
of Unitarians from the orthodox doctrines of the Chiu-ch. When I
hear any explanation how and why it is that the pecuUarities of the
Unitarian or Socinian prevent one who holds these opinions from con
tributing his share to the general work of re-vision, I shaU know on
what grounds I am gi-ving my vote. I rise for the present, not pledg
ing myself absolutely one way or the other, but for the purpose of
calling your lordship's attention to that which I consider the main —
the one point, 'but which has been entUely omitted in what I have
heard in the course of the debate ; and I trust I shaU be foUowed by

APPENDIX. 475-
some speaker who wUl enable me to form a judgment, and to show
what are the opinions which, however it may render it unpleasant and
uncomfortable for many of us to meet in the same room -with those who
hold them, incapacitate those persons from rendering the assistance
that may be rendered by eminent scholars in the revision of the Autho
rised Version of the Old or the New Testament.

Speech delivered in the Upper House of Convocation on
February 16th, 1871.
The Bishop op St. Da-vid's — Before I proceed to move the resolu
tion of which I gave notice yesterday, it is absolutely necessary for my
purpose that I should trespass for a very few moments on your lord
ships' time with some explanation of the motives which have led me
to take this step ; and I must remind your lordships, and inform those
of oiu" right rev. brethren who were not at the time members of our
body, that I stand in a very pecuUar position on this subject. I had
the honour of seconding the motion of my right rev. brother the
Bishop of Winchester when he moved the adoption of the report which
contained the five resolutions, the fifth* of which has been the subject
of our debates this Session. I am therefore, if it were only in that
respect, pecuUarly pledged to these resolutions ; but if there was one
of them to which I was more pecuUarly pledged than another, it is
that which has now undergone a material alteration. And on looking
back at the report of our debates, I observe that the Bishop of Win
chester, in the latter part of his speech in moving the adoption of these
resolutions, said, "This Committee of our body wUl have fuU powei-
to bring to its aid aU the external learning it can find." In seconding-
that motion, I not only gave impUcit assent to that statement as a
recommendation to the Committee, but I find that when the subject
was again brought before this House on the 10th of February I made
these observations: "This induces me to think that the addition to ¦
tho resolution of the Bishop of Winchester would be very desirable,
and I do not see why it should not be perfectly practicable that we
should caU in the aid of some of the more eminent and distinguished
amongst the Dissenters to join in the Revision now proposed. I think
great advantage would be gained by this, even if it only had the effect
of reconciUng the minds of our Dissenting brethren to the undertaking.
[* The fifth resolution was as foUo-ws : — " That it ia desirable that Convocation
shall nominate a body of its o-wn members to undertake the -work of revision, -which
shall be at liberty to invite the co-operation of any eminent for scholarship, to -what
ever nation or religious body they may belong."]

476 APPENDIX.
This appears to me, mdeed, to be an essential condition of its success."
I think, therefore, I may truly say that no one can be more fiiUy
pledged to that principle which appears to have been repudiated by
the resolution* which was passed by your lordships yesterday than I
am. But, independently of my personal connexion with the subject, I
must venture to say that I very much lament that resolution, in the
first place, as being utterly unnecessary for the object, the sole object
assigned for it, resting on a very narrow basis, on a single point, but
covering a very large space, and without any reason that I heard
assigned for that apparent inconsistency. I must also say that, in my
judgment, this resolution, whether it be right or whether it be wrong,
has materiaUy altered the position of every member of the Revision
Company. Its tendency, and in my opinion its ine-ritable consequence,
has been to introduce distrust and suspicion in the place of mutual
confidence and respect. It would be impossible for me ever again to
attend one of these meetings with those feeUngs of entire cordiaUty
and confidence with which I have hitherto attended them. But,
besides that, I think its tendency is to mar in a most material and
important degree the character of the work itself — to damage and
discredit it, and that for the very ob-rious reason which was assigned
by the President himself, when he expressed his intention of seconding
the resolution. He adverted to that point which must have been
manifest to everybody, that there was a view of the subject, the effect
•of which was to lead the pubUc, the laity, persons -without, to beUeve
that we were afraid of ha-ving Dissenters of a particular denomination
in our company, because it might have the effect of spoUing our work.
The Peesident — I did not exactly say that.
The Bishop op St. David's— That is my recoUection. But I think I
cannot be mistaken as to the observations made by the Bishop of
Exeter to the same effect.
The Bishop op Exetee signified his assent.
The Bishop op St. DA-nn's— As I rose thUd in the debate, I thought
it best not to pledge myself as to my vote, but to wait for an answer
to what seemed to me a palpable and decided objection to the resolu
tion. The answer was promised by the Bishop of Winchester, but he
did not give me any satisfaction on that point, nor did I hear anything
like an answer to my question, which was, in what way the particular
[* This resolution, which was proposed by the Bishop of Winchester, -svas : —
" That it is the judgment of this House that it is not expedient that any person -who
denies the Godhead of our Lord Jesus Chi-ist should be invited to join either Com
pany to which is committed the revision of the Authorised Version of Holy Scripture ;
and that it is further the judgment of this House that any such person now in either
Company shall cease to act therewith ; and that this resolution be communicated to
"the Lower House, and their concurrence required."]

APPENDIX. 477
opinions of a Unitarian, however wide their divergence from the
doctrines of the Church — why his flagrant heresy — 1 do not care in
what terms you describe it — shoidd render his learning, abiUty, and
scholarship unavaUing for the purpose of giving useful help to the
Company. I must say that I never heard any answer to that question.
I conceive, therefore, that this resolution is open to every possible
objection that can be made to it. It is utterly needless ; it is positively
mischievous, as most injuriously affecting the position of every member
of the two Companies, and as inevitably throwing discredit on and
effecting damage to the work itself. Considering this, and -with the
light thrown upon it by the language which I heard in the course of
the debate — and I would say more especiaUy that which feU from one
of my right rev. brethren as to the danger of compromise — it became
to me a matter of very serious and anxious reflection whether it was
possible for me, under these circumstances, consistently to remain a
member of the Old Testament Company. I have come to the conclu
sion that it would not be consistent with that which I owe to myself,
that it would not be consistent with that which I owe to others whose
views and feeUngs I share, and who beUeve themselves to have been
deeply aggrieved by this resolution, if I were to retain my place in that
Company. I think it is absolutely necessary that I should make the
strongest and most emphatic protest in my power against an alteration
of the fifth resolution of which I so utterly disapprove, and I know of
no way in which I can make that protest so pointedly and so effec
tuaUy as by resigning my place in that Company. I can assure your
lordships that I have not come to this resolution without deep search
ings of heart, without great reluctance, without great pain : for
although my attendance at the meetings which have hitherto taken
place has been given by myself and my right rev. brethren at con
siderable sacrifice of time and labour and aU kinds of inconvenience,
yet I have been amply repaid by the great pleasiu-e, instruction, and
benefit which I have derived from the meetings which I have had the
privUege of attending. And I think it is due to those with whom I
have hitherto been associated, to say that my experience has had the
effect of strengthening my conviction of the great value and impor
tance of the undertaking itself, and of the utter futiUty of aU the
objections that I have heard raised against it, which I am persuaded
would never have occurred to any one who had enjoyed the same
experience that I and my right rev. brethren have had of the, practical
working of the undertaking. Therefore, my lords, it is to me a most
painful sacrifice to make. I also think it right to take the oj)portunity
of bearing my testimony, in common with my right rev. brethren who
are my coUeagues in this Company, to the admUable and exceUent
spirit which has pervaded the meetings, and which was to my mind a

478 APPENDIX.
-guarantee of the harmony and good feeUng which would continue to
prevaU to the end. But aU these considerations I feel ought to give
way to the duty which I owe to myseU, and to those who consider
-themselves, and most justly, speciaUy aggrieved by this alteration,
which has led me most reluctantly to the decision that I cannot longer
remain a member of that Company. I may observe by the way, that
this has been the simple result of my own very anxious consideration
of the subject, and that this is the first time I have breathed to any
human being a hint of the intention which I have now expressed.
I felt at the same time that there was a duty which I owed to the
Church on the subject, and it seemed to me that although it was
impossible to undo the mischief that has been done, it was possible to
mitigate it. It is with this view, and not from any personal feeling,
that I drew up the resolution which I yesterday read to your lordships.
I do not affect to disguise from myself, nor do I wish to conceal from
your lordshijjs, that in my judgment the resolution which I am going
to propose is utterly inconsistent with that which your lordships
adopted yesterday by a great majority. It is to my own mind perfectly
olear that the two resolutions proceed on directly opposite principles.
The principle of the resolution of yesterday was that tbe true bond of
union amongst persons engaged in such an undertaking was a perfect
agreement in reUgious doctrines. I think I observe the assent of the
Bishop of Lincoln to that proposition. I wish it to be clearly under-
¦stood that I mean my resolution to be the expression of a totaUy
different principle, — that I mean to deny that which is involved
and expressed in the resolution passed yesterday ; and it is because
I conceive the two resolutions to be directly opposed to one another
that I am now going to move this. WhUe I fuUy admit that agree
ment in doctrine is for many purposes, and those the highest of aU,
the most important bond of union, I say that for the special purpose
of the revision of the translation of the Scriptures it is not the true
bond of union ; but that the true bond of union is a common purpose
amongst those engaged in the work of setting to it with a single eye
to the accuracy and adequacy of the translation. I conceive these two
principles are entirely incompatible. There may be an assembly of
persons perfectly agreeing in doctrine, but that agreement in doctrine
would afford no guarantee whatever of their being animated by that
spirit which I consider as the indispensable bond of union. So far
irom that, the history of the Church from the earUest times to the
present day shows that such a body is open to the temptation of
warping the letter of Scripture, — of -wresting it into a conformity with
their o-wn views, — of substituting that which they wished and hoped
to see written for that which they actuaUy find. And I cannot help
-thinking that if the venerable shade of Bishop Andrewes, which has

APPENDIX. 479
been so often invoked on this occasion, were actuaUy to return for a
few moments to the earth, and could observe the enormous difference,
the enormous change, that has taken place in the state of things since
his time, it is by no means so clear to me as it appears to be to the
Bishop of Lincoln, that Bishop Andrewes would have so strongly con
demned the constitution of the body which actuaUy exists. I don't
think he was a man so destitute of practical sense, or of so Uttle con
sistency as not to perceive that change of circumstances, or not to aUow
his practice to be in some degree governed by it. I have now explained
the occasion and the motives which have led me to take the step of
submitting this resolution to your lordships. When I read it yesterday
I was highly gratified to find that it commended itself at once to two
of my right rev. brethren, and that seemed to me to be a favourable
presage or omen of the reception it was Ukely to meet with from your
lordships. It would be in the highest degree gratifying to me, because
I think it would serve the cause of truth, if your lordships should
adopt the resolution unanimously ; but I say with the highest respect
for your lordships that if the contrary were to be the case — if it should
not be supported, or even seconded, I should stUl feel that which I
value more than your lordships' unanimous assent — the conviction that
I have on a very important occasion deUvered my own soul, and con
tributed what I could to lessen the mischief which I conceive to have
been done to the interests of the Church and the cause of truth by the
unfortunate resolution which was adopted yesterday. I now beg to
move —
' ' That, notwithstanding the restriction introduced into the fifth reso
lution, this House does not intend to give the slightest sanction or
countenance to the opinion that the members of the Revision Companies
ought to be guided by any other principle than the desire to bring the
translation as near as they can to the sense of the original texts ; but,
on the contrary, regards it as their duty to keep themselves as much
as possible on their guard against any bias of preconceived opinions
or theological tenets in the work of Revision."

The Bishop op St. David's — I wUl say but a few words with regard
to that which personaUy concerns myself. It is simply that if it wore
a matter of mere personal feeUng and of that which I owe to myself —
if I were the only party concerned — the sUghtest intimation of a wish,
not merely of the whole of this House, but of any considerable number
of my right rev. brethren, and particularly of those with whom I have
been associated in the Re-rision Company, would have been to me an

480 APPENDIX.
obUgation and a request which I should have felt myseU bound to
comply with. But what I cannot do, and what I should be obliged to
do if I were to continue a member of the Re-rision Company, is to be
wanting in that which I conceive to be due from me to others. That is
something which I feel I have no right to dispose of. I think, I say,
that it is due to those whose -views and feeUngs on this subject I share,
and who beUeve themselves to have been deeply aggrieved by the reso
lution adopted yesterday — it is that which I consider is due to them
which seems to me to put it out of my power to recaU that determina
tion which I have announced. I may say that it has cost me a great
deal of anxious reflection, and that if I had not felt that I had defi
nitively made up my mind, I should have thought it most improper to
have announced my intention in this pubUc way. I cannot, however,
help adverting to one point which has been raised by my right rev.
brother the Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol, which is a very material
one, and important to be generaUy understood. My right rev. brother
conceives that not-withstanding yesterday's resolution it is in the power
of either Company to obtain aU the external aid that they desire for the
purpose of their undertaking. No-n% I venture to say that that ia not
the case, and that it is inconsistent -with what my right rev. brother
has himseU laid down in a most valuable Uttle work on the subject of
the Revision, because one of the points on which he most strongly
dwelt was the indispensable necessity of oral communication and dis
cussion for the purpose of the Revision. Nothing that can be obtained
in the way to which he now refers can answer the purpose of that free
oral discussion, and therefore we are not obtaining aU the fuUest
assistance that we might have from scholars who are not members of
the Companies. That, I think, is a point that was rather overlooked by
my righ-t rev. brother opposite, the Bishop of Norwich, who appeared
to think that the purpose might be just as weU answered by corre
spondence as by personal communication. Perhaps I am nUstaken in
what feU from him, but I think it important that this should be borne
in mind — that imder the resolution adopted yesterday it wUl not be in
the power of either Company to obtain the fuUest assistance which they
may require for their undertaking.

APPENDIX. 481

NOTES ON CONTEMPOEAET QUESTIONS.*

De. Littledaie's Article on "Church Paeties."
(Contemporary Eeview for July, 1874 — page 317.)
In this article I find myself reckoned among the most conspicuous
members of "the Broad Church school."
I should be weU content to accept this designation of myseU, under
. protest ; to do so absolutely, I must .first know what it means.
When I consider that the Church of Jesus Christ was a broad
Church in comparison with the Jewish Church : that the Sermon on
the Mount was distinguished by the breadth of its teaching from aU
that the disciples had before heard : that it was the ministry of a
Church too broad even for some Christians of that day, for which St.
Paul exchanged "the most straitest sect" of the reUgion in which he
had been brought up : — remembering aU this, I cannot bring myself
to treat "Broad Church " as a term of reproach.
Let others interpret it as they wiU, to me it does not appear an
appropriate description of any existing " school," party, or body, held
together by a common set of theological tenets. I understand it as
signifying a certain stamp of individual character, which I would
describe as a disposition to recognise and appreciate that which is true
and good under aU varieties of forms, and in persons separated from
one another by the most conflicting opinions.
There is an opposition which aU educated men more or less clearly
understand between High Church and Low Church, but there is none
between Broad Church and either. The proper antithesis to'Broad is
not High or Low, but Narrow. It would be monstrous presumption,
and utterly inconsistent with Broad Church principles according to my
view, for any school or party to pretend to the monopoly of this title,
as if there were no Broad Churchmen to be found out of its own Uttle
circle. I hope and beUeve that there are numbers who have a rightful
claim to it, among those who only profess to belong to one or other of
the two great sections of the Church.
I should be sorry to think that Dr. Littledale himseU was so com
pletely aUen from the thing as his polemical -writings may seem to
indicate, however ho may detest the name. Viewing it in this Ught,
he could hardly deem it matter of rejoicing that the party appears to be
dwindling away, and the time approaching when it -wiU cease to have
any notable representative in the Church of England. It may be
added that from this point of view his requirements of distinct proofs
* Keprinted from the Contemporary Review for October, 1875.
VOL. III. II

482 APPENDIX.
of productive energy in the Broad Church appear almost ludicrously
irrelevant. There is no reason why it should not, or proof that it does
not, according to its means, take its fuU share in every labour of love
which commends itseU to its judgment. The only reasonable question
is, whether its influence, so far as it reaches, is wholesome or not :
which seems as much as to ask, whether charity and toleration are
good or bad things. Dr. Littledale's view of the subject must be- very
wide indeed of this : for he measures the value of an adherent of the
Broad Church "camp" by his pugnacity, and the efficiency of the
party by its "fighting strength." This to me is something new and
strange, and quite at variance with my own conception of the state of
the case. It may be unavoidable, especiaUy at this day, that a Broad
Church -writer should be more or less forced into controversy, but it
wUl be either in seU-defence or for the purpose of amicable mediation.
He has no standing quarrel with High Church or Low Church, though
he could not consent to attach himself to either. He claims the right
of taking up a position of his own, which he may be prepared to main
tain without -wishing to disturb the convictions of others.
I do not, however, mean to represent the note of Broad Churchman-
ship as consisting simply in a certain charitable and conciUatory dis
position. No doubt it also impUes an inteUectual pecuUarity, which
parts it aUke from the High and the Low School. What this is I
would rather iUustrate by example than attempt exactly to define. I
would name among those of past time Bishop Jeremy Taylor, and
among those of my o-wn generation Archdeacon Hare, as furnishing a
sufficient iUustration of my meaning. To Dr. Littledale, and perhaps
to aU whose minds are differently constituted, this pecuUarity wiU
appear as a deplorable natural infirmity, or as the result of a -vicious
education. But they are labouring under a gross delusion if they
beUeve that it admits of being remedied by any such process as
Dr. Littledale suggests. He thinks that the deficiencies of the Broad
Church teaching are the effects of ignorance, which might be corrected
by a deeper study of theology. And he asserts that " theology grows
clearer with advancing knowledge." If that means that, as knowledge
advances, more becomes known, all I suppose would bow to the oracle.
But if it means that as theology becomes more definite and systematic,
it carries deeper conviction of its truth to minds which have ever been
used to discriminate between that which is human and that which is
divine in it, it would hardly be possible to frame a proposition running
more directly counter to aU the results of my study of ecclesiastical
history, and to those of my personal experience.
To hold a prominent place in such a brotherhood as answers to my
conception of the Broad Church would to me appear a most en-riable
distinction. I have only to lament that I can lay no claim whatever

•APPENDIX, 483
to such an honour. But, on the other hand, it is a satisfaction to me to
know, that if there is a party in the Church which has been guUty of
" sleight-of-hand " tricks, and has played "fast and loose with truth,"
I at least am not one of its "leaders " or its members, have never been
admitted into its councUs, and, but for Dr. Littledale, should not have
kno-wn of its existence.
August, 1874.

De. Littledade's Article on " Ecclesiastioai; Vestments."
(Contemporary Eeview for March, 1875— pages 686, 591, 592.)
De. LiTTLEDAiiE appears to have overlooked the note by Valeslus,
quoted by Bingham, vol. i. p. 118, and also the obvious general con
sideration, that either St. John's example was foUowed by the other
Apostles, in which case it would not have attracted any special notice,
or, if peculiar to him, must be assigned to some other motive than that
supposed by Dr. Littledale. I think it ought to be dropped from the
controversy, as incapable of any satisfactory explanation (? as a
legend). Dr. Littledale appears to have overlooked that most important and
decisive passage in the Epistle of St. James, from which it is evident
that the eo-^ijs Aa/x7rpa.of the priest was no more splendid vestment than
that which was worn by every wealthy member of the congregation,
and was only distinguished from those of the other worshippers by
its superior neatness and cleanliness. Vide St. James's Epistle, ii. 3 ;
Zech. iu. 3, 4, Septuagint. (Page 578.)
This proposition rests upon the assumption that an ornate and
gaudy worship is that which is most congenial to the spirit of true
piety and devotion, and that one destitute of such accessories must be
in proportion careless and irreverent. The history of aU Protestant
Churches may be safely charged with the refutation of this astonishing
assumption. It might also seem that, if it is the business of the
Church to educate her chUdren, it must be one of her most important
duties to elevate their taste from the lower to the higher kinds of
jesthetical enjoyment, to wean them from the natural cra-ving for
pomp and gUtter, and to accustom them to find satisfaction in the
higher arts of architecture, music, and religious oratory, which have,
in fact, been always found sufficient to supply the wants of edl classes
of worshippers, and of the simplest, as well as the most cidtivated
minds. April, 1875.
I i2

484

APPENDIX.

On a Seemon on "Hea-ven," peeached by the Rectoe at St.
Maet's, Bathwick, on Teinity Sunday, May 23, 1875.
It is hard to beUeve that those who claim the authority of the Book
of Revelation for Ritualistic worship can have duly considered the
difficulties which this argument ["our service is a rehearsal of the
endless service of saints and angels " — Vide Sermon] involves.
(1.) AU the rest of the New Testament clearly favours the opinion
that every kind of Christian worship is aUke acceptable to God, pro
vided it be offered in the spirit of true devotion ("in spirit and in
truth "). But, if the point is to be decided by the authority of the
Apocalypse, this opinion is erroneous. Eor God wUl have declared a
decided preference of a mode of worship as stately and gorgeous as
the circumstances of the worshippers permit.
(2.) And from this flows another conclusion, which many wiU flnd
it difficult to accept. A very great number of the most earnest and
sincere Christians in the world find this RituaUstic worship repugnant
to their religious feelings.
This might have been considered as a harmless prejudice ; but, if
the authority of the Apocalypse is rightly invoked, such Christians are
not only in error, but in sin ; for they stand convicted of rejecting or
disregarding the declared WiU of God ; and churches which enjoin or
sanction such modes of worship must be guUty of an abuse of their
authority, in the ordering of the forms of pubUc worship, and of with
holding from God that which is His due, and which He has declared
Himself to desire.
(3.) The consideration of the heavenly worship cannot be severed
from that of the heavenly blessedness ; the Revelation is either history
or parable. If it is to be taken as a simple record of matter of fact
within the writer's experience. Heaven is a place of circumscribed
dimensions, within which certain proceedings are constantly going on ;
its enjoyments may be infinitely p-urer than those of the Mahommedan
paradise, but they are essentiaUy of the same nature, sensuous,
though not sensual, consisting mainly of splendid scenery and deUcious
music. This, to many minds, wiU probably present a stUl greater difficulty.
It is an edifying and fruitful topic for a sermon, that the wicked, even
if they were admitted into heaven, would find no pleasure there, as aU
its highest enjoyments would be repugnant to their habits and pur
suits ; but no discreet preacher would represent an inteUigent taste for
the fine arts as an indispensable condition of everlasting happiness.
The lowest and narrowest conception of the heavenly blessedness,
though it is to be feared it is the most popular, is that which makes it
consist, not in any increase of knowledge, not in any enlargement of

APPENDIX. 485
our sphere of action, not in any multipUcation of the objects of our
benevolent affections, but in an everlasting hymn-singing.
(4.) The whole argument is based upon the assumption, that the
author of the Apocalypse could not have intended his vision to be a
mere vehicle of truths which he deemed needful for the comfort and
direction of the Church in his day, -without desiring or expecting that
it should be regarded in any other Ught. How far Dr. Littledale may
have committed himself to such a proposition, I do not know ; but I
beUeve that it is generaUy held by writers and preachers of his school.
It is one which, being incapable of proof, is sufficiently refuted by a
simple contradiction.
May, 1875.

Me. Oeby Shipley's Aetiolb, "Ought -wn to obey the New
COIJET ? "
(Contemporary Ee-view for June, 1875.)
This article ought not to be considered as a mere discussion of an
•ecclesiastical question ; it is a great deal more than that. It is a con
clusion of the efforts, which the author has been making for so many
years, to effect the disruption of the Church of England. It is not so
much a Word as an Act. The author himself can hardly expect that
it shoidd produce any effect upon minds that have not aUeady adopted
his -views, completely identified the Church with the priesthood, and
refused to aUow the laity any voice, even upon questions of mere out
ward ceremonial. It is apparently meant as the blast of a trumpet
giving the signal for action. Time only can show whether the author
has or has not been too sanguine in his hopes of an approaching Dis-
estabUshment. But it is possible that he may not have greatly over
rated the strength of his party, though it can hardly be considered as
more than a section of one more numerous and powerful. But if his
wishes should be fulfiUed, the most probable effect would be that the
Church would be broken up into two or three fragments, each claim
ing the name of the " National Church; " but one of them, at least,
bearing a Uke proportion as the Church of the Nonjurors to the pre
sent EstabUshed Church ; and the clear gain which would result to
Mr. Orby Shipley, beside DisestabUshment, woidd be either the gradual
extinction of the smaUest and highest of the Churches, or its more
speedy absorption in the Church of Rome.
June, 1875.

486 APPENDIX.
The Euchaeist Conteoveesy.*
Three years ago Dr. Vogan pubUshed an elaborate work, "The
True Doctrine of the Eucharist," the fiirst part of which is mainly
devoted to an examination of the sacred words on which the Eucharist
controversy chiefly turns, the words of the Institution ; and the result
is to show that these words have been, unintentionaUy indeed, but
through a very sui-prising oversight, mutUated, and, in consequence
of that mutUation, misinterpreted by Dr. Pusey, and aU the writers of
his school, speciaUy by Archdeacons WUberforce and Denison, Bishops
Eorbes and Moberley, Mr. Carter and Mr. Orby Shipley, and that this
gross mistake underlies aU the specidations and practices of the
Tractarian or RituaUstic party -with regard to this sacrament. No
unprejudiced person can read Dr. Vegan's work without feeUng that
it is a very careful and searching investigation of the subject, con
ducted in an exceUent spirit, with an earnest desire to do the fuUest
justice to the opinions which he controverts, and to treat those who
hold them with the greatest possible respect. The appearance of such
a work, so temperate in its earnestness, so modest, so charitable, is,
independently of the value of its conclusions, a very rare and refreshing
phenomenon in our controversial theological Uterature.
Dr. Vogan beUeves himseU to have proved, by an irresistible mass
of evidence, that the doctrine of the "Real Objective Presence " in the
Eucharist taught by Dr. Pusey and his friends has no support either
in Holy Scripture or in CathoUc antiquity ; that it is a novelty of very
recent date, the product of the nineteenth century, — the consequence
of a strange oversight, which the author has placed in the clearest
Ught. Dr. Vogan points out that the advocates of the real objective (or
objective real) Presence in the Eucharist, who most strenuously insist
on a Uteral interpretation of our Lord's words, as that which is most
favourable to their view, have totaUy neglected, and kept entirely out
of sight, a most material part of them. They have reasoned as if our
Lord had said nothing more than "Take, eat, this is My body " —
" Drink ye aU of this, for this is My blood." The important qualiflca-
tion contained in these words, "which is given " (or " broken ") and
" which is shed for you," they pass over as if they were of no meaning
or of no moment. But that which was to be eaten was not simply the
body ; that which was to be drunk was not simply the blood. It was
the body in so far as given or sacrificed ; the blood in so far as shed.
At the time when the words were spoken the body had not yet been so
* [These " Notes " appeared, with some alterations, in the form of a Letter signed
Senex Anghoanus " in the Times of July 26, 1874, from which the additional
matter has here been supplied.]

APPENDIX. 487
given, the blood had not yet been poured out on the cross. That
which the disciples ate and drank coiUd not be that body or that
blood which had not yet come into being, and as neither has been in
existence in the same condition at any time since, no one who has par
taken of the Eucharist from the time of its institution can have eaten
or drunk that body or that blood, in any but a purely spiritual sense. In
such a sense the words of institution are no doubt as true now as ever.
But they afford not the sUghtest support to the doctrine of the Real
Presence, whether in the Roman, Lutheran, or Tractarian form. So
interpreted, they are whoUy inconsistent with the idea of a local
presence on a material altar, which is common, and alike essential, to
aU those forms : and the scenic decorations of the Sacrament, Ughts,
vestments, and ornaments of the altar, so far as they are significant of
doctrine, become manifestly unmeaning, incongruous, and misplaced,
and the dispute about the " position of the celebrant " a mere waste
of breath.
Such being the character and such the main design of Dr. Vegan's
work, the manner in which it has been received by the persons
whose theological position is most deeply concerned is not a Uttle
remarkable. One might fancy that a word of command, issuing
from some invisible centre, had gone round the Tractarian party, to
neglect and ignore Dr. Vegan's book, and if possible to bury it in
contemptuous sUence. The person who might most naturaUy have
been expected to notice it in some way or other is Dr. Pusey. If Dr.
Vegan's view of the subject is correct, a very large part of the labours
of Dr. Pusey's Ufe has been worse than useless. He has then — though
with the best intentions — been a bUnd leader of the bUnd, and on
this important point has misled aU who relied upon his authority into
mischievous error. He, beyond any other man, is responsible for the
evUs which now afiUct the Church. If his other occupations did not
afford him leisure for answering Dr. Vogan — though one can hardly
conceive any occupation surpassing or even approaching, in his own
¦view, the importance of this — he might have committed the task to
one of his disciples. That none of them should have undertaken it
spontaneously, is only a little less surprising than the Master's sUence.
But there is something stUl stranger than this. Two years ago
Dr. Vogan sent Dr. Pusey a copy of his book, but has never received
a word of acknowledgment. Within the last three months he has
appUed to Dr. Pusey, both privately and pubUcly, in the hope of learning
from liinn whether he had or had not correctly represented his doctrine
of the "Real Presence," or, in Dr. Pusey's judgment, had faUen into
any mistake in his interpretation of the words of institution.
Dr. Pusey's first and last word in reply is that he " declines aU con
troversy." Considering that controversy has been the chief business

488 APPENDIX.
of his life, it is not surprising that he should be a Uttle tired of it.
But a less happy juncture for decUning it could hardly be imagined.
No controversy, however, was proposed to him. He was only asked for
information, highly important to the cause of truth, and which would
not have cost him any great amount of time. The exceeding harshness
of the whole proceeding, so difficult to reconcUe either with charity
or common courtesy, indicates that he has some strong motive for hia
silence. But most people wiU consider it as expressive of one of two
things — either that he regards Dr. Vegan's book as beneath his notice,
or that he feels it to be unanswerable. No one who has read it -wiU
beUeve the possibiUty of the first of these alternatives.
According to Dr. Vegan's view, the Eucharistic terms " Body and
Blood " signify something which differs as widely as possible from the
common familiar sense of the words. They are " food : " but spiritual
food : food of the soul, such as cannot be placed on any material table
or altar, which can be done only with the material symbols of bread
and wine.
But then in what sense is it to be understood that the Eucharistic
Body and Blood are food of the soul ? By a simple and common
figure the mind is said to be nourished_by knowledge, or the object of
knowledge — truth. But such purely inteUectual nourishment is not
sufficient for the soul. None can supply its wants, but that which
kindles the affections, animates the wiU, satisfies the deepest longings
of the heart. Such a kind of truth must be supposed to be veiled
under the figurative terms Body and Blood. The soul which receives
and embraces this truth, not with simple assent, but with emotions
corresponding to its nature, may very fitly be said to feed upon it.
According to this view, there is no presence of Christ in the Eucharist,
differing in kind from that which is promised whenever two or three
are gathered together in His name. There is no room for any adora
tion, though directed to Christ HimseU, through any visible object.
He is no more present on or at the Altar than in the Pulpit. The
wicked and unbeUeving, who do not share the benefit of Christ's death,
cannot partake of the Body and the Blood. It may however be asked.
If the words of institution are nothing more than a compendious
expression and Uvely presentation of the truth that Christ gave Him
self for us, must not the reception of this -riew tend to abate the fervour
and veneration -with which devout Christians have ever approached the
Eucharist ? And it must be owned that it may sometimes be difficult
to translate the mystical rhetoric in which the Fathers loved to
indulge on the Eucharist into language better adapted to the state of
the case.
July 25, 1874.

APPENDIX. 489
The Division est the Chuech :
A Dialogue.*
R. How do you reconcUe our Lord's promise, as to the indweUing
Presence of the Holy Spirit, with the present di-visions in the Church ?
L. That is a question which seems to be meant to stand for an argu
ment. As such we are very famiUar with it in our controversy -with
Rome ; and it appears to have great weight with many minds, among
others with Dr. Newman. But you must be aware that many — indeed
the great majority of Christians — deny the existence of those divisions
which you speak of as an indisputable fact, and consider their absence
as one of the most conspicuous characteristics of their own communion.
But if you ask how, whUe rejecting this opinion, and taking an entirely
different -new of ecclesiastical history, I explain the fulfilment of our
Lord's promise, I should feel obliged to decline offering what would be
no more than a fanciful and unverifiable conjecture, at the risk of being
supposed to attach some value to it myseU, as if I had a clearer insight
into the Divine counsels than others. But I might have answered your
question with another : How do you reconcile the general corruption of
manners which at various times has overspread the Christian world,
and, in general, the existence of sin in the Church, -with that promise ?
R. I think I could give a satisfactory answer to that question. The
promise of exemption from error did not include immunity from sin,
because that would have required a supernatural interference incon
sistent with the freedom of the human wiU.
L. That the Holy Spirit should have been tender of the freedom of
the wUl, while foreseeing the abuse that would be made of it, is a sup
position which presents no difficulty to my mind. But it would remain
to be explained how it is that, on the same principle. He did not refrain
from -violating that great law of human nature, according to which au
evU Ufe not only burdens the conscience, but darkens the understand
ing, and is a fruitful cause as weU of error as of sin.
R. Would not the preservation of the deposit of the faith be an
adequate motive for such an interposition ?
L. Possibly ; but you do not seem to have considered the nature of
the difficulty I suggest. Do you find it easy to conceive a succession
of causes severed from theU effects ?
R. That would be a sheer absurdity.
L. I am not concerned to deny the fact ; but I leave it to you to
describe it by its proper name. For me, it is enough to say that, to my
mind, it is absolutely unthinkable.
* This was the last production of the lamented Bishop, a portion of it ha-ving been.
dictated the day before his death.— [Ed. C. R.I

490 APPENDIX.
R. You intimated that you could not admit the force of the argu
ment, drawn by Roman divines from our Lord's promise, in favour of
their Church; but you did not explain the grounds on which you
rejected it. I shoidd be glad to hear what they are.
L. Briefly and in substance this : I cannot consider an artificial fac
titious unity, obtained by brute force and terror, as a work of the Holy
Spirit, to whose nature it belongs that aU His operations are wrought,
not by violence, but by a sweet and gentle constraint, and a process of
conviction and persuasion, acting on the understanding and tho -wiU.
When the Church had been transformed from a suffering to a per
secuting body, it appears to me that it could no longer be rightly con
sidered as in aU respects the same as that to which the promise
related; and it would be contradictory to the order of the Di-vine deal
ings, so far as they are known to us, that this or any other promise,
whether to Churches or to individuals, should have been made uncon-
ditjonaUy, and without regard to the character and condition of those
to whom it was given. Perhaps tho most pernicious and shocking of
all heresies was that by which knowledge was elevated above goodness :
error on the most abstruse subjects which could occupy the human
mind, regarded as the most atrocious of crimes, deserving the severest
punishment. Surely the fires of the Inquisition did not come down
from heaven, but were Ughted from the pit ; and the Popes, who are
considered by their adherents as the personification and embodiment of
unity, lent the whole weight of their authority to this false doctrine,
and were the most active promoters of the extirpation of heresy by fire
and sword ; and this was not a mere passing cloud, which obscured for
a moment the firmament of the Church, but an opinion with which
she is possessed as firmly, as ever to this day.
R. You know the arguments which are used to justify the employ
ment of physical force for the repression of heresy, and by which
humane and charitable persons have reconcUed themselves to it ?
L. Yes ; they are grounded partly on the enormity of the gmlt
attributed to the crime, and partly on the pecuUar danger with which
it is supposed to threaten the Church. What ofl'cnce, it is argued, can
be comparable in heinousness to one which destroys the souls of men ?
and, again, who would accuse a physician of cruelty or hard-hearted-
ness because he does not hesitate to prescribe a cautery, or the
amputation of an unsound member, which would otherwise spread a
fatal disease through the whole body, though it must cause the patient
very severe pain? But these analogies, though specious, are faUa
cious. They rest on the assumption, that lack of knowledge, or weak
ness of judgment, which in other matters is thought to caU only for
pity and help, in religious subjects, in which, in proportion to the
greater difficulty of ascertaining the exact truth, any aberration

APPENDIX. 491
would be the more pardonable, is accounted criminal in the highest
degree. R. Perhaps you would not deny that reUgious zeal has not rarely
been sullied by impure motives, and that the foimders and propagators
of sects have been impeUed by ambition, vanity, personal animosities
and prejudices, and other motives quite foreign to the simple search
after truth.
L. Such a denial would betray gross ignorance, both of human
nature and of history, and is quite needless for any purpose of mine ;
but the facts admitted could only serve to prove weakness, not wicked
ness, and this last is what is reqiured to sustain the arguments of the
advocates of persecution. But a simple refusal to conform to tho
expression of orthodox doctrine has always been held sufficient to
estabUsh the charge of hceretica pravitas. What Inquisitor was ever
known to allow the plea, of honesty, earnestness, love of truth, and the like, as
a ground of acquittal or a mitigation of punishment ? The persecutors can
only justify their maxims and conduct by claiming for themselves the
prerogative of the Searcher of hearts, and by practicaUy blaspheming
the Holy Ghost, by imputing their own uncharitableness to His
inspiration. R. That is awful language, and I should shrink from using it when
appUed to a period of at least comparative purity and fervour, to which
we are used to look back as to a golden age.
L. Such reluctance is both natural and right, especiaUy when it is a
guarantee that the point in question has been carefuUy weighed, but it
woidd be unwise to reject the evidence of history because we cannot
find a place for it in our system. No doubt the actual development of
Christianity was widely different from that which would have been
expected by Christians who Uved at the time of our Lord's departure
from the earth, both -with regard to the prolongation of the period
which was to precede His second coining, and -with regard to the events
which were to take place, and the nature of the changes which were to
pass on the character of the Church. One who heard the last words of
comfort addressed by Christ to His disciples might weU be led to
beUeve that the borders of the Church were to be enlarged by a series
of pacific conquests, and herself to be constantly growing in faith, hope,
and charity. Such expectations, however, were, as we know, doomed
to disappointment.
R. You have warned me against intruding into the secrets of the
Divine government by unauthorized and arbitrary conjectures, but I
hope it is not inconsistent with reverent submission to the Supreme
WUl to consider what conclusions may be aUowably drawn from that
which is spread before us in the records of the past.
Z. Such an inquiry may be both safe and profitable, so long as we

492 APPENDIX.
take care to bear in mind that what we see not only includes no part
of the UUmitable future, but is no more than the sheU and surface of
the things that are imseen and eternal.
R. I must o-wn that I find myself bewUdered by the vast multipUcity
and variety of the phenomena, and imable to reduce them under any
kind of general law or theory. You have bestowed much thought on
the subject, and I should have been glad to hear if you have been more
successful. Z. The conclusions to which I have been led are partly negative,
partly positive. I postulate two points as essential conditions of every
Christian -view of the subject. On the one hand, I utterly reject the
claim set up by the Church of Rome to be the one and only Church of
Christ : the terms on which those pretensions were denounced by the
Reformers were, in my opinion, not at aU exaggerated, however they
may have been tinged by a glow of righteous indignation. The history
of the Papacy is, from first to last, a simply human history, and that
not only in the sense that every step of it was due to merely natural
motives, without any indication of a supernatm^al interference, but also
in the farther sense, that these motives were only those of ordinary
selfishness, without anything truly noble and heroic, even when mea
sured by any human standard, much less heavenly, but, on the contrary,
of the earth, earthy, and such as could not be ascribed, -without blas
phemous foUy, to the workings of the Holy Spirit. This however
does not preclude the admission which I am perfectly -wiUing to make,
that many, if not the greater part of the Popes, who contributed most
to the aggrandisement of the Papacy, themselves beUeved in its Di-vine
origin. The general lack of critical intelUgence in those ages, and the
influence of personal interest, not the less powerful because it was
unperceived, are amply sufficient to account for the fact, and I can
easily understand how Gregory VII. might die with a cry of afflicted
-yirtue on his Ups. The sincerity of this conviction imparted a certain
dignity and grandeur to their reaUy iniquitous enterprises, and was
one of the main causes of their success, and wiU probably long continue
to exercise a powerful influence on minds of a certain class. The
strength of the Papal Church Ues in the weakness of human nature :
(1) in its chUdish fondness for a pompous and gUttering ceremonial ;
(2) in its sla-rish readiness to accept without inquiry any pretensions,
however unfounded, if they are only put forward with a sufficient
degree of confident assurance; (3) in the cowardice . with which it
shrinks from the burden of personal responsibiUty, and is anxious to
shift it upon another ; (4) in the inteUectual sluggishness which makes
it impatient (as Thucydides observed) of the labour required for the
investigation of Truth; (5) in the proneness to substitute outward
devotional exercises for the reaUties of a religious Ufe, and to take

APPENDIX. 493
credit to itself for the performance of such exercises as meritorious
works, in proportion to the trouble and annoyance they may have cost ;
(6) and the intolerance -with which, especiaUy in matters connected
-with reUgion, it resents dissent from its o-wn opinions as a personal
injury, for which it is ever ready to revenge itseU by persecution.
July 26, 1875.

INDEX.

Absolution, priestly, abuse of, 362 ; can
effect no change in man's state, ib. ;
meaning of, in the Ordination Service,
363, 364.
^schylus, source of his ^livxearaaia, 60 ;
connects Memnon with Susa, 61.
Agathias, epigram of, 132; his account
of Paches doubtful, 134.
Ajax, attitude of, in view of death, 29 ;
his ruling passion, 30 ; design of the
poet iu the play of, 31; character of,
in the last scene of the play, 32 ; his
last speech, 33, 36 ; piety of, 39 ; the
curse of, 40 ; an object of religious
veneration to the Athenians, 43 ; name
of a tribe, 43, note.
Albano, legend of the lake of, 193.
Ambrose, St., accused of sacrUege, 239.
Amonophis, name of Memnon, at Thebes,
64 ; an ideal person, 65 ; meaning of
name, ib. ; worship of, not spread by
the Egyptians, 74.
Ancasus, of Samos, subject of a proverb,
107; one of the Argonauts, 108; con
flicting myths regarding, 114 ; double
hatchet of, ib. ; a lover of husbandry,
119; a mythical hero, 119, 120.
Antigone, silence of, on the stage, 34 ;
irony of the play of, 44 ; subject of
the play, 45 ; elicits popular sympathy,
46 ; death of, _demanded by Creon's
policy, 50.
Apostles, relation of the, to the Lord,
355 ; perpetuity of the commission to
the, 366 ; endo-wments implied in the
commission to the, 359, 360 ; presence
of the Spirit attested to the, 386 ;
doctrinal -svxitings of the, polemicil,
391.
Arctinus, subject of his iEthic;;;is, 59 ;
exploits of Memnon iu, 60.
Aristotle on Greek tragedy, 61 ; re
marks of Hermann on, 61, note; the
ir'trrXoi of, 107; on the conduct of
Paches at Mitylene, 133 ; on the
superiority of poetry to history, 275.

Arneth on Hannibal's passage over the
Alps, 138 ; follows Polybius, ib. ; pas
sage of Hannibal by the Simplou, 139 ;
his hypothesis improbable, 142.
Arnold, Dr., held the Jews to be aliens,
225 ; his peculiar theory of Chiu-oh
and State, ib., and 235, note; his
arguments refuted, 226.
Athanasian Creed, ought the use of, to
be continued in the Church ? 248 ;
authorship of, irrelevant to the ques
tion, ib. ; propositions of, rhetorical
amplifications, 252 ; bearing of the
8th Article on, 254 ; the laity not
bound by the 39 Articles, 255.
Atkinson, Mr., the sacred lakes of Siberia,
202.
Aurora, reputed mother of Memnon, 64,
77.
Authorised Version, the re-vision of the,
would not affect the Church's doc
trines, 465 ; causes which have pre
vented revision, 466 ; re-vision would
alter the character of the text, 467 ;
Unitarians not precluded by their
opinions from taking part in the revi
sion of, 474 ; resolutions affecting the
Ke-vision Company, 476, 479.
^S3 rr^Qn, erroneous rendering of in
the A. "V^., 469 ; opinions of various
authors on, ib. B.
Beauty, contests for the pahn of, 78 ;
rsteem of the Greeks for personal, ib.
Eioal Church, import of the term, 481 ;
the proper antithesis to, ib. ; intellec
tual peculiarity of the, 482.
Buttmann identifies various gods with
the Indian Menu, 75 ; on the meaning
of the word Menu, 87.
C.
Cabanis, his system of the universe, 299.
Campbell, Lect. on Poetry, on the pride
of Ajax, 41 ; structure of the play, 42.

INDEX.

495

Choaspes, see Euleus.
Clytemnestra in vindication of her own
conduct, 23.
Commerce, connexion of, with ancient
religion, 71, 73.
Copais, lake of, legend about, 190.
Cowper, the delusion that haunted, 399.
Creon, his counsel to' ffidipus, 15 ; sus
pected by CEdipus, 16 ; his sincere
friendship to CEdipus, 18 ; his contest
-with Polynices, 21 ; character of, as a
ruler, 46 ; his contest -with Antigone
that of policy and religion, 48.
Ctesias, the Median dynasties of, 163 ;
the Assyrian canon of, discredited,
167, 174 ; on the origin of the Trojan
¦War, 173; his credibility -vindicated,
174; on Memnon's expedition to Troy,
175 ; authority of, supported by Plato,
176. D.
Daniel, tomb of, originally at Shuster,
103; his coffin transferred to Shus,
104.
Dardanus founded by the Assyrians,
167 ; the Tartan of the Old Testament,
177.
Dejanira, conflict of passions in, 26 ;
irony of her fate, 27.
Delolo, Li-vingstone's account of the lake
of, 194 ; legend of, 195.
Diocesan Synods, proposal for renewal
^ of, criticized, 428, 429 ; motives of the
advocates of, 431 ; proper function of,
432 ; would assert the true doctrines of
the Church, 434 ; possible mischief of,
435. E.
Education, -wrong notions of, 259; pre
paratory stages of, 260 ; experience
the school of savages, 261 ; school
education of the Athenians, 262 ; of
the English artisan, 263 ; Montaigne's
course of, 303 ; true end of, 338 ;
place of classical Uterature in a liberal,
349; practical education, 351 ; a sound
system of, must be rooted in the past,
380.
Egypt, the wonders of, inspired the
genius of the Greeks, 7 ; gloomy reli
gion of, 70 ; people of, not migratory,
74 ; colony from, in Asia Minor, 90 ;
colonized by Ethiopians, 94.
'E'laayytXtiig,' ofiice of, 122 ; remarks on
the office of, 129, 130.
Electra, lamentations of, 22.
English Church Union, tendency of, to
Rome, 437.
Episcopal Meeting of 1867 a hazardous
experiment, 447 ; no valid reason for

holding the, 448 ; compared with
meetings at Rome, 447, 460 ; its un
fitness for " brotherly consultations,"
451; no apparent sufficient motive for,
463 ; its incompetency to define doc
trine, 454 ; side-lights on the objects of,
455, 156.
Ethiopia, Memnon buried in, 62 ; geo
graphical position of, 63 ; migration of
Amnon from, 69 ; origin of the in
habitants of, unknown, 94.
Eucharist, Dr. Vegan's work on, 486 ;
the words of institution of the, misin
terpreted by Tractarians, ib. ; " local
presence " not implied in, 487 ; nou
rishes the mind by Icnowledge, 488.
Euleus identical with Choaspes, 102;
digestive power of its waters, 102, 103.

Feridun, partition of empire by, 156,
169, 168 ; extent of his empire, 158,
159 ; the Arbaces of Ctesias, 161.
Fontenu, Abbe dc, on the Goodian
medal of Sinope, 91, 93.
" G.
Glaciers, motion of, measured, 281.
Greece, ; traditions about the ancient
poetry of, 113; early history of, con
nected with Assyria, 164 ; Kruger's
work on this connexion, 166 ; his evi
dences inconclusive, 185 ; early philo
sophy of, 296.
Greek theatre, limits of dramatic repre
sentations on the, II ; exhibition of
character on, by dumb-show, 34
H.
Haggai ii. 7, interpretation of, 467 ; Mr.
Fausset on, 468, 469 ; involves Messi
anic prophecy, 490.
HaUcarnassus destroyed by Alexander,
125 ; restored, 127.
Hammer, J. von, on the site of Susa, 98,
&c. ; on the Median line of kings, 161.
Hannibal, passage of, over the Alps, 137 ;
chief points of the controversy con
sidered, 143 ; Arneth's hypothesis ex
amined, 129 ; Uckert's hypothesis ex
plained, 144, &c.
Hercules the hero of tho Trachinice, 25 ;
his directions to Hylus, 27 ; made im
mortal, 28 ; African legend of, 80 and
86, note; reputed author of a canal,
191.
Hermann on the Trachinian Virgins,
24 ; on Ajax, 40, note, and 57, note.
Herodotus, character of the Ethiopians
in, 69, note ; on the abode of Memnon,
72, 73 ; on the sacrifices of the Scy
thians, 83 ; on ancient monuments in

496

INDEX.

Ionia, 89, 90 ; storj' of Crcesus' son in,
120 ; relates the Asiatic origin of
Pelops, 172.
Holy Spirit, the truth taught by the,
387 ; quickens the moral sense, 388 ;
purifies the heart, 393 ; the sin against
the, 394, 395 ; abiding of the, -with the
Church, 489 ; action of, on the human
understanding, 490 ; blasphemed by
inquisitors, 491.
Homer, references in, to Memnon, 59,
63 ; on the quaUties of a, true hero,
78 ; his accoim.t of the funeral of
IPatroelus explained, 83 ; hero-worship
in, 84 ; has no allusion to the Asiatic
origin of Pelops, 170 ; authority of, on
Greek heroic life, 180 ; description of
the mansion of Neptune in, 203.
I.
Irish Church, speech on, 237 ; heathenish
¦view of the property of the, 238 ;
misuse of the word sacrilege in con
nexion mth, 239 ; a cause of the
strength of Popery in Ireland, 242 ;
should cease to be the estabUshed
Church of Ireland, 243.
Irony, verbal, 1 ; use of, 2 ; dialectical,
how employed, 2 ; practical, examples
of, 3 — 5 ; practical and verbal, distin
guished, 23, note ; of Sophocles, in
(Ed. Rex, IS, 19; in (Ed. Col., 20, 22;
of fate, 27 ; of Minerva, 28.

Jablonski on symboUcal meaning of
Memnon's statue, 64 ; opposed by
Jacobs, 68.
Jacobs, Mr., essay of, on Memnon, 65 ;
on the monuments of Memnon in
Asia, 67 ; various hypotheses criti
cized by, 68 ; opinion of, that Memnon
was an Egyptian god, 71 ; objections
to this theory, 72 ; on the worship of
Serapis at Sinope, 91 ; on the epigram
of Agathias, 133.
Jehovah - Tzid/cenu, meaning of the phrase,
471 ; relates to Jerusalem, ib. ; confir
mations of this opinion, 472.
Jews, disabilities of the, 213, &c. ; ob
jects of hereditary prejudices, 215;
supposed hostiUty of the, to Christ, ib. ;
not different from Unitarians in this
respect, 217 ; Jest's history of, 217 and
299, note ; Mendelsohn's opinion of the,
217 and 230, note ; arguments against
admission of the, into ParUament, re
futed, 219, 220; anecdote of Crom-
weU relative to the, 222 and 234,
note.
Joyce, Mr., on Diocesan Synods, 432,
433; animadversions on a letter of.

438, &c. ; his opinion on the Court of
Appeal, 442.
Jupiter, supremacy of, asserted in So
phocles, 10, 11 ; statue of, in Caria,
with a hatchet, ] 14.

Kinneir, Mr., on the site of Susa, 99.
Knowledge, hindrance to, from misappU-
cation of faculties, 330 ; begins in
ignorance, 333 ; the only useful, 338 ;
efforts for the diffusion of, 346.
Kruger, Jacob, Geschichte der Assyrier
und I., &c., 156 ; makes Minutshehr the
founder of the Assyrian empire, 157 ;
on the Assyrian dynasties, 163, 165 ;
on the kingdom of Pelops, 172 ; hypo
theses of, untenable, 178.
L.
Labrys, the badge of the Amazons, 115 ;
a reUgious symbol, 116 ; use of the, at
Tenedos, 118.
Laity, co-operation of the, in Diocesan
Synods, 433 ; means of effecting the
same, 435 ; rights of the, denied by
Mr. 0. Shipley, 485.
Legends of Loossee, in E. Prussia, 196 ;
from Giimm, 203, &o. ; of Merlin,
203 ; of Lough Neagh, 206 ; of Lough
GiU, 207 ; of Fred. Barbarossa, 210.
Leleges, early settlements of the, 109;
distinguished from the Carians, 110,
113.
Library, founding of the Vatican, 266 ;
destruction of the Alexandrine, a cala
mity to Uterature, 267, 268 ; misuse
of, 270.
Literature, relation between science and,
287 ; educative influence of, slow, 305 ;
object of studying classical, in six
teenth century, 306 ; cultivation of, in
the reign of Louis XIV., 307 ; results
of this, 308 and 310, note.
Littledale, Dr., his erroneous deiinition
of Broad Church, 481 ; his mistaken
notion of the priest's vestments, 483 ;
on Christian worship, 484, 485.
Lycophron, reference of, to Memnon,
68 ; on the proverb of Ancaeus, 106.
M.
Malefactors, the two, lawless life of,
402 ; their privilege in death, 404 ;
different results in the end of, 406 ;
probable different career of, 407.
Memnon, Greek traditions of, 68 ; re
ferences to, in Homer, 69, 77 ; comes
to the reUef of Troy, 60, 173, 175 ;
slain by Achilles, 60 ; Persian mo
narchy caUed after, 61 ; various
accounts of, 62 ; the Memnonian birds.

INDEX.

497

ib., 71 ; origin of, traced to Etliiopia,
63 ; vocal statue of, 64 ; Jacobs on
the Asiatic monuments of, 67, 70, 80.
Memnon, Meroe, birthplace of, 69 ; death
of, mourned by the Ethiopians, 71 ; an
Egyptian god, ib. ; identified with the
Indian Menu, 75, 85, 87, 97 ; personal
beauty of, 69, 77, 79 ; an eastern con
queror in Greek legend, 84, 87.
Meroe, original seat of Ammon and
Memnon, 09 ; Indian origin of people
of, 95 ; reason for this opinion, 96.
Minos, resemblance of, to Memnon, 86 ;
beauty of, 86 ; identity of, -with Menu,
87.
Minutshehr slays his uncles, 156 ; iden
tified with Ninus by Kruger, 157 ;
¦with Artabaces by Ctesias and Von
Hammer, 161.
Mitford finds no hero-worship in Homer,
84 ; his account of the death of Paches,
135. N.
Neoptolemus referred to, 63 ; noble
character of, 64.
Niebuhr, essay of, on Xen. Hel. 132 ;
his description of Lake Albano, 193.
Niobe, statue of, on Mount Sipylus de
scribed, 171.
Novel, great supply of the, 273 ; origin
of, in the decUne of Greek poetry, ib. ;
unfavourable to true education, 274 ;
value of the historical romance, 276.
0.
CEdipus, his measures to detect the cause
of the plague, 16 ; his fate the result
of his character, 19 ; di-iine favour
bestowed on, 21 ; resolves to be biu-ied
in Attica, 20 ; referred to, 44.
Osiris, body of, found in Phcenicia, 67 ;
Ukeness of, to Menes, 76 ; an Indian
o.x, 96.

Paches, conduct of, at Mitylene, 133, &c. ;
accused of peculation, 136 ; Plutarch's
account of, ib., 136.
Papal supremacy, decline of, 241.
Pascal, Blaise, scientific instinct of, 290 ;
his treatise on sound, 291 ; anticipated
Babbage's calculating machine, ib.
Pausanlas on legends of Memnon, 62,
and 64, note ; reUgious rites in honour
of the dead, 82 and note ; his account
of Ancseus, 107 ; describes the statue
of Niobe, 171.
Pedasa, siege of, by Cyrus, 111 ; referred
to, 126.
Pelasgians, the Arcadi.ins represented as,
109 ; origin of the, 187, note.
VOL. III. K

Pheneus, inundations of the, 190 ; sub
terranean passage of the, 191 ; caused
by the wrath of ApoUo, ib. ; regarded
as the gate of Hades, 192.
PhiUp of Theangela ou the position of
the Leleges, 110; disputed idontit vol,
122, 123.
Philoctetes, various opinions on the play
of, 50 ; his sufferings, 51 ; noble cha
racter of, 52.
Philosophy, a pursuit of wisdom, 203 ;
springs from curiosity, ib.
Phrygians regarded Memnon as a con
queror, 77 ; connection of, -nith Ar
menia, 87 ; why described as Thra
cians, 112; ancient reUgion of tho,
116, 117.
Plato, irony in the Dialogues of, 2 ; autho
rity of Ctesias confirmed by, 17U.
Pliny, his story of birds of passage, 81
and note ; reference of, to Theangela,
124.
PluraUty of "Worlds, controversy about
the, 298.
Plutarch relates the curses recorded at
Thebes, 76, note ; on the god of tho
Phrygians, 119 ; aUusions of, to PhiUp
0 BtayytXtvg, 123.
Polybius on Hannibal's passage over
the Alps, 141 ; defective geographical
knowledge of, 143, 144.
Ptoleni}', his pious fraud to promote tho
trade of Alexandria, 93.
R.
EawUnson, Sir H., on the meaning of
Selm, 160 ; revolt of Sargon, 164 ; dis
credits the Assyrian history of Ctesias,
167, 174 ; on Sennacherib's conquest,
184.
Rennel, Major, arguments of, proving
Shus the ancient Susa, 100.
Resurrection, the, of Jesus, ground of
the Christian ministry, 411 ; incredi
bility of the, considered, 414 ; impUes
only a change of state, 416 ; accept
ance of the doctrine of the, not de
pendent on arguments, 418; serves as
a moral test, 421. S.
Sacrifice, human, in water, 197, 200 ; of
horses to the Strj-mou by Xerxes, 198;
by the Trojans to the Scamander, ib. ;
at cross-roads, 199 ; at fountains in
Guatemala, ib. ; of milk, &c., in Si
beria, 202.
Sainte-Croix on a passage in Athenseus,
123 ; mistake of, about Cassander,
128 ; his explanation of tiaayyiXtvg,ih.
Samson Agu>ti.\tcs, comparison of, ¦vs'ith
Ajax and CEdipus, 56.

498

INDEX.

Science, supposed ser^vUe position of,
287 ; inferior place assigned to, in
national education, 288 ; a higher
place due to, 289 ; value of a general
knowledge of, 292 ; faculties for the
fuU mastery of, 294 ; definition of, ib. ;
recent progress of, 295 ; debatable
region beyond the realm of, 298 ;
benefits conferred on mankind by,
330 ; a harbinger of universal peace,
332 ; does not control the moral feel
ings, 334 ; fixed Umits of, 336.
Scott, Sir "Walter, historical value of his
romances, 275 ; Macaulay's opinion of
him as a historian, 276 ; anachronism
in Quentin Duricard, 278.
Semiramis buries Ninus in her palace,
63 ; numerous tombs of, in Asia, 81.
Sesostris identified with Memnon P 64,
76 ; with Osymandyas ? 88 ; conquests
of, 86, 88 ; expeditions of, questioned,
89.
Shahnameh, account of Feridun in the,
166 ; chronology of the, 166.
Shuster, description of, 104 ; Daniel's
tomb at, 103.
Sophocles, reUgious character of his
works, 9 ; his reUgion different from
Homer's, 10, 56 ; unity of design in
his works, 12 ; contrasted with Schiller,
29 ; his knowledge of human nature,
37 ; Zimmermann's erroneous ¦view of
his theology, 56.
Sparta, fate of, 6.
Strabo, references to, 60, 81 ; Susa and
Babylon built of bricks, 100, 101 ; on
the passe3_of.the Alps, 138, &c.
Stymphalus, subterranean passage of,
192 ; caused by the ¦wrath of Artemis,
ib. ; the birds of, ib.
Submersion of ancient cities, 190, &c. ;
legend of Sipylus, ib. ; ol Pheneus,
190; of Stymphalus, 192; of Lake
Albano, 193 ; of Lake Alobar, 194 ; of
Loossee in Prussia, 196 ; of Lake Eim,
201 ; origin of belief in the, referred
to the custom of human sacrifice, 197 ;
illustrations of the beUef in, 204, 206,
207, 209 ; beUef, the result of ideaUsm,
208.
Susa, the modem Shuster, 99, &c. ; bmlt
of brick, 101 ; temple of Anaitis at,
105.

Tantalus, legend of, 171 ; lake of, 206.
Taylor, Jeremy ; his opinions of the
Athanasian Creed, 249 ; thinks the
Creed void of charity, 251 ; respect

due to his authority, 252 ; the Creed
made up of speculative curiosities,
263 ; a Broad Churchman, 4S2.
Tecmessa, attitude of, on the stage, 34 ;
effects of her prayers on Ajax, 37.
Thebes (in Boeotia), plague of, 13 ; cause
of the plague revealed by ApoUo, 14.
Thebes (in Egypt), Memnonia of, buUt
by Ethiopiiius, 68 ; a colony of Meroe,
69.
Tiresias consulted by CEdipus, 15 ; reluc
tance of, to reveal the secret, 16; de
clares the displeasure of the gods ¦with
Creon, 49.
Trachinia3, defects of the play, 23, 24 ;
genuineness of, doubted, 23 ; central
point of, the fato of Hercules, 24 ; not
unworthy of the genius of Sophocles,
28.
TyndaU, Professor, on the motion of
glaciers, 281 ; on the place of science
in education, 288 ; would have Mem
bers of ParUament examined in na
tural philosophy, 292 ; letter from,
311. U.
Uckert on Hannibal's passage over the
Alps, 144, &c. ; traces Hannibal's
route from the Rhone, 146, &c. ; sup
poses the passage over Mont Cenis,
150 ; shows Polybius ignorant of the
course of the Rhone, 151 ; and of the
Po, 152 ; questions the conclusions of
General MelviUe, 163.
Ulysses, pity of, for Ajax, 30 ; assuages
the vindictlveness of Agamemnon, 43 ;
character of, in the Philoctetes, 52; a,
wily statesman, 54 ; dedicates a temple
to Artemis {Heurippe), 191.

W.
Water-worship, origin of, 200 ; illustra
tions of, ib. ; curious custom in Ser-via,
201 ; races addicted to, 202.
Welcher, his essay on the Ajax exa
mined, 34, &c., 67 ; on the appUcation
of Cissia in j35schylus, 61, note.
Works f oUow their authors in retribu
tion, 316 ; commemorated by posterity,
3 i 7, 318 ; as motives for thankfulness,
320; of inteUectual power, 324; of
benefactors to their kind, 326.
X.
Xerxes, irony of his fate, 6 ; claims
Pelops as a subject of his ancestors,
172.

PKISTED ET VIRTUE AJID CO., LIZIITKD, CITY ROAD, LOi'DOS.

23isf)op '2rt)tvltoairs Hemafng.

BISHOP THIRLWALL'S
LITERARY AND THEOLOGICAL REMAINS
EDITED BY THE REV. CANON PERO"WNE.
Vols. I. and IL, CHARGES. Demy 8vo, 32s.

TIMES.
" Bishop Thirlwall was not only foremost in the intellectual ranks of the
clergy, he was, by almost universal consent, foremost in the intelligence of
Great Britain. ... In these ' Remains ' of his authorship, as they are
fitly called, there is something so pecuUarly his own, so transcendently beyond
and beside the utterances of any other prelate or pastor of his time, that,
instead of complaining we have not more, we may be thankful that we
have gained so much. . . . The volumes form the most complete record
that exists, and the best manual that a theological student could peruse, of
ecclesiasdcal histoiy during this memorable epoch."
STANDARD.
"Taken together they form a complete commentary on the ecclesiastical
history of the present reitju, nor is there a single queslion of importance
which has aiisen during that period which they do not notice and elucidate.
Their Uterary merit is remarkable, and to all lovers of conciseness, purity, and
elegance they must appear delightful."
ACADEMY.
" Almost every sentence is worthy of study and regard. The time may yet
come when these remains will take a place in Anglican literature beside the
' Ecclesiastical Polity ' of Hooker, the ' Liberty of Prophesying ' of Jeremy
Taylor, or the ' Sermons ' of Bishop Butler."
GUARDIAN.
"We commend these volumes to the study of all v.'ho wish to rise above
the strife of words into a serener region."
RECORD.
"These Charges embrace all the chief points which have agitated the
Chuich during the last thirty years. A calm, impartial, judicial view of these
occuirences is of inestimable value. It ¦will be abundantly furnished in these
two volumes, which ought to be carefully and thoughtfully studied by every
Churchman who would attempt to realise the dangers of our present position."
INQUIRER.
" A fresh perasal of these remarkable charges will only deepen the im
pression of their extraordinary ability and extensive learning, and of their
permanent value as a contribution to the history of recent theological
controversy."

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ISIefaEittJb ®;j&ousantr.

MEMOIR OF
NORMAN MACLEOD, D.D.
BY HIS BROTHER, DONALD MACLEOD, D.D.,
One of Her Majesty's Chaplains.
WITH PORTRAITS AND NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS.
Two Vols, demy Svo, 26s.

TIMES.
"We once more commend to our readers a work which is a fitting
monument, erected with the true self-forgetfulness of a loving brother and a
faithful biographer ; and which will leave the abiding impression that in
Norman Macleod all who knew him mourn a devoted, gallant, and delightful
friend, and his Church and country lost a magnificent champion of the good,
the noble, and the true." PALL MALL GAZETTE.
"Mr. Donald Macleod has done his work of compiling this memoir of his
justly celebrated brother with care and good taste. The introductory chapters
give an interesting glimpse of a state of life and manners that is now well
nigh forgotten."
SATURDAY REVIEW.
" There is in thi? memoir a sense of vivid reality and of close personal
contact, which is a rare quaUty in this branch of literature."
SPECTATOR.
" A memoir worthy of the subject. It may well do for Scotland what Dr.
Stanley's ' Life of Arnold ' did for England."
ATHEN^UM.
" There is throughout these volumes a. freedom from cant and senti
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BLACKAVOOD'S MAGAZINE.
" This book is a portrait, and it is so well done that it may be taken as an
example by writers who have such a delicate piece of work in hand. . . .
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be at the same time so simply devout, full of aU the tremblings of the tenderest
piety, is a lesson and example to us all."
CHURCH QUARTERLY REVIEW.
"AreaUygood book. . . . We would venture earnestly to commend
it to the consideration of the English clergy. . . . Brave and tender
manful and simple, profoundly susceptible of enjoyment, but never preferring
it to duty ; overflowing with love, yet always chivalrous for trulli ; full of
power, full of labour, full of honour, he has died, and has bequeathed to us,
for a study which we hope will reach far beyond the bounds of his communion
and denomination, the portrait of a great orator and pastor and a true and
noble-hearted man." WESTMINSTER REVIEAV.
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aSt'sftop CBtDins's iKemoir.

MEMOIR OF
ALEXANDER EWING, D.C.L.
BISHOP OF ARGYLL AND THE ISLES.
By the Rev. A. J. ROSS, B.D.,
VICAR OF ST. PHILIP'S, SJEPNEY.
With Portrait and Illustrations. Demy Svo, 21s.

ATHEN^UM.
" An interesting and touching picture of the noble-hearted man who devoted his life
and fortune to tlic improvement of the "Western Highlands, and who sympathized with
what was best and wisest in the spirit of the age in which he lived.'*
SPECTATOR.
"An admirable biography of a noble-hearted and highly gifted man. He fought for
truth, not for dogmas ; and his life should be read by all who follow truth rather than
authority, and are not afraid to go wherever honest and devout inquiry may lead them."
BRITISH QUARTERLY REVIEW.
" A man of wide sympathies, truly catholic in feeling and generous in his estimates.
Nothing could be finer than some of the Bishop's letters from the Continent."
ENGLISH INDEPENDENT.
' "His life was well worth writing, and Mr. Ross has acquitted himself of his task in a
way which makes us feel no sense of disproportion between the biographer and the life he
has undertaken to describe." NONCONFORMIST.
" Mr. Ross has acquitted himself well in his memoir of Bishop Ewing, showing him to
us in his several relationships with tbat kind of faithful appreciation without which bio
graphy tends to become sapless." . ^
SCOTSMAN.
" A high-minded man, full of culture, tolerance, and moral chivalry ; bold in expressing
what ho held was true, and brave in defending those, whatever their views might be, who
did the same; a gentleman in courtesy ; a Christian in all reality, possessed of deep
religious feelings and of fine spiritual instincts. . . . The present memoir is written with
good sense, good taste, and in an admirable tone."
EDINBUl^GH COURANT.
" The Bishop has been fortunate in his biographer, who has sought to set the man Alex
ander Ewing before us in all simplicity and truth, as he moved through life. . . . Readers,
wc are sure, will desire to place it among those volumes to which we go for deep and true
spiritual companionship, and from which we always come away refreshed in soul and
made stronger in faith and love to God."
EDINBURGH DAILY REVIEW.
" A biography of keen ecclesiastical but of far deeper human interest. The good of a
book like this is twofold — it draws all true Christians nearer each other on the essentials
of the faith, and it brings into prominence a neglected truth the one-sided statement of
which every earnest student of Scripture will correct for himself by its complement, which
is not its contradictory." SCOTTISH GUARDIAN.
"We can cordially commend this volume as one of special in'erest, and as, in many
respects, an important contribution to the recent literature of the Church. Incidentally it
throws no little light on some of the great movements which have exercised the thoughts
and feelings of the religious world in the last thirty years, and more particularly on those
wliich have taken place within the borders of the Church of England."

DALDY, ISBISTiiR 8c CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON.

^«SEnt-Bas papers. jpouvt|» mxts j^m ^txits.

CATHOLIC THOUGHTS ON
THE CHURCH OF CHRIST AND THE
CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
CATHOLIC THOUGHTS ON
THE BIBLE AND THEOLOGY.
By the late FREDERIC MYERS, M.A.,
PERPETUAL CURATE OF ST. JOHn's, KESWICK.
Crown Svo, 7s. 6d. each.
"Have you ever seen 'Catholic Thoughts,' by the late Mr. Myers, of
Keswick, two privately printed volumes, one on the Church of Christ and the
Church of England, one on the Bible and Theology ? Very remarkable,
especially as written 1834 — 1848, containing the largest views now urged by
any of lis, put out by a devout Christian Churchman." — The late Dean
Alford. " We have long been acquainted with Mr. Myers's admirable ' Lectures on
Great Men,' but it was from the present volume we first learnt that Mr. Myers
was a gi'eat man himself. Certainly he was great in the width of the survey
which, as revealed in these ' Catholic Thoughts,' he made of the history of the
world ; great in the clear and satisfactory estimate of the forces which were
contending for spiritual mastery in his day as they are in our own ; and great
because of the patience in which he possessed his soul as he looked onward
to the issue of the struggle. The world is under great obligation to the late
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and giving them publicity witli the sanction of his name. . . . They will
become a valued and permanent possession." — Spectator.
"It seems unaccountable that a book containing so much powerful and
suggestive thought on the ecclesiastical questions ^i-.zX have been agitating
England for more than forty years should have been so long withheld from
publication. The tendency of the writer's mind is to gr.avitate to the .great
principles that underlie all practical questions, and these he seizes with a firm
grasp, and applies with remarkable candour and fearlessness." — British and
P'oreign Evangelical Review.

DALDZ, ISBISTER & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON.

2 Vols, demy Svo, 24s.
ESSAYS,
THEOLOGICAL AND LITERARY,
BY R. H. HUTTON, M.A.
Revised and Enlarged. With a new Introduction on the Religious Difficulties
of the Times.

CONTENTS.
Vol. I. (Theological).
The Moral Significance of Atheism.
The Atheistic Explanation of Religion.
Science and Theism.
Popular Pantheism.
What is Revelation ?
Christian Evidences, Popular and Critical.
The Historical Problems of the Fourth Gospel.
The Incarnation and Principles of Evidence.
M. Renan's " Christ."
M. Renan's " St. Paul."
The Hard Church.
Romanism, Piotestantism, and Anglicanism.

Vol. II. (Literary).
Goethe and his Influence.
Wordsworth and his Genius.
Shelley's Poetical Mysticism.
Mr. Browning.
The Poetry of the Old Testament.
Arthur Hugh Clough.
The Poetry of Matthew Arnold.
Tennyson. Nathaniel Hawthorne.

" Mr. Hutton's additions to this edition of liis * Essays ' arc so substantial that he may
"be said to have embodied in his two volumes a new book. They are full of fine thought
and suggestiveness. . . . The volumes will gain what they richly deserve, a. high place
in English literature." — British Quarterly Revitzu.

DALDY, ISBISTER & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON.

Sfflloits 1)B ^ususius % €. I^nre.

¦ MEMORIALS OF A QUIET LIFE.
With 2 steel Portraits. Twelfth Edition. 2 vols, crown Svo, 2is.
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remember with pride, who have smoothed the path of faith to so many troubled wayfarers,
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It.
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YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

3 9002 01340 6807

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