Part 2

Miss Procter sings the praises of a true comforter in little Effie,—“just I think that she does not try,—only looks with a wistful wonder why grown people should ever cry.” It is such a comfort to be able to cry in peace, adds that sweet singer (with _larmes dans la voix_):

“And my comforter knows a lesson Wiser, truer than all the rest:— That to help and to heal a sorrow, Love and silence are always best.”

_THE TEMPTER’S “IT IS WRITTEN.”_

MATTHEW iv. 6.

“It is written,” said the Tempter, quoting Scripture for his purpose, when it was his hour and the power of darkness, in the day of temptation in the wilderness. The quotation was refuted on the spot, and the Tempter was foiled. But his failure has not deterred mankind, at sundry times and in divers manners, from venturing on the same appeal, with no very unlike design. The wise as serpents (there was a serpent in Eden) who are not also harmless as doves, have now and then essayed to round a sophistic period, or clench an immoral argument, with an _It is written_.

Among the crowd of pilgrims who throng the pages of his allegory, Bunyan depicts one Mr. Selfwill, who holds that a man may follow the vices as well as the virtues of pilgrims; and that if he does both, he shall certainly be saved. But what ground has he for so saying? is Mr. Greatheart’s query. And old Mr. Honesty replies, “Why, he said he had Scripture for his warrant.” He could cite David’s practice in one bad direction, and Sarah’s lying in another, and Jacob’s dissimulation in a third. And what they did, he might do too. “I have heard him plead for it, bring Scripture for it, bring arguments for it,” etc., quoth old Honesty with a degree of indignation that does credit to his name.

“The devil can quote Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul, producing holy witness, Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the core.”

Such is Antonio’s stricture on Shylock’s appeal to Jacob’s practice, “When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban’s sheep”; and there is a parallel passage in the next act, where Bassanio is the speaker:—

“In religion, What damnèd error but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?”

Against divines, indeed, of every school and age, the reproach of citing a text in support of doctrine or practice the reverse of divine, has been freely cast, with more or less of reason. Orthodox and heterodox, each has flung against the other his retort uncourteous.

“Have not all heretics the same pretence To plead the Scriptures in their own defence? How did the Nicene Council then decide That strong debate? Was it by Scripture tried? No, sure; to that the rebel would not yield: Squadrons of texts _he_ marshall’d in the field. ... With texts point-blank and plain he faced the foe; And did not Satan tempt our Saviour so?”

A Dublin synod of the Irish Roman Catholic bishops, a few years since, which distinguished itself by its enthusiasm for Pope Pius IX., against the King of Italy, and by its arrogation of a divine right of practical monopoly in overseeing the schools and colleges of Ireland, was made the theme of comment by unsympathetic British critics; who remarked that when the question of education is stirred in such quarters, the dullest heretic can divine that the national system is to be denounced; and that it is easy to guess at the text of Scripture to be quoted in support of the pretensions of the Church. “The command to ‘go and teach all nations’ vested in the successors of the Apostles a rightful monopoly of instruction in Greek, mathematics, and civil engineering.” According to the same elastic authority, the “Puritans,” we are reminded, were justified in shooting and hanging their enemies, because Samuel hewed Agag in pieces, or because Phineas arose and executed judgment. “There never was a proposition which could not be proved by a text; and perhaps the effect is more complete when the citation is taken from the Vulgate.” Gray’s malicious lines against Lord Sandwich, a notorious evil-liver, as candidate for the High Stewardship in the University of Cambridge, include this stanza, supposed to be uttered by a representative D.D., of the old port-wine school, and a staunch supporter of his profligate lordship:

“Did not Israel filch from th’ Egyptians of old Their jewels of silver and jewels of gold? The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie; He[2] drinks—so did Noah:—he swears—so do I.”

Gray’s _jeu d’esprit_ was, throughout, not in the best of taste; but it was vastly relished at the time, as an election squib. The reference to spoiling the Egyptians is a well worked one in the history of quotations. Coleridge has a story of a Mameluke Bey, whose “precious logic” extorted a large contribution from the Egyptian Jews. “These books, the Pentateuch, are authentic?” “Yes.” “Well, the debt then is acknowledged: and now the receipt, or the money, or your heads! The Jews borrowed a large treasure from the Egyptians; but you are the Jews, and on you, therefore, I call for the repayment.” Such conclusions, from such premises, and backed by such vouchers, are open to logicians of every order, sacred and profane.

“Hence comment after comment, spun as fine As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line; Hence the same word that bids our lusts obey, Is misapplied to sanctify their sway. If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend, Hebrew or Syriac shall be forced to bend: If languages and copies all cry, No! Somebody proved it centuries ago.”

Burns was never any too backward in having his fling at a “minister”; and there is exceptional (and perhaps exceptionable) gusto in his averment that,

“E’en ministers, they have been kenn’d, In holy rapture, A rousing _whid_, at times, to vend, And nail’t wi’ Scripture.”

There was a time in the life of Diderot when that freest of free-thinkers made a living, such as it was, by writing sermons to order—half a dozen of them, for instance, a missionary bespoke for the Portuguese colonies, and is said to have paid for them very handsomely at fifty crowns each. Mr. Carlyle is caustic in his commemoration of this incident in Denis Diderot’s career. “Further, he made sermons, to order; as the Devil is said to quote Scripture.” In Mr. Carlyle’s latest and longest history, we find once and again the like allusion. Frederick William, and his advisers, bent on a certain match for the Princess Wilhelmina, which the queen, her mother, as steadfastly opposed, took to quoting Scripture by way of subduing her majesty’s resistance. “There was much discourse, suasive, argumentative. Grumkow quoting Scripture on her majesty, as the devil can on occasion,” says Wilhelmina. “Express scriptures, ‘Wives, be obedient to your husbands,’ and the like texts; but her majesty, on the Scripture side, too, gave him as much as he brought.” And at a later stage of the negotiation, the same Grumkow appears again, citing the Vulgate to a confidential correspondent, in reference to their political schemings. “But ‘_Si Deus est nobiscum_’—‘If God be for us, who can be against us?’ For the Grumkow can quote Scripture; nay, solaces himself with it, which is a feat beyond what the devil is competent to.” Shakespeare embodies in Richard of Gloster a type of the political intriguer of this complexion; as where that usurper thus answers the gulled associates who urge him to be avenged on the opposite faction:

“But then I sigh, and with a piece of Scripture, Tell them, that God bids us do good for evil. And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends, stolen forth of holy writ; And seem a saint when most I play the devil.”

An unmitigated scoundrel in one of Mr. Dickens’s books is represented as overtly grudging his old father the scant remnant of his days, and citing holy writ for sanction of his complaint. “Why, a man of any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty—let alone any more. Where’s his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying in the face of the Bible like that? Threescore and ten’s the mark; and no man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what’s expected of him, has any business to live longer.” Whereupon the author interposes this parenthetical comment, and highly characteristic it is: “Is any one surprised at Mr. Jonas making such a reference to such a book for such a purpose? Does any one doubt the old saw that the devil ... quotes Scripture for his own ends? If he will take the trouble to look about him, he may find a greater number of confirmations of the fact in the occurrences of a single day than the steam-gun can discharge balls in a minute.” Fiction would supply us with abundant illustrations—fiction in general, and Sir Walter Scott in particular. As where Simon of Hackburn, the martial borderer, backs his hot appeal to arms, for the avenging a deed of wrong, by an equivocal reference to holy writ. “Let women sit and greet at hame, men must do as they have been done by; it is the Scripture says it.” “Haud your tongue, sir,” exclaims one of the seniors, sternly; “dinna abuse the Word that gate; ye dinna ken what ye speak about.” Or as where the Templar essays to corrupt the Jewess by citing the examples of David and Solomon: “If thou readest the Scriptures,” retorts Rebecca, “and the lives of the saints, only to justify thine own licence and profligacy, thy crime is like that of him who extracteth poison from the most healthful and necessary herbs.” One other example. Undy Scott, that plausible scamp of Mr. Trollope’s making, propounds an immoral paradox, to the scope of which one of his dupes is bold enough to object. But how is the objector disposed of? “‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged,’ said Undy, quoting Scripture, as the devil did before him.” Dupes can quote Scripture, too, and perhaps that is more demoralizing still. For Cowper did not rhyme without reason when he declared, that

“Of all the arts sagacious dupes invent, To cheat themselves, and gain the world’s assent, The worst is—Scripture warped from its intent.”

_ROYALTY REMINDED OF THE POOR._

DANIEL iv. 27.

Great was Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon, even as the tree that he saw in his dream; for, by the avowal of the Hebrew prophet who interpreted that dream, the king was indeed become strong, and his greatness was grown, and reached unto the heaven, and his dominion unto the ends of the earth. But sentence had gone forth, as against the tree, so against the king. Nebuchadnezzar was to be degraded; despoiled of his kingdom, cast down from his throne, and driven from men, to eat grass as oxen. This counsel, however, the prophet urged upon the sovran, that he should break off his sins by righteousness, and his “iniquities by showing mercy to the poor”; if it might be a lengthening of his tranquillity, or a healing of his error.

What error? That of which ex-king Lear accused himself, when he owned, amid words of frenzy, all however with more or less of tragic significance in them, that he had taken too little care of _this_,—of sympathy with desolate indigence, and of readiness to relieve the sufferings of the destitute and forlorn.

The storm is raging on the heath, and faithful Kent implores his aged master to take shelter, such as it is, within a hovel hard by; some friendship will it lend him against the tempest; the tyranny of the open night’s too rough for nature to endure. But Lear would be let alone. “Wilt break my heart?” he exclaims, in answer to Kent’s fresh entreaty: Kent had rather break his own. Again the drenched, discrowned old man is urged to enter the hovel on the heath. But he stays outside, to reason on his past and present, till reason gives way. Kent may think it a matter of moment that this contentious storm invades them to the skin; and so it is to him. But Lear has deeper griefs to shatter him; and “where the greater malady is fixed, the lesser is scarce felt.” Let Kent go in, by all means: the king enjoins it—at least the ex-king desires it: let Kent seek his own ease—and perhaps Lear will follow him in. Meanwhile, in draggling robes, drenched to the skin, chilled to the heart, Lear’s thoughts perforce are turned to “houseless poverty,” to the indigent and vagrant creatures once, and so lately, his subjects, equally exposed to the downpour of the wrathful skies, of whom he had seldom, if ever, thought till now. Poor naked wretches, he apostrophises them, wheresoever they are, that bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,—how shall their houseless heads, and unfed sides, their looped and windowed raggedness, defend them from seasons such as these? And then, in an outburst of repentant self-reproach, he that had been King of Britain breaks forth into the avowal,

“O, I have ta’en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel; That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just.”

Between the history of Lear and that of Gloster, in the same play, there is a curious and significant parallel maintained throughout. And it is observable that when Gloster too, another duped and outcast father, is wandering in his turn on the same heath, and is accosted by “poor mad Tom,”—the sightless, miserable father thus addresses the “naked fellow” whose identity he so little suspects:

“Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched, Makes thee the happier:—Heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo the excess, And each man have enough.”

Strictly a parallel passage to the one just cited from the lips of Lear, even as the disastrous personal experiences of King of Britain and Duke of Gloster were along parallel lines, as we have said.

The words of Amos, the herdman of Tekoa, include a denunciation of woe to them that lie upon beds of ivory, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the calves out of the midst of the stall, and drink wine in bowls, and anoint themselves with costly ointments, and chant to the sound of the viol,—but are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph. As the minor prophet with his woe to them that are thus at ease in Zion, so a major prophet declares this to have been the iniquity of a doomed race—pride, fulness of bread, and abundance of idleness, with disregard of all means to strengthen the hand of the poor and needy. Lazarus the beggar was, as some scholars interpret the passage, “content to be fed” on the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table; in which case he would not appear to have been refused the crumbs: indeed, had this been the case, it would scarcely, they contend, have been omitted in the rebuke of Abraham. “The rich man’s sins were ravenousness and negligence rather than inhumanity.”[3] He took too little care of this—that beggary lay in helpless prostration before his doorway, the while he clothed himself in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day.

La Bruyère observes that “la santé et les richesses ôtent aux hommes l’expérience du mal, leur inspirent la dureté pour leurs semblables;” and adds, that “les gens déjà chargés de leur propre misère sont ceux qui entrent davantage, par leur compassion, dans celle d’autrui.” If these by comparison become wondrous kind, it is their fellow-feeling that makes them so. _Haud ignari mali, miseris succurrere discunt._ In another chapter of his “Characters,” La Bruyère sketches the portrait of one he styles Champagne, who “au sortir d’un long dîner qui lui enfle l’estomac, et dans les douces fumées d’un vin d’Avenay ou de Sillery, signe un ordre qu’on lui présente, qui ôterait le pain à toute une province, si l’on n’y remédiait: il est excusable. Quel moyen de comprendre, dans la première heure de la digestion, qu’on puisse quelque part mourir de faim?” _Il est excusable_, on the principle of Horace Walpole’s similar plea, or apology, for unheeding royalty. He writes to Miss Hannah More that he used to hate that king and t’other prince—but that on reflection he found the censure ought to fall on human nature in general. “They are made of the same stuff as we, and dare we say what we should be in their situation? Poor creatures! think how they are educated, or rather corrupted, early, how flattered! To be educated properly, they should be led through hovels [as Lear was on the heath—somewhat late in life], and hospitals, and prisons. Instead of being reprimanded (and perhaps immediately afterwards _sugar-plum’d_) for not learning their Latin or French grammar, they now and then should be kept fasting; and, if they cut their finger, should have no plaster till it festered. No part of a royal brat’s memory, which is good enough, should be burthened but with the remembrance of human suffering.” “_Il y a une espèce de honte d’être heureux à la vue de certaines misères_,” writes La Bruyère again. Adam Smith, however, made a dead set against what he calls those “whining and melancholy moralists,” who he complains, are perpetually reproaching us with our happiness, while so many of our brethren are in misery, who regard as impious the natural joy of prosperity, which does not think of the many wretches that are at every instant labouring under all sorts of calamities, in the languor of poverty, in the agony of disease, etc. “Commiseration for those miseries which we never saw, which we never heard of, but which we may be assured are at all times infesting such numbers of our fellow-creatures, ought, they think, to damp the pleasures of the fortunate, and to render a certain melancholy dejection habitual to all men.” Adam Smith opposes this “extreme sympathy” as altogether absurd and unreasonable; as unattainable too, so that a certain affected and sentimental sadness is the nearest approach that can be made to it; and he further declares that this disposition of mind, though it could be attained, would be perfectly useless, and could serve no other purpose than to render miserable the person who possessed it. This, of course, is assuming the wretchedness in question to be beyond the sympathiser’s relief. Dr. Smith may be supposed to have had in view Thomson’s celebrated passage:

“Ah! little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround; They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel, riot waste; Ah! little think they, while they dance along, How many feel this very moment death And all the sad variety of pain.”

Many variations on that theme of sad variety the poet sings: moving accidents by flood and fire,—pining want, and dungeon glooms,—the many who drink the cup of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread of misery—sore pierced by wintry winds, how many shrink into the sordid hut of cheerless poverty (the hovel on the heath again), etc., etc., etc.

“Thought fond man Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills That one incessant struggle render life One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Vice in his high career would stand appalled, And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; The conscious heart of charity would warm, And her wide wish benevolence dilate; The social tear would rise, the social sigh, And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work.”

This may, perhaps, said Baron Alderson, in winding up a charge to a grand jury, whom he exhorted at that winter season to show sympathy and kindness to the distressed,—this, perhaps, may be one of the objects for which God sends suffering, that it may tend to re-unite those whom prosperity has severed. So Burns—

“O ye who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think for a moment on his wretched fate Whom friends and fortune quite disown. Ill-satisfied keen nature’s clam’rous call, Stretch’d on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill, o’er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap. ... Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress: A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”

Again and again the question recurs, to quote from an able casuist on casual charity, why one man should be literally dying of want, whilst another is able to send him a cheque for £100 without thinking about it, or knowing that the money is gone? If Dives, it is asked, feels bound to give Lazarus so much, where does he draw the line? If the demand upon the superfluities of the rich is to be measured by the wants of the poor, why stop at £100 rather than £1000 or £10,000 or £100,000? “This is the question which lies at the root of half the melancholy sarcasms and still more melancholy wit of the present day. The writings of such men as Hood are little more than embodiments of it in a variety of forms, ludicrous or pathetic. It forms the burden of a whole class of literature, not the less influential because it is somewhat vague in its doctrines, and rests rather on sentiments than on dogmas.” Now this writer believes it to be always the best to look such questions in the face, and to attempt at least to give the true answer to them. And the answer, at least in part, in this instance, he takes to be that the antithesis is only sentimental, and not logical. The poverty of the very poor is not, he contends, either a cause or an effect of the riches of the very rich, nor would it be relieved by their permanent impoverishment. “That it is not a cause of their riches, is obvious from the fact that if by any change pauperism and misery were suddenly abolished, the rich would be all the richer.” But not to follow out a line of argument that would take us too far afield, we may advert to a corresponding essay, in the same _Review_, if not by the same contributor,—in which a picture is drawn of a rich man at church, who hears some stray verses in the second lesson, or some eloquent menace from the pulpit, which makes him very uncomfortable about the contrast between his own easy life and the massive wretchedness of Spitalfields or Poplar. The uneasiness is supposed to rankle in him for some time, spoiling his digestion, and making him very cross to his wife and daughters. Not that he “for a moment dreams of literally obeying the texts in the New Testament that have hit him hard; for he has a shrewd notion that they imply a very different state of society from the busy nineteenth century. He feels that he has no time for visiting the sick, and that if he had, the sick would think him a great nuisance; and he knows that when he got to the bedside, he would probably be at his wits’ ends for anything to say, and would end by twisting his watch-chain, and remarking that it was a cold day.” The practical inference is, that if he is to do any of the corporal works of mercy, he must do them by commission;—and so, at last, the irritation in his conscience throws itself out in the form of a liberal cheque upon his bankers. _He_, at least, will vindicate himself, so far as that vicarious beneficence may avail, from any possible charge of branded fellowship with such as the poet of the Seasons depicts, in

“The cruel wretch Who, all day long in sordid pleasure rolled, Himself a useless load, has squandered vile Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheered A drooping family of modest worth.”