Chapter XIII: Part 13

"Before the gospel was preached to man, how could a human soul have this love, and this consequent life? I see no way; but now that Christ has excited our love for him by showing unutterable love for us; now that we know him as an Elder Brother, a being of like thoughts, feelings, sensations, sufferings, with ourselves, it has become possible to love as God loves, that is, to love Christ, and thus to become united in heart to God. Besides, Christ is the express image of God's person: in loving him we are sure we are in a state of readiness to love the Father, whom we see, he tells us, when we see him. Nor is this all: the tendency of love is towards a union so intimate as virtually to amount to identification; when then by affection towards Christ we have become blended with his being, the beams of eternal love, falling, as ever, on the one beloved object, will include us in him, and their returning flashes of love out of his personality will carry along with them some from our own, since ours has become confused with his, and so shall we be one with Christ, and through Christ with God. Thus then we see the great effect of the Incarnation, as far as our nature is concerned, was to rendtr human love for the Most High a possible thing. The law had said, 'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength;' and could men have lived by law, 'which is the strength of sin,' verily righteousness and life would have been by that law. But it was not possible, and all were concluded under sin, that in Christ might be the deliverance of all. I believe that Redemption" (i. e., what Christ has done and suffered for mankind) "is universal, in so far as it left no obstacle between man and God, but man's own will; that indeed is in the power of God's election, with whom alone rest the abysmal secrets of personality; but as far as Christ is concerned, his death was for all, since his intentions and affections were equally directed to all, and 'none who come to him will he in any wise cast out.'"

"I deprecate any hasty rejection of these thoughts as novelties. Christianity is indeed, as St. Augustin says, 'pulchritudo tarn antiqua;' but he adds, 'tarn nova,' for it is capable of presenting to every mind a new face of truth. The great doctrine which in my judgment these observations tend to strengthen and illumine, _the doctrine of personal love for a personal God_, is assuredly no novelty, but has in all times been the vital principle of the Church. Many are the forms of antichristian heresy, which for a season have depressed and obscured that principle of life, but its nature is conflictive and resurgent; and neither the Papal Hierarchy with its pomp of systematized errors, nor the worst apostasy of latitudinarian Protestantism, have ever so far prevailed, but that many from age to age have proclaimed and vindicated the eternal gospel of love, believing, as I also firmly believe, that any opinion which tends to keep out of sight the living and loving God, whether it substitute for Him an idol, an occult agency, or a formal creed, can be nothing better than a vain and portentous shadow projected from the selfish darkness of unregener-ate man."

The following is from the Review of Tennyson's Poems; we do not know that during the lapse of eighteen years anything better has been said:--

"Undoubtedly the true poet addresses himself, in all his conceptions, to the common nature of us all. Art is a lofty tree, and may shoot up far beyond our grasp, but its roots are in daily life and experience. Every bosom contains the elements of those complex emotions which the artist feels, and every head can, to a certain extent, go over in itself the process of their combination, so as to understand his expressions and sympathize with his state. But this requires exertion; more or less, indeed, according to the difference of occasion, but always some degree of exertion. For since the emotions of the poet during composition follow a regular law of association, it follows that to accompany their progress up to the harmonious prospect of the whole, and to perceive the proper dependence of every step on that which preceded, it is absolutely necessary to start from the same point, i.e, clearly to apprehend that leading sentiment of the poet's mind, by their conformity to which the host of suggestions are arranged. Now this requisite exertion is not willingly made by the large majority of readers. It is so easy to judge capriciously, and according to indolent impulse!"

"Those different powers of poetic disposition, the energies of Sensitive, of Reflective, or Passionate emotion, which' in former times were intermingled, and derived from mutual support an extensive empire over the feelings of men, were now restrained within separate spheres of agency. The whole system no longer worked harmoniously, and by intrinsic harmony acquired external freedom; but there arose a violent and unusual action in the several component functions, each for itself, all striving to reproduce the regular power which the whole had once enjoyed. Hence the melancholy which so evidently characterizes the spirit of modern poetry; hence that return of the mind upon itself, and the habit of seeking relief in idiosyncrasies rather than community of interest. In the old times the poetic impulse went along with the general impulse of the nation.

"One of the faithful Islam, a poet in the truest and highest sense, we are anxious to present to our readers.... He sees all the forms of Nature with the '_eruditus oculus_,' and his ear has a fairy fineness. There is _a strange earnestness in his worship of beauty_, which throws a charm over his impassioned song, more easily felt than described, and not to be escaped by those who have once felt it. We think that he has more dejlnite-ness and roundness of general conception than the late Mr. Keats, and is much more free from blemishes of diction and hasty capriccios of fancy.... The author imitates nobody; we recognise the spirit of his age, but not the individual form of this or that writer. His thoughts bear no more resemblance to Byron or Scott, Shelley or Coleridge, than to Homer or Calderon, Ferdusi or Calidasa. We have remarked five distinctive excellencies of his own manner. First, his luxuriance of imagination, and at the same time his control over it. Secondly, his power of embodying himself in ideal characters, or rather modes of character, with such extreme accuracy of adjustment, that the circumstances of the narration seem to have a natural correspondence with the predominant feeling, and, as it were, to be evolved from it by assimilative force. Thirdly, his vivid, picturesque delineation of objects, and the peculiar skill with which he holds all of them fttsedy to borrow a metaphor from science, in a medium of strong emotion. Fourthly, the variety of his lyrical measures, and exquisite modulation of harmonious words and cadences to the swell and fall of the feelings expressed. Fifthly, the elevated habits of thought, implied in these compositions, and imparting a mellow soberness of tone, more impressive, to our mind, than if the author had drawn up a set of opinions in verse, and sought to instruct the understanding, rather than to communicate the love of beauty to the heart."

What follows is justly thought and well said.

"And is it not a noble thing, that the English tongue is, as it were, the common focus and point of union to which opposite beauties converge? Is it a trifle that wre temper energy with softness, strength with flexibility, capaciousness of sound with pliancy of idiom? Some, I know, insensible to these virtues, and ambitious of I know not what unattainable decomposition, prefer to utter funereal praises over the grave of departed Anglo Saxon, or, starting with convulsive shudder, are ready to leap from surrounding Latinisms into the kindred, sympathetic arms of modern German. For myself, I neither share their regret, nor their terror. Willing at all times to pay filial homage to the shades of Hengist and Horsa, and to admit they have laid the base of our compound language; or, if you will, have prepared the soil from which the chief nutriment of the goodly tree, our British oak, must be derived, I am yet proud to confess that I look with sentiments more exulting and more reverential to the bonds by which the law of the universe has fastened me to my distant brethren of the same Caucasian race; to the privileges which I, an inhabitant of the gloomy North, share in common with climates imparadised in perpetual summer, to the universality and efficacy resulting from blended intelligence, which, while it endears in our eyes the land of our fathers as a seat of peculiar blessing, tends to elevate and expand our thoughts into communion with humanity at large; and, in the 'sublimer spirit' of the poet, to make us feel

'That God is everywhere--the God who framed

Mankind to be one mighty family,

Himself our Father, and the world our home.'"

What nice shading of thought do his remarks on Petrarch discover!

"But it is not so much to his direct adoptions that I refer, as to the general modulation of thought, that clear softness of his images, that energetic self-possession of his conceptions, and that melodious repose in which are held together all the emotions he delineates."

Every one who knows anything of himself, and of his fellow-men, will acknowledge the wisdom of what follows. It displays an intimate knowledge both of the constitution and history of man, and there is much in it suited to our present need:--

"I do not hesitate to express my conviction, that the spirit of the critical philosophy, as seen by its fruits in all the ra))iifications of art, literature, and morality, is as much more dangerous than the spirit of 7nechanical philosophy, as it is fairer in appearance, and more capable of alliance with our natural feelings of enthusiasm and delight. Its dangerous tendency is this, that it perverts those very minds, whose office it was to resist the perverse impulses of society, and to proclaim truth under the dominion ui falsehood. However precipitate may be at any time the current of public opinion, bearing along the mass of men to the giosser agitations of life, and to such schemes of belief as make these the prominent objects, there will always be in reserve a force of antagonistic opinion, strengthened by opposition, and attesting the sanctity of those higher principles which are despised or forgotten by the majority. These men are secured by natural temperament and peculiar circumstances from participating- in the common delusion: but if some other and deeper fallacy be invented; if some more subtle beast of the field should speak to them in wicked flattery; if a digest of intellectual aphorisms can be substituted in their minds for a code of living truths, and the lovely semblances of beauty, truth, affection, can be made first to obscure the presence, and then to conceal the loss, of that religious humility, without which, as their central life, all these are but dreadful shadows; if so fatal a stratagem can be successfully practised, I see not what hope remains for a people against whom the gates of hell have so prevailed."

"But the number of pure artists is small: few souls are so finely tempered as to preserve the delicacy of meditative feeling, untainted by the allurements of accidental suggestion. The voice of the critical conscience is still and small, like that of the moral: it cannot entirely be stifled where it has been heard, but it may be disobeyed. Temptations are never wanting; some immediate and temporary effect can be produced at less expense of inward exertion than the high and more ideal effect which art demands: it is much easier to pander to the ordinary and often recurring wish for excitement, than to promote the rare and difficult intuition of beauty. To raise the many to his own real point of view, the artist must employ his energies, and create energy in others: to descend to their position is less noble, but practicable with ease. If I may be allowed the metaphor, one partakes of the nature of redemptive power; the other of that self-abased and degenerate will, which 'flung from his splendours' the fairest star in heaven."

"Revelation is a voluntary approximation of the Infinite Being to the ways and thoughts of finite humanity. But until this step has been taken by Almighty Grace, how should man have a warrant for loving with all his heart and mind and strength?.... Without the gospel, nature exhibits a want of harmony between our intrinsic constitution and the system in which it is placed. But Christianity has made up the difference. It is possible and natural to love the Father, who has made us his children by the spirit of adoption: it is possible and natural to love the Elder Brother, who was, in all things, like as we are, except sin, and can succour those in temptation, having been himself tempted. Thus the Christian faith is the necessary complement of a sound ethical system There is something to us very striking in the words "Revelation is a voluntary approximation of the Infinite Being." This states the case with an accuracy and a distinctness not at all common among either the opponents or the apologists of revealed religion in the ordinary sense of the expression. In one sense God is for ever revealing himself. His heavens are for ever telling his glory, and the firmament showing his handiwork; day unto day is uttering speech, and night unto night is showing knowledge concerning him. But in the word of the truth of the gospel, God draws near to his creatures; he bows his heavens, and comes down:

"That glorious form, that light unsufferable,

And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,"

he lays aside. The Word dwelt with men. "Come then, let us reason together --"Waiting to be gracious --"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man open to me, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me." It is the father seeing his son while yet a great wav off, and having compassion, and running to him and falling on his neck and kissing him; for "it was meet for us to rejoice, for this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost, and is found." Let no man confound the voice of God in his Works with the voice of God in his Word; they are utterances of the same infinite heart and will, they are in absolute harmony; together they make up "that undisturbed song of pure concent one "perfect diapason but they are distinct; they are meant to be so. A poor traveller "weary and waysore," is stumbling in unknown places through the darkness of a night of fear, with no light near him, the everlasting stars twinkling far off in their depths, and yet unrisen sun, or the waning moon, sending up their pale beams into the upper heavens, but all this is distant and bewildering for his feet, doubtless better much than outer darkness, beautiful and full of God, if he could have the heart to look up, and the eyes to make use of its vague light; but he is miserable, and afraid, his next step is what he is thinking of; a lamp secured against all winds of doctrine is put into his hands, it may in some respects widen the circle of darkness, but it will cheer his feet, it will tell them what to do next. What a silly fool he would be to throwaway that lantern, or draw down the shutters, and make it dark to him, while it sits "i' the centre and enjoys bright day," and all upon the philosophical ground that its light was of the same kind as the stars', and that it was beneath the dignity of human nature to do anything but struggle on and be lost in the attempt to get through the wilderness and the night by the guidance of those "natural" lights, which, though they are from heaven, have so ofte^i led the wanderer astray. The dignity of human nature indeed! Let him keep his lantern till the glad sun is up, with healing under his wings. Let him take good heed to the "sure" [Greek] while in this [Greek]--this dark, damp, unwholesome place, "till the day dawn and [Greek] the day-star--arise." Nature and the Bible, the Works and the Word of God, are two distinct things. In the mind of their Supreme Author they dwell in perfect peace, in that unspeakable unity which is of his essence; and to us his children, every day their harmony, their mutual relations, are discovering themselves; but let us beware of saying all nature is a revelation as the Bible is, and all the Bible is natural as nature is: there is a perilous juggle here.

The following passage develops Arthur Hallam's views on religious feeling; this was the master idea of his mind, and it would not be easy to overrate its importance. "My son, give me thine heart;"--"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God --"The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God." He expresses the same general idea in these words, remarkable in themselves, still more so as being the thought of one so young. "The work of intellect is posterior to the work of feeling. The latter lies at the foundation of the man; it is his proper self--the peculiar thing that characterizes him as an individual. No two men are alike in feeling; but conceptions of the understanding, when distinct, are precisely similar in all--the ascertained relations of truths are the common property of the race."

Tennyson, we have no doubt, had this thought of his friend in his mind, in the following lines; it is an answer to the question, Can man by searching find out God?--

"I found Him not in world or sun,

Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye;

Nor thro' the questions men may try,

The petty cobwebs we have spun:

"If e'er when faith had fallen asleep,

I heard a voice 'believe no more,'

And heard an ever-breaking shore

That tumbled in the godless deep;

"A warmth within the breast would, melt

The freezing reason's colder part,

And like a man in wrath, the heart

Stood up and answer'd, 'I have felt.'

"No, like a child in doubt and fear:

But that blind clamour made me wise;

Then was I as a child that cries,

But, crying, knows his father near;

"And what I seem beheld again

What is, and no man understands:

And out of darkness came the hands

That reach thro' nature, moulding men."

This is a subject of the deepest personal as well as speculative interest. In the works of Augustin, of Baxter, Howe, and Jonathan Edwards, and of Alexander Knox, our readers will find how large a place the religious affections held in their view of Divine truths as well as of human duty. The last-mentioned writer expresses himself thus:--"Our sentimental faculties are far stronger than our cogitative; and the best impressions on the latter will be but the moonshine of the mind, if they are alone. Feeling will be best excited by sympathy; rather, it cannot be excited in any other way. Heart must act upon heart--the idea of a living person being essential to all intercourse of heart. You cannot by any possibility _corddialise_ with a mere _ens rationis_. 'The Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us,' otherwise we could not have 'beheld his glory,' much less 'received of his fulness.'" *

Our young author thus goes on:--

"This opens upon us an ampler view in which the subject deserves to be considered, and a relation still more direct and close between the Christian religion and the passion of love. What is the distinguishing character of Hebrew literature, which separates it by so broad a line of demarcation from that of every ancient people? Undoubtedly the sentiment of _erotic devotion_ which pervades it. Their poets never represent the Deity as an impassive principle, a mere organizing intellect, removed at infinite distance from human hopes and fears. He is for them a being of like passions with themselves, ** requiring heart for heart, and capable of inspiring affection because capable of feeling and returning it.

* Remains, vol. iii. p. 105.

** "An unfortunate reference (Acts xiv. 15), for the
apostle's declaration is, that he and his brethren were of
'like passions' (James v. 17);--? liable to the same
imperfections and mutations of thought and feeling as other
men, and as the Lystrans supposed their gods to be; while
the God proclaimed by him to them is not so. And that God is
the God of the Jews as well as of the Christians; for there
is but one God. Hallam's thought is an important and just
one, but not developed with his usual nice accuracy."

For this note, as for much else, I am indebted to my father,
whose powers of compressed thought I wish I had inherited.

Awful indeed are the thunders of his utterance and the clouds that surround his dwelling-place; very terrible is the vengeance he executes on the nations that forget him: but to his chosen people, and especially to the men 'after his own heart,' whom he anoints from the midst of them, his still, small voice' speaks in sympathy and loving-kindness. Every Hebrew, while his breast glowed with patriotic enthusiasm at those promises, which he shared as one of the favoured race, had a yet deeper source of emotion, from which gushed perpetually the aspirations of prayer and thanksgiving. He might consider himself alone in the presence of his God; the single being to whom a great revelation had been made, and over whose head an 'exceeding weight of glory'was suspended. For him the rocks of Horeb had trembled, and the waters of the Red Sea were parted in their course. The word given on Sinai with such solemn pomp of ministration was given to his own individual soul, and brought him into immediate communion with his Creator. That awful Being could never be put away from him. He was about his path, and about his bed, and knew all his thoughts long before. Yet this tremendous, enclosing presence was a presence of love. It was a manifold, everlasting manifestation of one deep feeling--a desire for human affection.* Such a belief, while it enlisted even pride and self-interest on the side of piety, had a direct tendency to excite the best passions of our nature. Love is not long asked in vain from generous dispositions. A Being, never absent, but standing beside the life of each man with ever-watchful tenderness, and recognised, though invisible, in every blessing that befel them from youth to age, became naturally the object of their warmest affections. Their belief in him could not exist without producing, as a necessary effect, that profound impression of passionate individual attachment which in the Hebrew authors always mingles with and vivifies their faith in the Invisible. All the books of the Old Testament are breathed upon by this breath of life. Especially is it to be found in that beautiful collection, entitled the Psalms of David, which remains, after some thousand years, perhaps the most perfect form in which the religious sentiment of man has been embodied.

* Abraham "was called the friend of God "with him (Moses)
will I (Jehovah) speak mouth to mouth, even apparently,"--
"as a man to his friend David was "a man after mine own
heart."

"But what is true of Judaism is yet more true of Christianity: 'matre pule hr â filia pulchrior.' In addition to all the characters of Hebrew Monotheism, there exists in the doctrine of the Cross a peculiar and inexhaustible treasure for the affectionate feelings. The idea of the [Greek], the God whose goings forth have been from everlasting, yet visible to men for their redemption as an earthly, temporal creature, living, acting, and suffering among themselves, then (which is yet more important) transferring to the unseen place of his spiritual agency the same humanity he wore on earth, so that the lapse of generations can in no way affect the conception of his identity; this is the most powerful thought that ever addressed itself to a human imagination. It is the [Greek], which alone was wanted to move the world. Here was solved at once the great problem which so long had distressed the teachers of mankind, how to make virtue the object of passion, and to secure at once the warmest enthusiasm in the heart with the clearest perception of right and wrong* in the understanding. The character of the blessed Founder of our faith became an abstract of morality to determine the judgment, while at the same time it remained personal, and liable to love. The written word and established church prevented a degeneration into ungoverned mysticism, but the predominant principle of vital religion always remained that of self-sacrifice to the Saviour. Not only the higher divisions of moral duties, but the simple, primary impulses of benevolence, were subordinated to tl}is new absorbing passion. The world was loved 'in Christ alone.' The brethren were members of his mystical body. All the other bonds that had fastened down the spirit of the universe to our narrow round of earth were as nothing in comparison to this golden chain of suffering and self-sacrifice, which at once riveted the heart of man to one who, like himself, was acquainted with grief. Pain is the deepest thing we have in our nature, and union through pain has always seemed more real and more holy than any other." *

* This is the passage referred to in Henry Taylor's
delightful Notes from Life ("Essay on Wisdom"):--

"Fear, indeed, is the mother of foresight: spiritual fear,
of a foresight that reaches beyond the grave; temporal fear,
of a foresight that falls short; but without fear there is
neither the one foresight nor the other; and as pain has
been truly said to be 'the deepest thing in our nature,' so
is it fear that will bring the depths of our nature within
our knowledge. A great capacity of suffering belongs to
genius; and it has been observed that an alternation of
joyfulness and dejection is quite as characteristic of the
man of genius as intensity in either kind." In his Notes
from Books, p. 216, he recurs to it:--"'Pain,'says a writer
whose early death will not prevent his being long
remembered, 'pain is the deepest thing that we have in our
nature, and union through pain has always seemed more real
and more holy than any other.'"

There is a sad pleasure,--_non ingrata amaritudo_, and a sort of meditative tenderness in contemplating the little life of this "dear youth," and in letting the mind rest upon these his earnest thoughts; to watch his keen and fearless, but childlike spirit, moving itself aright--going straight onward along "the lines of limitless desires"--throwing himself into the very deepest of the ways of God, and striking out as a strong swimmer striketh out his hands to swim; to see him "mewing his mighty youth, and kindling his undazzled eye at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance:"

"Light intellectual, and full of love,

Love of true beauty, therefore full of joy,

Joy, every other sweetness far above."

It is good for every one to look upon such a sight, and as we look, to love. We should all be the better for it; and should desire to be thankful for, and to use aright a gift so good and perfect, coming down as it does from above, from the Father of lights, in whom alone there is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

Thus it is, that to each one of us the death of Arthur Hallam--his thoughts and affections--his views of God, of our relations to Him, of duty, of the meaning and worth of this world and the next,--where he now is, have an individual significance. He is bound up in our bundle of life; we must be the better or the worse of having known what manner of man he was; and in a sense less peculiar, but not less true, each of us may say,

--"The tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me."

--"O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!''

"God gives us love! Something to love

He lends us; but when love is grown

To ripeness, that on which it throve

Falls off, and love is left alone:

"This is the curse of time. Alas!

In grief we are not all unlearned;

Once, through our own doors Death did pass;

One went, who never hath returned.

"This star

Rose with us, through a little arc

Of heaven, nor having wandered far,

Shot on the sudden into dark.

"Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,

While the stars burn, the moons increase,

And the great ages onward roll.

"Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet,

Nothing comes to thee new or strange,

Sleep, full of rest from head to feet;

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change."

_Vattene in pace, alma beata e bella-.--Go in peace, soul beautiful and blessed.

"O man greatly beloved, go thou thy way till the end, for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days."--Daniel.

"Lord, I have viewed this world over, in which thou hast set me; I have tried how this and that thing will tit my spirit, and the design of my creation, and can find nothing on which to rest, for nothing here doth itself rest, but such things as please me for a while, in some degree, vanish and flee as shadows from before me. Lo! I come to Thee--the Eternal Being--the Spring of Life--the Centre of rest--the Stay of the Creation--the Fulness of all things. I join myself to Thee; with Thee I will lead my life, and spend my days, with whom I aim to dwell for ever, expecting, when my little time is over, to be taken up ere long into thy eternity."--John Howe, _The Vanity of Man as Mortal_.

_Necesse est tanquam immaturam mortem ejus deflcam: si tamen fas est aut flere, aut omnino mortem vocare, quâ tanti juvenis mort alitas magis fin it a quamvita est.

Vivit enim, vivetque semper, atque etiam latius in me-moria hominum et sermone versabittir, postquam ab oc-ulis recessit._

The above notice was published in 1851. On sending to Mr. Hallam a copy of the Review in which it appeared, I expressed my hope that he would not be displeased by what I had done. I received the following kind and beautiful reply:--

"Wilton Crescent, Feb. i, 1851.

"Dear Sir,--It would be ungrateful in me to feel any displeasure at so glowing an eulogy on my dear eldest son Arthur, though after such a length of time, so Unusual, as you have written in the _North British Review_. I thank you, on the contrary, for the strong language of admiration you have employed, though it may expose me to applications for copies of the Remains, which I have it not in my power to comply with. I was very desirous to have lent you a copy, at your request, but you have succeeded elsewhere.

"You are probably aware that I was prevented from doing this by a great calamity, very similar in its circumstances to that I had to deplore in 1833--the loss of another son, equal in virtues, hardly inferior in abilities, to him whom you have commemorated. This has been an unspeakable affliction to me, and at my advanced age, seventy-three years, I can have no resource but the hope, in God's mercy, of a reunion with them both. The resemblance in their characters was striking, and I had often reflected how wonderfully my first loss had been repaired by the substitution, as it might be called, of one so closely representing his brother. I send you a brief Memoir, drawn up by two friends, with very little alteration of my own.--I am, Dear Sir, faithfully yours,

$HENRY HALLAM.

"Dr. Brown, Edinburgh."

The following extracts, from the Memoir of Henry Fitzmaurice Hallam mentioned above, which has been appended to a reprint of his brother's Remains (for private circulation), form a fitting- close to this memorial of these two brothers, who were "lovely and pleasant in their lives," and are now by their deaths not divided:--

"But few months have elapsed since the pages of _In Memoriam_ recalled to the minds of many, and impressed on the hearts of all who perused them, the melancholy circumstances attending the sudden and early death of Arthur Henry Hallam, Esq. Not many weeks ago the public journals contained a short paragraph announcing the decease, under circumstances equally distressing, and in some points remarkably similar, of Henry P'itzmaurice, Mr. Hallam's younger and only remaining son. No one of the very many who appreciate the sterling value of Mr. Hallam's literary labours, and who feel a consequent interest in the character of those who would have sustained the eminence of an honourable name; no one who was affected by the striking and tragic fatality of two such successive bereavements, will deem an apology needed for this short and imperfect Memoir.

"Henry Fitzmaurice Hallam, the younger son of Henry Hallam, Esq., was born on the 31st of August -1824; he took his second name from his godfather, the Marquis of Lansdowne.... A habit of reserve, which characterized him at all periods of life, but which was compensated in the eyes of even his first companions by a singular sweetness of temper, was produced and fostered by the serious thoughtfulness ensuing upon early familiarity with domestic sorrow.?

"'He was gentle,' writes one of his earliest and closest school-friends, 'retiring, thoughtful to pensiveness, affectionate, without envy or jealousy, almost without emulation, impressible, but not wanting in moral firmness. No one was ever more formed for friendship. In all his words and acts he was simple, straightforward, true. He was very religious. Religion had a real effect upon his character, and made him tranquil about great things, though he was so nervous about little things.'

"He was called to the bar in Trinity Term, 1850, and became a member of the Midland Circuit in the summer. Immediately afterwards he joined his family in a tour on the Continent. They had spent the early part of the autumn at Rome, and were returning northwards, when he was attacked by a sudden and severe illness, affecting the vital powers, and accompanied by enfeebled circulation and general prostration of strength. He was able, with difficulty, to reach Sienna, where he sank rapidly through exhaustion, and expired on Friday, October 25. It is to be hoped that he did not experience any great or active suffering. He was conscious nearly to the last, and met his early death (of which his presentiments, for several years, had been frequent and very singular) with calmness and fortitude. There is reason to apprehend, from medical examination, that his life would not have been of very long duration, even had this unhappy illness not occurred. But for some years past his health had been apparently much improved; and, secured as it seemed to be by his unintermitted temperance, and by a carefulness in regimen which his early feebleness of constitution had rendered habitual, those to whom he was nearest and dearest had, in great measure, ceased to regard him with anxiety. His remains were brought to England, and he was interred, on December 23d, in Clevedon Church, Somersetshire, by the side of his brother, his sister, and his mother.

"For continuous and sustained thought he had an extraordinary capacity, the bias of his mind being decidedly towards analytical processes; a characteristic which was illustrated at Cambridge by his uniform partiality for analysis, and comparative distaste for the geometrical method, in his mathematical studies. His early proneness to dwell upon the more recondite departments of each science and branch of inquiry has been alluded to above. It is not to be inferred that, as a consequence of this tendency, he blinded himself, at any period of his life, to the necessity and the duty of practical exertion. He was always eager to act as well as speculate; and, in this respect, his character preserved an unbroken consistency and harmony from the epoch when, on commencing his residence at Cambridge, he voluntarily became a teacher in a parish Sunday-school, for the sake of applying his theories of religious education, to the time when, on the point of setting forth on his last fatal journey, he framed a plan of obtaining access, in the ensuing winter, to a large commercial establishment, in the view of familiarizing himself with the actual course and minute detail of mercantile transactions.

"Insensibly and unconsciously he had made himself a large number of friends in the last few years of his life: the painful impression created by his death in the circle in which he habitually moved, and even beyond it, was exceedingly remarkable, both for its depth and extent. For those united with him in a companionship more than ordinarily close, his friendship had taken such a character as to have almost become a necessity of existence. But it was upon his family that he lavished all the wealth of his disposition--affection without stint, gentleness never once at fault, considerateness reaching to self-sacrifice: --

"Di ciô si biasmi il debolo intelletto

E'l parlar nostro, che non ha vnlore

Di ritrar tutto ciô che dice amore.

H. S. M.

F. L."

End of Project Gutenberg's Rab and His Friends and Other Papers, by John Brown