RICHARD WHATELY, D.D. Whately has, however, kept clear of these faults, and the result is two of the most valuable and really interesting volumes of biographical literature which have been published for a long time. Richard Whately was born in 1787, at Nonsuch Park, Surrey, the residence of his father, the Rev. Dr. Joseph Whately, who combined in himself the offices of Vicar of Widford, Prebendary of Bristol, and Lecturer at Gresham College. Amongst the archbishop's ancestors the only ones of any note were one Thomas Whately, who wrote a work upon gardening, and another who was "a Puritan divine of some eminence." Those who have seen the manly tall form of Dr. Whately, in the prime of manhood, must be surprised to read that in early childhood he was so diminutive that when "weighed against a turkey he was found wanting." Having been educated at a private school at Bristol, in 1805 Whately went up to Oxford and entered at Oriel College. Fortunately, his tutor, Dr. Copleston, was a man of penetration; and beneath the rough, eccentric exterior of the young undergraduate he recognised the elements of true genius and power. In Whately's own opinion his tutor at Oriel was the person to whom, above all others, he was indebted for having "chipped the shell," and thus enabled him to expand his mental powers. Having obtained a prize for an English essay, and taken a "double second," in 1811 he was elected to a fellowship in Oriel. At this time the common room of Oriel was thronged by men destined to make their college famous, and to add lustre even to the ancient university itself. There was Newman, who is now the ablest divine of whom the Roman Catholic Church can boast,a man of so great genius and intellectual power, that one scarce knows whether more to wonder that such an intellect could accept, after investigation, the teaching of the Papal Church, or more to grieve that so great a sacrifice has been made upon the altar of Roman infallibility. | There, too, was Arnold, the lifelong friend of Whately, and the future Head-Master of Rugby, -the first who showed to England what a divine thing it was to be a teacher, who preached sermons in chapel to which the schoolboys actually listened with intelligent delight, and who taught the wild-brained young lads of Rugby that Christianity was the truest manliness. Another of the Oriel set of this time was afterwards to give the name of "Puseyite" to a church party, of which he was the ablest, most energetic, and most remarkable leader. The personal piety of Dr. Pusey has never been questioned by those who know anything of his life; but his recent correspondence with "S. G. O." in the public press shows that so far from having given up any of the extreme views which were for years 359 associated with his name, he still clings to them tenaciously, and has himself pursued and recommends to others a school of religious thought and practice utterly opposed to the feelings and sentiments of Englishmen, and wholly alien to the spirit of the Reformed Church of this country, and inconsistent with the express teaching of New Testament Scripture. One other name, which was to be known more widely than any of the former was that of Keble. Who shall write of the list of lives that have been made holy, and hearts that have been made glad, and waverers that have been strengthened by his "Christian Year!” Away with the profane hand which, now that he is gone, would by unauthorised alterations turn into the shibboleth of a party that which was left as a rich legacy of praise to the whole Christian Church. Go back in thought half a century to the old common room of Oriel, and see that group of five young men together-Keble, and Pusey, and Whately, and Arnold, and Newman. What an influence are they destined to have upon this nation of England and the Church of Christ! These five students have exercised a wider sway -some for good, and some for evil-over religious thought in England than all the Church leaders during the last fifty years! In this brilliant intellectual coterie Whately was able to shine brilliantly. Arnold was the only congenial soul amongst the set. From the views of Pusey and Newman the acute, vigorous, masculine mind of Whately instinctively recoiled. In 1822 he was appointed to the living of Halesworth, in Suffolk, and in 1825 Lord Granville elevated him to the principalship of St. Alban's Hall, at this time one of the most neglected and least frequented of the Halls of Oxford; but which, under the vigorous management of Dr. Whately, became one of the most flourishing and popular. Having held for a very brief period, as successor to Mr. Senior, the professorship of political economy, he was suddenly raised to the archbishopric of Dublin. For this post we must confess he was ill suited; he knew nothing of the business of a diocese, or the peculiar people amongst whom he was from henceforth to reside. We will give his own description of his unfitness for these duties, which will serve at once as a specimen of his lively, pleasant style of writing, and the keen accuracy of his expression. You have known mo too long not to know how harassing it is to me to have to make up my mind on a hundred different points every day, instead of concentrating my mind on a single pursuit, which is to others the severest kind of labour. What is properly called business is the specific poison to my constitution, and, I apprehend, will completely wear me out in a few years, especially from the want of long vacations to recruit. And what is most provoking is, that rank, state, pomp, precedence are to me just so much additional plague. I would rather work with Paul at his trade of tent-making, or have to go out fishing with Peter. And a formal dinner party, even at Oxford, is a bore which I would gladly commute for nine-and-thirty stripes. I do not know that I have less vanity than the rest of mankind, but mine is all of a personal kind (I do not mean in respect of bodily person), not connected with station. The offer of archbishop was gratifying to my organ of approbation; the acceptance of the office is martyrdom. at random from memory, was not always a mere play upon words, it was sometimes keen, trenchant sarcasm, expressing the most masterly, vigorous common sense. The following remark upon 66 mobs" may be apropos at present. “I mean,” said Dr. Whately, "a mob, a large collection of people of whatever rank, for then they always heat like new hay, and are governed by passion instead His disregard for rank, state, and pomp, which of reason. I verily think five common labourers he expresses thus decidedly, he evinced all through deliberating together would be more likely to his life in Dublin, by his neglect of all the state adopt wise and temperate measures than five which naturally belonged to his exalted station. thousand gentlemen." His advice to some young This was evidenced even in trifles. He seldom clergy may also, perhaps, at present be quoted with wore his order of St. Patrick, one of the honours significance. "My younger brethren, if at any attaching to his office. At King William's levee, time you find your preaching productive of good, His Majesty asked, "Is the Archbishop of Dublin and that your congregation value your exertions, ashamed of his order?" And on another occasion beware of being puffed up and losing your the Marquis of Anglesea, then Lord-Lieutenant of balance. Self-respect is valuable and useful, but Ireland, offered to arrange the blue ri and as there will be a sufficient growth each day, cut it properly, which his Grace was wearing in some close every morning, and when through the goodextraordinary careless fashion, to which the arch-ness of God you are successful in your ministry, bishop happily replied, "If I had earned mine as your Excellency has yours, I dare say I should think more about it." The "good sayings" of the archbishop might be counted by the hundred. So remarkable was he for wit and point that it soon became the fashion in Dublin to attribute every new joke or bon mot-bad or good-to his Grace. He once wittily remarked upon this practice, "I think I had better walk about with a notice-board upon my back, 'Rubbish shot here.' Speaking on one occasion of the persecuting spirit which has so repeatedly been shown by different religious parties in England, he remarked, "It is no wonder that some English people have a taste for persecution on account of religion, when it is the first lesson that most are taught in their nurseries." When the person to whom he was speaking denied the truth of this, Whately responded, "Are you sure? What think you of this وو "Old Daddy Longlegs won't. say his prayers. Take him by the left leg, and throw him down-stairs ?" Morrow's library being the most popular in Dublin for the supply of novels and light literature to the fashionable world, and the Rev. M. F. Day being the eminent minister of one of the most fashionably attended churches, the archbishop asked, "Why are the ladies of Dublin remarkably inconsistent ?" to which he answered, "Because they go to Day for a sermon, and to Morrow for a novel." Again, at a dinner-party given shortly after his chaplain, Dr. Fitzgerald, had been elevated to the bishopric of Cork, the newly-made bishop, in a fit of thoughtfulness, forgot to pass on the decanter, upon which the archbishop readily called out, "I say, you're not to stop the bottle now, because you're Bishop of Cork." But his wit, of which these are a few trivial specimens, selected enter into your closet, fall down on your knees before the Throne, and to the Lamb ascribe all the praise, the power, and the glory." His division of orators into two classes, those who are sunshine and those who are moonshine, is admirable. "When the moon shines brightly we are taught to say, 'How beautiful is this moonlight!' but in the day-time, 'How beautiful are the trees, the fields, the mountains!'-in short, all the objects that are illuminated; we never speak of the sun that makes them so. The really greatest orator shines like the sun, and you think of his eloquence; the second best shines like the moon, and is more admired as an orator." We have only space for one instance of the mode in which he sometimes stirred up his clergy to their duties. He was particularly anxious to encourage the clergy to learn the Irish language in those parts of his province where it was the only tongue understood by the common people. He records the following incident : : And do you speak "On my first visitation after the province of Cashel had been put under my care, I asked each of the clergy what proportion of their parishioners spoke nothing but Irish. In many cases the proportion was very large. Irish?' I asked. 'No, my lord.' 'I am very sorry to hear it,' I replied. 'Oh,' the clergyman always replied, all the Protestants speak English.' That is just what I should have expected,' I replied; 'under the circumstances of the case, it would be strange indeed if any who only spoke Irish were Protestants.' We have no space now to speak of Dr. Whately's public life and writings as Archbishop of Dublin: in a future paper we may have opportunity to do so. We have here written only of Richard Whately, D.D., the man; and to this paper, therefore, a few words of the closing scenes of his life will be the more suitable conclusion. After many years of a distinguished and honourable career, the great archbishop was attacked fiercely by a disease which had long threatened him, and, in great suffering, he lay down to die. Mr. Dickenson, who was for years his chaplain and intimate friend, has given us, with much feeling, an account of these last days. His growing inability to discharge any of his duties was what weighed most on him. One day in the August before his death, when Mr. Dickenson entered his study, he said, with tears in his eyes: "Have you ever preached on the text, 'Thy will be done?' How did you explain it ?" When Mr. Dickenson had replied, the archbishop said, "Just so-that is its meaning;" and then added, in a voice choked with tears, "but it is hard-very hard-sometimes, to say it." Some time later, Mr. Dickenson says: "While the perspiration streamed down his face from agony, he restrained every murmur of impatience, and said to us repeatedly, 'Yes, yes; I know you do all you can. The pain cannot be helped.' During the night I heard him often murmur, 'Lord have mercy on me! O! my God, grant me patience!"" On the 14th September he received for the last time the Lord's Supper. A calm, earnest attention and solemn grace rested on his face; he spoke little, but evidently the soul was communing with God. A little before this, one of his friends in attendance on him had remarked that his great mind was supporting him. His answer, most emphatically and earnestly given, was, "No, it is not that which supports me; it is faith in Christ. The life I live is by Christ alone." Then, with accents of childlike, simple faith upon his lips, and trusting only in his Saviour, the great and splendid genius passed away, on October 8th, to the larger lights above. We must rank him with Bacon as a thinker, with Usher as a divine, with Macaulay as a master of the English tongue, and for humble, earnest faith with the lowliest disciple that ever sat at Jesus' feet. H. D. CHAPTER LXVIII. DR. PLUME IN A BEWILDERMENT. HEN Frank reached Dr. Plume's house, after his interview with the countess, he put his horse in the stable, and hurried in at the front door, dreading lest any one should meet him. Hastening to his own chamber, he threw himself on the floor, and groaned aloud. Happily, he could not abandon himself to the excess of his grief. He had to make a simple wholesome effort, which might do him good: he had to dress for dinner. As he stood before the glass, and saw his dishevelled hair and wild eyes, he scarcely recognised himself. Then MARK WARREN." he smiled-not such a smile as we have been used to see on the face of Frank Chauncey. "If I can live through the next few days, I shall leave England," he thought. Where he would go to he knew not. Just then he hardly cared. A bell sounded presently, as a warning that the punctual, orderly doctor was ready for his dinner. He usually dined at six o'clock, and after dinner he and Frank would sit and talk cozily together. He was getting more and more attached to Frank. He was at the head of the table, waiting for Frank to make his appearance. His ankle had taken a turn for the better, and he was in excellent spirits. Indeed, he seemed inclined to be actually jocose. "I hope you have an appetite, Frank," said he, DEEPDALE VICARAGE. 363 The associations connected with the neighbourhood were anything but pleasant, or even safe. True, no human being, so he thought, beheld him take the old vicar's money: but yet, if walls have ears, it was just possible they might have eyes also. It was just possible that he might fall into some pitfall, and be taken unawares. A circumstance had once or twice occurred during his enforced stay at the inn, which caused him a pang of uneasiness. While sitting in the little parlour, he had been startled by a sudden apparition, as it seemed, at the window. A pair of intensely black eyes, with a menacing Frank's face, from deadly pale, turned to crimson, and then to deadly pale again. The doctor, who had his own opinion on the subject, smiled good-expression, had been fixed upon him;-only for a humouredly. "So we have been to the Manor, I suppose," said he, filling his glass. “I hope you found Lady Lucy all the better for her journey." "I did not see her," stammered Frank. "No?" And the doctor looked up at him with an air of surprise. Frank's eyes were fixed on his plate. "I thought you went there on purpose." moment; ere he could sufficiently recover his composure to rise, and see who it was, the eyes had disappeared. When he reached the window, no trace was to be seen of any living thing. Once, again, when taking air and exercise in the narrow strip of garden attached to the house, the same thing had startled him. From behind a gap in the hedge, there peered suddenly forth the same menacing eyes, and the eyes he now perceived be "Her ladyship sent for me," replied Frank, trying longed to a short grotesque figure, and which—yes, to speak calmly. every "Dr. Plume!" exclaimed Frank, rising, and vein standing out in his forehead. Then he sat down again, and hid his face in his hands. Dr. Plume was now absolutely frightened. "Ah!" thought the doctor, after a few minutes' silent survey. "I see, I see! My lady has changed her mind, and is playing with him as a cat does with a mouse. I know the Big Countess well; and I'll be even with her, too. Don't I know she loves him?" She, in this case, meaning Lady Lucy. "Don't I know she loves him!" he repeated, when Frank, silent and moody, sat with his untasted glass certainly, which he had once seen before! Where was it? He reeled back a few paces, as if he were about to fall-so fast, so thick, so hurrying came those memories! He had seen these eyes, that figure, when coming out of Deepdale Vicarage, after he had stolen the old vicar's money! A cold perspiration broke out upon his forehead. He fled to the shelter of his room. Not for worlds, dare he look again! Perhaps the eyes would recognise him,-perhaps the voice would denounce him as the culprit ! That night was the last he had spent at Deepdale. He was gone in quest of other scenes, with his lordly air, his polished exterior, and his courtly smile. The boy stood with clenched fists, and fiery eyes, looking as savage and untamed as ever he had been in his life. "Gone!" he shouted in his wild impetuous way-" gone!" "Yes, my lord," said the landlord, glibly, and clinking his money in his pocket. "He went off this morning, as comfortable as could be. Mr. Chauncey, he's pulled him through wonderful. A clever young man is Mr. Chauncey-I shall always stick to that," added he, in a patronising tone. "Did Mr. Chauncey know that he meant to go?" "Bless me! yes, my lord, I think so!" "But are you sure?" thundered Phil, "are you sure he knew?" "Well, my lord, I'm as sure as can be! Leastways, they shook hands, and Mr. Chauncey saw the gentleman off." "Saw the gentleman off!" "Yes, my lord. I knew it by the token, he was |