that the copyright of his works had no mercantile value. He perhaps
formed a true estimate of his own powers when he said that all that he
could do was to ‘systematize portions of knowledge which the consent of
opinions has brought into readiness for such a process[14].’ His name
will not be associated with any great discovery, or any original theory,
if we except his memoir on Crystallography, which is the basis of the
system since adopted; and his researches on the Tides, which have
afforded a clear and satisfactory view of those of the Atlantic, while
it is hardly his fault if those of the Pacific were not elucidated with
equal clearness[15]. It too often happens that those who originally
suggest theories are forgotten in the credit due to those who develop
them; and we are afraid that this has been the fate of Whewell. Even as
a mathematician he is not considered really great by those competent to
form a judgment. He was too much wedded to the geometrical fashions of
his younger days, and ‘had no taste for the more refined methods of
modern analysis[16].’ In science, as in other matters, his strong
conservative bias stood in his way. He was constitutionally unable to
accept a thorough-going innovation. For instance, he withstood to the
last Lyell’s uniformity, and Darwin’s evolution[17]. Much, therefore, of
what he wrote will of necessity be soon forgotten; but we hope that some
readers may be found for his _Elements of Morality_, and that his great
work on the Inductive Sciences may hold its own. It is highly valued in
Germany; and in England Mr John Stuart Mill, one of the most cold and
severe of critics, who differed widely from Whewell in his scientific
views, has declared that ‘without the aid derived from the facts and
ideas contained in the _History of the Inductive Sciences_, the
corresponding portion of his own _System of Logic_ would probably not
have been written.’
We have felt it our duty to point out these shortcomings; but it is a
far more agreeable one to turn from them, and conclude our essay by
indicating the lofty tone of religious enthusiasm which runs through all
his works. As Dr Lightfoot pointed out in his funeral sermon, ‘the world
of matter without, the world of thought within, alike spoke to him of
the Eternal Creator the Beneficent Father; and even his opponent, Sir
David Brewster, who more strongly than all his other critics had
denounced what he termed the paradox advanced in _The Plurality of
Worlds_, that our earth may be ‘the oasis in the desert of the solar
system,’ was generous enough to admit that posterity would forgive the
author ‘on account of the noble sentiments, the lofty aspirations, and
the suggestions, almost divine, which mark his closing chapter on the
future of the universe.’
CONNOP THIRLWALL[18].
Until a few years ago biographies of Bishops were remarkable for that
decent dullness which Sydney Smith has noted as a characteristic of
modern sermons. The narrative reproduced, with painful fidelity, the
oppressive decorum and the conventional dignity; but kept out of sight
the real human being which even in the Georgian period must have existed
beneath official trappings. But in these matters, as in others, there is
a fashion. The narratives which describe the lives of modern Bishops
reflect the change that has come over the office. As now-a-days ‘a
Bishop’s efficiency is measured, in common estimation, by his power of
speech and motion[19],’ his biography, if he has overtopped his brethren
in administration, or eloquence, or statesmanship, becomes an
entertaining, and sometimes even a valuable, production. It reflects the
ever-changing incidents of a bustling career; it is spiced with good
stories; and it reveals, more or less indiscreetly, matters of high
policy in Church and State, over which a veil has hitherto been drawn.
In a word, it is the portrait of a real person, not of a lay figure:
and, if the artist be worthy of his task, a portrait which faithfully
reproduces the original. The life of Bishop Thirlwall could not have
been treated in quite the same way as the imaginary biography we have
just indicated; but, in good hands, it might have been made quite as
entertaining, and much more valuable. Dr Perowne has told us that his
life was not eventful. It was not, in the ordinary sense of that word.
He rarely quitted his peaceful retreat at Abergwili; but, paradoxical as
it sounds, he was no recluse. He took part in spirit, if not in bodily
presence, in all the important events, political, religious, and
literary, of his time; and when he chose to break silence, in speech or
pamphlet, no one could command a more undivided attention, or exercise a
more powerful influence.
What manner of man was this? By what system of education had his mind
been developed? What were his tastes, his pursuits, his daily life? To
these questions, which are surely not unreasonable, the editors of the
five volumes before us vouchsafe no adequate reply, for the meagre
thread of narrative which connects together the _Letters Literary and
Theological_, may be left out of consideration. Thirlwall’s life, as we
understand the word, has yet to be written; and we fear that death has
removed most of those who could perform the task in a manner worthy of
the subject. For ourselves, all that we propose to do is to try to set
forth his talents and his character, by the help of the materials before
us, and of such personal recollections as we have been able to gather
together.
Connop Thirlwall was born February 11, 1797. His father, the Rev. Thomas
Thirlwall, minister of Tavistock Chapel, Broad Court, Long Acre,
Lecturer of S. Dunstan, Stepney, and chaplain to the celebrated Thomas
Percy, Lord Bishop of Dromore, resided at Mile End. We can give no
information about him except the above list of his preferments; and of
Connop’s mother we only know that her husband describes her as ‘pious
and virtuous,’ and anxious to ‘promote the temporal and eternal welfare’
of her children. She had the satisfaction of living long enough to see
her son a bishop[20]. Connop must have been a fearfully precocious
child. In 1809 the fond father published a small duodecimo volume
entitled ‘_Primitiæ; or, Essays and Poems on Various Subjects,
Religious, Moral, and Entertaining_. By Connop Thirlwall, eleven years
of age.’ The first of these essays is dated ‘June 30, 1804. Seven years
old’; and in the preface the father says:
‘In the short sketch which I shall take of the young author, and his
performance, I mean not to amuse the reader with anecdotes of
extraordinary precocity of genius; it is, however, but justice to him to
state, that at a very _early_ period he read English so well that he was
taught Latin at three years of age, and at four read Greek with an ease
and fluency which astonished all who heard him. From that time he has
continued to improve himself in the knowledge of the Greek, Latin,
French, and English languages. His talent for composition appeared at
the age of seven, from an accidental circumstance. His mother, in my
absence, desired his elder brother to write his thoughts upon a subject
for his improvement, when the young author took it into his head to ask
her permission to take the pen in hand too. His request was of course
complied with, without the most remote idea he could write an
intelligible sentence, when in a short time he composed that which is
first printed, “On the Uncertainty of Life.” From that time he was
encouraged to cultivate a talent of which he gave so flattering a
promise, and generally on a Sunday chose a subject from Scripture. The
following essays are selected from these lucubrations.’
We will quote a passage from one of these childish sermons, written when
he was eight years old. The text selected is, ‘Behold, I will add unto
thy days fifteen years’ (Isaiah xiii. 6); and, after some commonplaces
on the condition of Hezekiah, the author takes occasion from the day,
January 1, 1806, to make the following reflections:
‘I shall now consider what resolutions we ought to form at the beginning
of a new year. The intention of God in giving us life was that we might
live a life of righteousness. The same ever is His intention in
preserving it. We ought, then, to live in righteousness, and obey the
commandments of God. Do we not perceive that another year is come, that
time is passing away quickly, and eternity is approaching? and shall we
be all this while in a state of sin, without any recollection that the
kingdom of heaven is nearer at hand? But we ought, in the beginning of a
new year, to form a resolution to be more mindful of the great account
we must give at the last day, and live accordingly: we ought to form a
resolution to reform our lives, and walk in the ways of God’s
righteousness; to abhor all the lusts of the flesh, and to live in
temperance; and resolve no more to offend and provoke God with our sins,
but repent of them. In the beginning of a new year we should reflect a
little: although we are kept alive, yet many died in the course of last
year; and this ought to make us watchful[21].’
There is not much originality of thought in this; indeed, it is
impossible to avoid the suspicion that the paternal sermons, to which
the author doubtless listened every Sunday, suggested the form, and
possibly the matter, of these essays. What meaning could a child of
eight attach to such expressions as ‘the lusts of the flesh,’ or
‘repentance,’ or ‘eternity’? Still, notwithstanding this evident
imitation of others in the matter, the style has a remarkable
individuality. Indeed, just as the portrait of the child which is
prefixed to the volume recalls forcibly the features of the veteran
Bishop at seventy years of age, we fancy that we can detect in the style
a foreshadowing of some of the qualities which rendered that of the man
so remarkable. There is the same orderly arrangement of what he has to
say, the same absence of rhetoric, the same logical deduction of the
conclusion from the premisses. As we turn over the pages of the volume
we are struck by the extent of reading which the allusions suggest. The
best English authors, the most famous men of antiquity, are quoted as if
the writer were familiar with them. The themes, too, are singularly
varied. We find ‘An Eastern Tale,’ which, though redolent of _Rasselas_,
is not devoid of originality, and has considerable power of description;
an ‘Address’ delivered to the Worshipful Company of Drapers at their
annual visit to Bancroft’s School, which is not more fulsome than such
compositions usually are; and, lastly, half a dozen poems, which are by
far the best things in the book. Let us take, almost at random, a few
lines from the last: ‘Characters often Seen, but little Marked: a
Satire.’ A young lady, called Clara, is anxious to break off a match,
and lays her plot in the following fashion:
‘The marriage eve arrived, she chanced to meet
The unsuspecting lover in the street;
Begins an artful, simple tale to tell.
“I’m glad to see your future spouse so well,
But I just heard—” “What?” cries the curious swain.
“You may not like it; I must not explain.”
“What was the dear, delusive creature at?”
“Oh! nothing, nothing, only private chat.”
“A pack of nonsense! it cannot be true!
As if, dear girl, she could be false to you[22]!”’
Here, again, there may not be much originality of thought, but the
versification is excellent, and the whole piece of surprising merit,
when we reflect that it was written by a child of eleven. Yet, whatever
may be the worth of this and other pieces in the volume before us as a
promise of future greatness, we cannot but pity the poor little fellow,
stimulated by the inconsiderate vanity of his parents to a priggish
affectation of teaching others when he ought to have been either
learning himself or at play with his schoolfellows; and we can
thoroughly sympathize with the Bishop’s feelings respecting the book.
The lady to whom the _Letters to a Friend_ were written had evidently
asked him for a copy, and obtained the following answer:
‘I am sure that if you knew the point in my foot which gives me pain you
would not select that to kick or tread upon; and I am equally sure that
if you had been aware of the intense loathing with which I think of the
subject of your note you would not have recalled it to my mind. When Mrs
P——, in the simplicity of her heart, and no doubt believing it to be an
agreeable topic to me, told me at dinner on Thursday that she possessed
the hated volume, it threw a shade over my enjoyment of the evening, and
it was with a great effort that, after a pause, I could bring myself to
resume the conversation. If I could buy up every copy for the flames,
without risk of a reprint, I should hardly think any price too high. Let
me entreat you never again to remind me of its existence[23].’
In 1809 young Thirlwall was sent as a day-scholar to the Charterhouse,
the choice of a school having very likely been determined by the fact
that his father resided at the east end of London. The records of his
school days are provokingly incomplete; nay, almost a blank. We should
like to know whether he was ever a boy in the ordinary sense of the
word; whether he played at games[24], or got into mischief, or obtained
the distinction of a flogging. As far as his studies were concerned, he
was fortunate in going to the Charterhouse when that excellent scholar
Dr Raine was head master, and in being the contemporary of several boys
who afterwards distinguished themselves, among whom may be specially
mentioned his life-long friend, Julius Charles Hare, and George Grote,
with whom, in after years, he was to be united in a common field of
historical research. His chief friend, however, at this period was not
one of his schoolfellows, but a young man named John Candler[25], a
Quaker, resident at Ipswich. Several of the letters addressed to him
during the four years spent at Charterhouse have fortunately been
preserved. When we remember that these were written between the ages of
twelve and sixteen, they must be regarded as possessing extraordinary
merit. They are studied and rather stilted compositions, evidently the
result of much thought and labour, as was usual in days when postage
cost eightpence; but they reveal a wonderfully wide extent of reading,
and an interest in passing events not usual in so ardent a student as
the writer evidently had even then become. Young Candler was ‘a friend
to liberty,’ and an admirer of Sir Francis Burdett. His correspondent
criticizes with much severity the popular hero and the mob, who, ‘after
having broken the ministerial windows and pelted the soldiers with
brickbats, have gone quietly home and left him to his meditations upon
Tower Hill.’ Most thoughtful boys are fond of laying down the lines of
their future life in their letters to their schoolfellows; but how few
there are who do not change their opinions utterly, and end by adopting
some profession wholly different from that which at first attracted
them! This was not the case with Thirlwall. We find him writing at
twelve years old in terms which he would not have disdained at fifty. ‘I
shall never be a bigot in politics,’ he says; ‘whither my reason does
not guide me I will suffer myself to be led by the nose by no man[26].’
‘I would ask the advocates for confining learning to the breasts of the
wealthy and the noble, in whose breasts are the seeds of sedition and
discontent most easily sown? In that of the unenlightened or
well-informed peasant? In that of a man incapable of judging either of
the disadvantages of his station or the means of ameliorating it?...
These were long since my sentiments[27].’ And, lastly, on the burning
question of Parliamentary Reform: ‘Party prejudice must own it rather
contradictory to reason and common sense that a population of one
hundred persons should have two representatives, while four hundred
thousand are without one. These are abuses which require speedy
correction[28].’ He had evidently been taken to see Cambridge, and was
constantly looking forward to his residence there. His anticipations,
however, were not wholly agreeable. At that time he did not care much
for classics. He thought that they were not ‘objects of such infinite
importance that the most valuable portion of man’s life, the time which
he passes at school and at college, should be devoted to them.’ In
after-life he said that he had been ‘injudiciously plied with Horace at
the Charterhouse,’ and that, in consequence, ‘many years elapsed before
I could enjoy the most charming of Latin poets[29].’ He admits, however,
that he is looking forward ‘with hope and pleasing anticipation to the
time when I shall immure myself’ at Cambridge; and he makes some really
admirable reflections, most unusual at that period, on University
distinctions and the use to be made of them:
‘There is one particular in which I hope to differ from many of those
envied persons who have attained to the most distinguished academical
honours. Several of these seem to have considered the years which they
have spent at the University, not as the time of preparation for studies
of a more severe and extended nature, but as the term of their labours,
the completion of which is the signal for a life of indolence,
dishonourable to themselves and unprofitable to mankind. Literature and
science are thus degraded from their proper rank, as the most dignified
occupations of a rational being, and are converted into instruments for
procuring the gratification of our sensual appetites. This will not, I
trust, be the conduct of your friend. Sorry indeed should I be to accept
the highest honours of the University were I from that time destined to
sink into an obscure and useless inactivity[30].’
An English translation of the _Pensées_ of Pascal had fallen in his way;
and, in imitation of that great thinker, he had formed a resolution, of
which he begs his friend to remind him in future years, to devote
himself wholly to such studies (among others to the acquisition of a
knowledge of Hebrew) as would fit him for the clerical profession. We
shall see that he never really faltered from these intentions; for,
though he was at one time beset with doubts as to his fitness to perform
the practical duties of a clergyman, he was from first to last a
theologian, and only admitted other studies as ancillary to that central
object.
Thirlwall left Charterhouse in December 1813, and proceeded to Trinity
College, Cambridge, in October of the following year. How he spent the
interval has not been recorded: possibly, like many other boys educated
at a purely classical school, he was doing his best to acquire an
adequate knowledge of mathematics, to his deficiency in which there are
frequent references. He was so far successful in his efforts that he
obtained the place of 22nd senior optime in 1818, when he proceeded in
due course to his degree. Meanwhile, however great his distaste for the
classics might have been at school, he had risen to high distinction in
them; for he obtained the Craven University scholarship when only a
freshman, as well as a Bell scholarship, and in the year of his degree
the first Chancellor’s medal[31]. In the autumn of the same year he was
elected Fellow of his college. It is provoking to have to admit that our
history of what may be termed the first part of his Cambridge career
must begin and end here. Of the second portion, when he returned to his
college and became assistant tutor, we shall have plenty to say
hereafter; but of his undergraduate days no record has been preserved.
He had the good fortune to know Trinity College when society there was
exceptionally brilliant; among his contemporaries were Sedgwick,
Whewell, the two Waddingtons, his old friend Hare, who gained a
Fellowship in the same year as himself, and many others who contributed
to make that period of University history a golden age. We can imagine
him in their company ‘moulding high thought in colloquy serene,’ and
taking part in anything which might develop the general culture of the
place; but beyond the facts that he was secretary to the Union Society
in 1817, when the ‘debate was interrupted by the entrance of the
proctors, who laid on its members the commands of the Vice-Chancellor to
disperse, and on no account to resume their discussions[32],’ and that
he had acquired a high reputation for eloquence as a speaker there[33],
we know nothing definite about him. He does not appear to have made any
new friends; but as Julius Hare was in residence during the same period
as he was, the two doubtless saw much of each other; and it is probably
to him that Thirlwall owed the love of Wordsworth which may be detected
in some of his letters, his fondness for metaphysical speculation, and
his wish to learn German. The only letters preserved are addressed to
his old correspondent Mr Candler, and to his uncle Mr John Thirlwall,
and they give us no information relevant to Cambridge. In writing to the
latter he dwells on his fondness for ancient history, on his preference
for that of Greece over that of Rome; he records the addition of the
Italian and German languages to his stock of acquirements; and he
describes with enthusiasm his yearning for foreign travel, which each
year grew stronger:
‘I certainly was not made to sit at home in contented ignorance of the
wonders of art and nature, nor can I believe that the restlessness of
curiosity I feel was implanted in my disposition to be a source of
uneasiness rather than of enjoyment. Under this conviction I peruse the
authors of France and Italy, with the idea that the language I am now
reading I may one day be compelled to speak, and that what is now a
source of elegant and refined entertainment may be one day the medium
through which I shall disclose my wants and obtain a supply of the
necessaries of daily life. This is the most enchanting of my day dreams;
it has been for some years past my inseparable companion. And, apt as
are my inclinations to fluctuate, I cannot recollect this to have ever
undergone the slightest abatement[34].’
The letter from which we have selected the above passage was written to
his uncle in 1816; in another, written a few months later to his friend
Mr Candler, he enters more fully into his difficulties and prospects.
The earlier portion of the letter is well worth perusal for the insight
it affords into the extent of his reading and the originality of his
criticisms; but it is the concluding paragraph which is specially
interesting to a biographer. We do not know to what influences the
change was due, but it is evident that his mind was passing through a
period of unrest; his old determinations had been, at least for the
moment, uprooted, and he looked forward with uncertain eyes to an
unknown future. ‘My disinclination to the Church,’ he says, ‘has grown
from a motive into a reason.’ The Bar had evidently been suggested to
him as the only alternative, and on that dismal prospect he dilates with
unwonted bitterness. It would take him away from all the pursuits he
loved most dearly, and put in their place ‘the routine of a barren and
uninteresting occupation,’ in which not only would the best years of his
life be wasted, but—and this is what he seems to have dreaded most—his
loftier aspirations would be degraded, and, when he had become rich
enough to return to literature, he would feel no inclination to do so.
The Fellowship examination of 1818 having ended in Thirlwall’s election,
he was free to go abroad, and at once started alone for Rome. At that
time Niebuhr was Prussian Envoy there, and Bunsen his Secretary of
Legation. Thirlwall was so fortunate as to bring with him a letter of
introduction to Madame Bunsen, who had been a Miss Waddington, cousin to
Professor Monk, and had married Bunsen about a year before Thirlwall’s
visit. The following amusing letter from Madame Bunsen to her mother
gives an interesting picture of Thirlwall in Rome: