I know, sometimes suspected that a man’s abilities are to be judged of
in an _inverse ratio_ to his Cambridge honours; but I believe that rule
is really not without exception, for Mr Thirlwall is certainly no dunce,
although, as I have been informed, he attained high honours at Cambridge
at an earlier age than anybody except, I believe, Porson. In the course
of their first interview Charles heard enough from him to induce him to
believe that Mr Thirlwall had studied Greek and Hebrew in good earnest,
not merely for _prizes_; also, that he had read Mr Niebuhr’s Roman
History proved him to possess no trifling knowledge of German; and, as
he expressed a wish to improve himself in the language, Charles ventured
to invite him to come to us on a Tuesday evening, whenever he was not
otherwise engaged, seeing that many Germans were in the habit of calling
on that day. Mr Thirlwall has never missed any Tuesday evening since,
except the _moccoli_ night and one other when it rained dogs and cats.
He comes at eight o’clock, and never stirs to go away till everybody
else has wished good night, often at almost twelve o’clock. It is
impossible for any one to behave more like a man of sense and a
gentleman than he has always done—ready and eager to converse with
anybody that is at leisure to speak to him, but never looking fidgety
when by necessity left to himself; always seeming animated and
attentive, whether listening to music, or trying to make out what people
say in German, or looking at one of Goethe’s songs in the book, while it
is sung. And so there are a great many reasons for our being _very much_
pleased with Mr Thirlwall; yet I rather suspect him of being very cold,
and very dry; and although he seeks, and seeks with general success, to
understand everything, and in every possible way increase his stock of
ideas, I doubt the possibility of his understanding anything that is to
be _felt_ rather than _explained_, and that cannot be reduced to a
system. I was led to this result by some most extraordinary questions
that he asked Charles about _Faust_ (which he had borrowed of us, and
which he greatly admired nevertheless, attempting a translation of one
of my favourite passages, which, however, I had not pointed out to him
as being such), and also by his great fondness for the poems of
Wordsworth, two volumes of which he insisted on lending to Charles.
These books he accompanied with a note, in which he laid great stress
upon the necessity of reading the author’s _prose essays on his own
poems_, in order to be enabled to relish the latter. Yet Mr Thirlwall
speaks of Dante in a manner that would seem to prove a thorough taste
for his poetry, as well as that he has really and truly studied it; for
he said to me that he thought no person who had taken the trouble to
understand the whole of the _Divina Commedia_ would doubt about
preferring the “Paradiso” to the two preceding parts, an opinion in
which I thoroughly agree[35].
‘As Mr Thirlwall can speak French sufficiently well to make himself
understood, and as he has _something to say_, Charles found it very
practicable to make him and Professor Bekker acquainted, though
Professor Bekker has usually the great defect of _never_ speaking but
when he is prompted by his own inclination, and of never being _inclined
to speak_ except to persons whom he has long known—that is, to whose
faces and manners he has become accustomed, and whose understanding or
character he respects or likes.... In conclusion, I must say about Mr
Thirlwall, that I was prepossessed in his favour by his having made up
in a marked manner to Charles, rather than to myself. I had no
difficulty in getting on with him, but I had all the advances to make;
and I can never think the worse of a young man, just fresh from college
and unused to the society of women, for not being at his ease with them
at first[36].’
It is vexatious that Thirlwall’s biographers should have failed to
discover—if indeed they tried to discover—any information about his
Roman visit, to which he always looked back with delight, occasioned as
much by the friends he had made there as by ‘the memorable scenes and
objects’ he had visited[37]. So far as we know, the above letter is the
only authority extant. We should like to have heard whether Thirlwall
had, or had not, any personal intercourse with Niebuhr, whom we have
reason to believe he never met; and to what extent Bunsen influenced his
future studies. We find it stated in Bunsen’s life that he determined
Thirlwall’s wavering resolutions in favour of the clerical
profession[38]. This, as we shall presently shew, is clearly a mistake;
but, when we consider the strong theological bias of Bunsen’s own mind,
it does seem probable that he would direct his attention to the modern
school of German divinity. We suspect that Thirlwall had been already
influenced in this direction by the example, if not by the direct
precepts, of Herbert Marsh, then Lady Margaret’s Professor of Theology
at Cambridge[39], who had stirred up a great controversy by translating
Michaelis’ _Introduction to the New Testament_, and by promoting a more
free criticism of the Gospels than had hitherto been thought
permissible. However this may be, it is certain that the friendship
which began in Rome was one of the strongest and most abiding influences
which shaped Thirlwall’s character, and just half a century afterwards
we find him referring to Bunsen as a sort of oracle in much the same
language that Dr Arnold was fond of employing.
We must pass lightly and rapidly over the next seven years of
Thirlwall’s life. He entered as a law student at Lincoln’s Inn in
February 1820, and in 1827 returned to Cambridge. In the intervening
period he had given the law a fair trial; but the more he saw of it the
less he liked it. It is painful to think of the weary hours spent over
work of which he could say, four years after he had entered upon it, ‘It
can never be anything but loathsome to me[40]’; ‘my aversion to the law
has not increased, as it scarcely could, from the first day of my
initiation into its mysteries’; or to read his pathetic utterances to
Bunsen, describing his wretchedness, and the delight he took in his
brief excursions out of law into literature, consoling himself with the
reflection that perhaps he gained in intensity of enjoyment what he lost
in duration. With these feelings it would have been useless for him to
persevere; but we doubt if the time spent in legal work was so entirely
thrown away as he imagined. It might be argued that much of his future
eminence as a bishop was due to his legal training. As a friend has
remarked, ‘he carried the temper, and perhaps the habit, of Equity into
all his subsequent work’; and to the end of his life he found a special
delight in tracking the course of the more prominent _causes célèbres_
of the day, and expressing his judgment upon them[41]. Even in these
years, however, law was not allowed to engross his whole time. From the
beginning he had laid this down as a fixed principle. He spent his
vacations in foreign travel, and every moment he could snatch from his
enforced studies was devoted to a varied course of reading, of which the
main outcome was a translation of Schleiermacher’s _Critical Essay on
the Gospel of S. Luke_[42], to which his friend Hare had introduced him.
Why should Thirlwall have selected, as a specimen of the new school of
German theology, a work which, at this distance of time, does not appear
to be specially distinguished for merit or originality[43]? It is
evident, from what he says in his _Introduction_, that he had a sincere
admiration for the talents of Dr Schleiermacher, whom he describes as
‘this extraordinary writer,’ whose fate it has been ‘to open a new path
in every field of literature he has entered, and to tread all alone.’
But the real motive for the selection is to be found, we think, in the
opportunity it afforded him for studying the whole question of the
origin and authorship of the synoptic Gospels, and, as the title page
informs us, for dealing with the contributions to the literature of the
subject which had appeared since Bishop Marsh’s _Dissertation on the
Origin and Composition of our three first Canonical Gospels_, published
in 1801. In this direct reference to Marsh’s work we find a confirmation
of our theory that Thirlwall owed to him his position as a critical
theologian, though we can hardly imagine a greater difference than that
which must have existed in all other matters between the passionate
Toryism of the one and the serene Liberalism of the other.
Thirlwall’s gallant attempt to follow an uncongenial profession could
have but one termination; and we can imagine his friends watching with
some curiosity for the moment and the cause of the final rupture. The
moment was probably determined by the prosaic consideration that his
fellowship at Trinity College would terminate in October 1828, unless he
were in Priest’s Orders. We do not mean that he became a clergyman in
order to secure a comfortable yearly income; but, that having decided in
favour of the clerical profession, joined to those literary pursuits
which his position as a fellow of Trinity College would allow, he took
the necessary steps in good time. He returned to Cambridge in 1827, and,
having been ordained deacon in the same year, and priest in the year
following, at once undertook his full share of college and University
work[44]. His friend Hare had set the example in 1822 by accepting a
classical lectureship at Trinity College at the urgent request of Mr
Whewell, then lately appointed to one of the tutorships[45], and
Thirlwall had paid visits to him in the Long Vacations of 1824 and 1825.
It is probable that at one of these visits the friends had planned their
translation of Niebuhr’s _History of Rome_, for the first volume was far
advanced in 1827, and was published early in 1828. The second did not
appear until 1832. The publication of what Thirlwall rightly terms ‘a
wonderful masterpiece of genius’ in an English dress marked an epoch in
historical and classical literature in this country. Yet,
notwithstanding its pre-eminent excellence, the work of the translators
was bitterly attacked in various places, and particularly in a note
appended to an article in the _Quarterly Review_, a criticism which
would long ago have been forgotten if it had not called forth a reply
which we have heard described as ‘Hare’s bark and Thirlwall’s bite[46].’
The pamphlet consists of sixty-three pages, of which sixty belong to the
former, and a ‘Postscript,’ of little more than two, to the latter. It
is probable that Hare’s elaborate vindication of his author, his brother
translator, and himself, had but little effect on any one; Thirlwall’s
indignant sarcasms—worthy of the best days of that controversial style
in which he subsequently became a master—are still remembered and
admired. We will quote a few sentences, of an application far wider than
the criticism to which they originally referred. The reviewer had
expressed pity that the translators should have wasted ‘such talents on
the drudgery of translation.’ Thirlwall took exception to the phrase,
and pointed out that their intellectual labour did not deserve to be so
spoken of.
‘On the other hand, intellectual labour prompted and directed by no
higher consideration than that of personal emolument appears to me to
deserve an ignominious name; nor do I think such an employment the less
illiberal, however great may be the abilities exerted, or the advantages
purchased. But I conceive such labour to become still more degrading,
when it is let out to serve the views and advocate the opinions of
others. It sinks another step lower in my estimation, when, instead of
being applied to communicate what is excellent and useful, it ministers
to the purpose of excluding from circulation all such intellectual
productions as have not been stampt with the seal of the party to which
it is itself subservient. But when I see it made the instrument of a
religious, political, or literary proscription, forging or pointing
calumny and slander to gratify the malice of hotter and weaker heads
against all whom they hate and fear, I have now before me an instance of
what I consider as the lowest and basest intellectual drudgery. I leave
the application of these distinctions to the QUARTERLY REVIEWER.’
In 1831 the two friends started the publication of the _Philological
Museum_. It had a brief but glorious career. Only six numbers were
published, but they contained ‘more solid additions to English
literature and scholarship’ than had up to that time appeared in any
journal. We are glad to see that seven of Thirlwall’s contributions have
been republished, and that among them is the well-known essay _On the
Irony of Sophocles_. Those who read these articles, and still more those
who turn to the volumes from which they have been extracted, and look
through the whole series of Thirlwall’s contributions, will be as much
impressed by the writer’s erudition as by his critical insight; and, if
a translation from the German should fall under their notice, they will
not fail to remark the extraordinary skill with which he has turned that
difficult language into sound English. Thirlwall would have smiled with
polite incredulity had any one told him that he was setting an example
in those writings of his which would bear fruit in years to come; but we
maintain that this is what really happened. More than one of his
successors in the field of classics at Cambridge was directly stimulated
by what he had done to undertake an equally wide course of reading; and
it may be argued with much probability that the thoroughness and breadth
of illustration with which classical subjects are treated by the
lecturers in Trinity College is derived from his initiative.
In 1832, when Hare left Cambridge, his friend succeeded him as assistant
tutor, to give classical lectures to the undergraduates on Whewell’s
‘side.’ For a time all went well. His lectures were exceedingly popular
with those capable of appreciating them, as was shown by the large
attendance not only of undergraduates, but of the best scholars in the
college, men who had already taken their degrees, and who were working
for the Fellowship Examination or for private improvement. They were
remarkable for translations of singular excellence, and for an
exhaustive treatment of the subject, as systematic as Hare’s had been
desultory, as we learn from traditions of them which still survive, and
from two volumes of notes which now lie before us, taken down at a
course on the Ethics of Aristotle. Moreover Thirlwall was personally
popular. He was the least ‘donnish’ of the resident Fellows, and sought
the society of undergraduates, inviting the men who attended his
lectures to walk with him or to take wine at his rooms after Hall. He
delighted in a good story, and used to throw himself back in his chair,
his whole frame shaking with suppressed merriment, when anything struck
his fancy as especially humorous. He had one habit which, had it been
practised with less delicacy, might have marred his popularity. He was
fond of securing an eager but inconsiderate talker, whom he drew out, by
a series of subtle questions, for the amusement of the rest. So well
known was this peculiarity among his older friends that after one of his
parties a person who had not been present has been heard to inquire from
another who had just left his rooms, ‘Who was fool to-day?’
In 1834 Thirlwall’s connection with the educational staff of the college
was rudely severed by a controversy respecting the admission of
Dissenters to degrees. This debate has been long since forgotten in the
University; but the influence which it exercised on Thirlwall’s future
career, as well as its own intrinsic interest, point it out for
particular notice. We had occasion in a recent article[47] to sketch the
changes which took place in the University between 1815 and 1830. It
will be remembered that the stormy period of our political history which
is associated with the first Reform Bill fell between those dates. It
was hardly to be expected that Cambridge should escape an influence by
which the country was so profoundly affected. Indeed, it may be cited as
a sign of the absorbing interest of that question, that it did affect
the University very seriously; for there is ample evidence that in the
previous century external events, no matter how important, had made but
little impression. In 1746 we find the poet Gray lamenting that his
fellow academicians were so indifferent to the march of the Pretender;
and even the French Revolution excited but a languid enthusiasm, though
Dr Milner, the Vice-Chancellor, and his brother Heads, did their best to
draw attention to it by expelling from the University Mr Frend, of Jesus
College, for writing a pamphlet called _Peace and Union_, which
advocated the principles of its leaders. With the Reform Bill of 1830,
however, the case was very different. Sides were eagerly taken;
discussions grew hot and angry; old friends became estranged; and, years
afterwards, when children of the next generation asked questions of
their parents about some one whose name was mentioned in their hearing,
but with whom they were not personally acquainted, it was not unusual
for them to be told: ‘That is Mr So-and-so; he used to be very intimate
with us before the Reform Bill; but we never speak now.’
One of the grievances then discussed was the exclusion of Dissenters
from participation in the advantages of the Universities. The propriety
of imposing tests at matriculation, and on proceeding to degrees,
especially to degrees in the faculties of law and physic, had been from
time to time debated, both in the University and in the House of
Commons. The ancient practice had, notwithstanding, been steadily
maintained. On one occasion, in 1772, the House had even gone so far as
to decline, by a majority of 146, to receive a petition on the subject.
In December 1833, however, Professor Pryme offered Graces to the Senate
for appointing a Syndicate to consider the abolition or the modification
of subscription on graduation. The ‘Caput[48]’ rejected them. In
February of the following year, Dr Cornwallis Hewett, Downing Professor
of Medicine, offered a similar Grace to consider the subject with
special reference to the faculty of medicine. This also was rejected by
the ‘Caput’ on the veto of the Vice-Chancellor, Dr King, President of
Queens’ College. These two rejections, following so closely upon each
other, made it evident that the authorities of the University were not
disposed so much as to consider the subject. It was therefore determined
to extend the field of the controversy, and at once to apply to the
Legislature. A meeting was held at Professor Hewett’s rooms in Downing
College, at which it was agreed to present an identical petition to both
Houses of Parliament. The document began by stating the attachment of
the petitioners to the Church of England, and to the University as
connected therewith; and further, their belief ‘that no civil or
ecclesiastical polity was ever so devised by the wisdom of man as not to
require, from time to time, some modification from the change of
external circumstances or the progress of opinion.’ They then
suggested—this was the word employed—
‘“That no corporate body, like the University of Cambridge, can exist in
a free country in honour and safety unless its benefits be communicated
to all classes as widely as may be compatible with the Christian
principles of its foundation”; and urged “the expediency of abrogating
by legislative enactment every religious test exacted from members of
the University before they proceed to degrees, whether of Bachelor,
Master, or Doctor, in Arts, Law, or Physic.”’
This petition was signed by sixty-two resident members of the Senate.
Among them were two Masters of Colleges, Dr Davy, of Caius, and Dr Lamb,
of Corpus Christi; and nine Professors, Hewett, Lee, Cumming, Clark,
Babbage, Sedgwick, Airy, Musgrave, Henslow; some of whom were either
Conservatives, or very moderate Liberals. It was presented to the House
of Lords by Earl Grey, and to the House of Commons by Mr Spring-Rice,
member for the town of Cambridge. As might have been expected, it was
met, after an interval of about ten days, by a protest, signed by 110
residents; which was shortly followed by a counter-petition to
Parliament, signed by 258 members of the Senate, mostly non-residents—a
number which would no doubt have been greatly enlarged had there been
more time for collecting signatures[49]. These expressions of opinion,
however, which showed that even resident members of the University were
not unanimous in desiring the proposed relief, while non-residents were
probably strongly opposed to it, did not prevent the introduction of a
Bill into the House of Commons to make it ‘lawful for all his Majesty’s
subjects to enter and matriculate in the Universities of England, and to
receive and enjoy all degrees in learning conferred therein (degrees in
Divinity alone excepted), without being required to subscribe any
articles of religion, or to make any declaration of religious opinions
respecting particular modes of faith and worship.’ The third reading of
this Bill was carried by a majority of 89; but it was rejected in the
House of Lords by a majority of 102.
It will easily be imagined that these proceedings were watched with the
greatest interest at Cambridge. Public opinion had risen to fever-heat,
and a plentiful crop of pamphlets was the result. It is difficult
nowadays to read without a smile these somewhat hysterical productions,
with their prophecies of untold evils to come, should the fatal measure
suggested by the petitioners ever pass into the Statute-book. Among
these pamphlets that which most concerns our present purpose was by Dr
Thomas Turton, then Regius Professor of Divinity, and afterwards Lord
Bishop of Ely, entitled, _Thoughts on the Admission of Persons, without
regard to their Religious Opinions, to certain Degrees in the
Universities of England_. Dr Turton was universally respected, and his
pamphlet attracted great attention on that account, and also from the
ability and ingenuity of the argument. He adopted the comparative
method; and endeavoured to prove that evils would ensue from the
intercourse of young men who differed widely from one another in
theological beliefs, by tracing the history of the Theological Seminary
for Nonconformists, commenced by the celebrated Dr Doddridge, in 1729,
at Northampton, and subsequently removed to Daventry in 1751. The
gauntlet thus thrown down was taken up by Thirlwall, who lost but little
time in addressing to him a _Letter on the Admission of Dissenters to
Academical Degrees_. After stating briefly that what he was about to say
would be said on his own responsibility, and that he did not come
forward as ‘the organ or advocate’ of those who had taken the same side
as himself, many of whom, he thought, would not agree with him, he
proceeded to attack the analogy between Cambridge and Daventry which Dr
Turton had attempted to establish. ‘Our colleges,’ he boldly asserted,
‘are not theological seminaries. We have no theological colleges, no
theological tutors, no theological students.’ The statement was
literally true; it might even be said to be as capable of demonstration
as any simple mathematical proposition; but uttered in that way, in a
controversial pamphlet, in support of a most unpopular cause, it must
have sounded like the blast of a hostile trumpet. This, however, was not
all. Dr Turton had claimed for the Universities the same privilege which
was enjoyed by Nonconformists, viz. the possession of colleges where
‘those principles of religion alone are taught which are in agreement
with their own peculiar views.’ Thirlwall, therefore, proceeded to
inquire whether the colleges, though not theological seminaries, might
be held to be schools for religious instruction. This question again he
answered in the negative; and his opponent having placed in the foremost
rank among the privileges long exercised by the Universities (1) the
relation of tutor to pupil, (2) the chapel services, (3) the college
lectures, he proceeded to examine whether these could ‘properly be
numbered among the aids to religion which this place furnishes.’ To him
it appeared impossible, under any circumstances, to instil religion into
men’s minds against their will. ‘We cannot even prescribe exercises, or
propose rewards for it, without killing the thing we mean to foster.’
The value of the three aids above enumerated had been, he thought,
greatly exaggerated; and compulsory attendance at chapel—‘the constant
repetition of a heartless, mechanical service’—he denounced as a
positive evil.
‘My reason for thinking that our daily services might be omitted
altogether, without any material detriment to religion, is simply that,
as far as my means of observation extend, with an immense majority of
our congregation it is not a religious service at all, and that to the
remaining few it is the least impressive and edifying that can well be
conceived[50].’
He had no fault to find with the decorum of the service, but he
criticised it as follows:
‘If this decorum were to be carried to the highest perfection, as it
might easily be, if it should ever become a mode and a point of honour
with the young men themselves, the thing itself would not rise one step
in my estimation. I should still think, that the best which could be
said of it would be, that at the end it leaves every one as it found
him, and that the utmost religion could hope from it would be to suffer
no incurable wounds.