CHAPTER XXVII.

1868-1873.

Mr. Hope-Scott's Speech on Termination of Guardianship to the Duke of

Norfolk--Failure in Mr. Hope-Scott's Health--Exhaustion after a Day's

Pleading--His Neglect of Exercise--Death of Mr. Badeley--Letter of Dr.

Newman--Last Correspondence of Mr. Hope and the Bishop of Salisbury

(Hamilton)--Dr. Newman's Friendship for Mr. Hope-Scott and Serjeant

Bellasis--Mr. Hope-Scott proposes to retire--Birth of James Fitzalan Hope--

Death of Lady Victoria Hope-Scott--Mr. Hope-Scott retires from his

Profession--Edits Abridgment of Lockhart, which he dedicates to Mr.

Gladstone--Dr. Newman on Sir Walter Scott--Visit of Dr. Newman to

Abbotsford in 1872--Mr. Hope-Scott's Last Illness--His Faith and

Resignation--His Death--Benediction of the Holy Father--Requiem Mass for

Mr. Hope-Scott at the Jesuit Church, Farm Street--Funeral Ceremonies at St.

Margaret's, Edinburgh--Cardinal Newman and Mr, Gladstone on Mr. Hope-Scott.

Mr. Hope-Scott's duties as trustee and guardian of the Duke of Norfolk had

lasted altogether eight years, when they terminated of course on the Duke's

attaining his majority, on December 27, 1868. The speech made by Mr. Hope-

Scott, at the banquet given by the Duke in the Baron's Hall at Arundel

Castle, to the Mayor and Corporation of Arundel, on the following day, was

a striking and beautiful one. I copy a few lines of it from the summary

given in the 'Tablet' of January 16, 1869:--

Mr. Hope-Scott paid a well-merited tribute to the virtues of the Duchess

when he said that if they observed in the Duke earnestness and yet

gentleness, strict justice and yet most liberal and charitable feelings,

neglect of himself and attention to the wants of all around him, let them

remember that his mother brought him up. The guardianship being now over,

the ward must go forward on the battle-field of life, depending not upon

his rank or property, but upon his own prudence, his own courage, but above

all, his fidelity to God. It was true that his path was strewn with the

broken weapons and defaced armour of many who had gone forth amidst

acclamations as loud and promises as bright, but the groundworks of hope in

his case were the nobility of his father's character, the prayers of his

mother, the strong domestic affections which belong to pure and single-

minded youths, great powers of observation, great vigour of will, and the

daily and habitual influence under which he knew that he lived, of well-

reasoned and well-regulated religion.

The celebrations at Arundel were, I believe, the last occasion, unconnected

with his profession, at which Mr. Hope-Scott ever spoke in public. He had

already, for some years, showed signs of failing health. It used to be

supposed, as has been previously mentioned, from the facility of his manner

in pleading, that he got through his work with little trouble. People

little knew what commonly happened when he reached home, after the day's

pleading was over. Such was his state of lassitude, that he would drop,

like a load, upon the first chair he found, and instantly fall into a

profound sleep: sometimes he was half carried, thus unconscious, to bed, or

sometimes placed at table, and made to swallow a little food. Even when the

prostration was not so overpowering, the chances were that he would fall

fast asleep, at dinner or at dessert, in the middle of a sentence. All this

resembles very closely what Thiers related of himself to Mr. Senior. The

French statesman, after a day of Parliamentary battle, had often to be

carried to his bed by his servants, as motionless and helpless as a corpse.

This strange torpor, after extreme intellectual exertion, seems to have

been observed in Mr. Hope-Scott from a very early stage in his career,

during the great railway excitement of 1845. It was probably connected with

the shock given to his constitution, in his infancy, by the fever at

Florence. There was always a kind of struggle going on in his system.

Unfortunately, throughout his professional life he never took proper

exercise. It was, however, in vain to advise him on this point. He said he

could not _both_ work hard and take exercise also, or would playfully

insist that he had sufficient exercise in pleading. 'Why don't you go out?'

asked a friend. 'Don't you think,' replied Mr. Hope-Scott, 'that the work

in committee gives a man sufficient exercise? Cicero considered making a

speech was exercise.' This great mistake was the more to be wondered at in

Mr. Hope-Scott, as he had had the advantage of an early initiation into

field sports.

He never, indeed, seems to have liked riding. He used to say he had

_once_ been out on a steeplechase at Arundel, and sometimes he went

out shooting there, but these were exceptional occasions. His chief active

amusements, gardening and architecture, were insufficient to compensate the

depression caused by the tremendous strain of half the year at Westminster.

In the year 1856 he was exceedingly unwell, and the failure in his health

became very appreciable, his physician telling him that he had 'the heart

of an overworked brain.' Within two years after this, the violence of his

grief at Mrs. Hope-Scott's death further disordered him. He had an illness

in 1865, and again a serious one in 1867, which, however, he got over, and

went on as usual, but became more unwieldy, and suffered much from impeded

circulation.

It happened also, soon after this, that the breaking up of some very dear

associations, or sure signs of it, began to give warning that the end of

all things was at hand. On March 29, 1868, rather suddenly, died Mr.

Badeley, the most affectionate and faithful friend of so many years. On

hearing of his illness Mr. Hope-Scott had hastened home from Hyères to

assist him, and was with him each day till the last. Dr. Newman wrote the

following letter on this occasion:--

_The Very Rev. Dr. Newman to J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q.C._

Rednall: March 31, 1868.

My dear Hope-Scott,--What a heavy, sudden, unexpected blow! I shall not

see him now till I cross the stream which he has crossed. How dense is

our ignorance of the future! a darkness which can be felt, and the keenest

consequence and token of the Fall. Till we remind ourselves of what we

are--in a state of punishment--such surprises make us impatient, and

almost angry, alas!

But my blow is nothing to yours, though you had the great consolation of

sitting by his side and being with him to the last. What a fulness of

affection he poured out on you and yours! and how he must have rejoiced to

have your faithful presence with him while he was going! This is your joy

and your pain.

Now he has the recompense for that steady, well-ordered, perpetual course

of devotion and obedience which I ever admired in him, and felt to be so

much above anything that I could reach. All or most of us have said mass

for him, I am sure, this morning; certainly we two have who are here.

I did not write to you during the past fortnight, thinking it would only

bother you, and knowing I should hear if there was anything to tell. But

you have been as much surprised as any one at his sudden summons. I knew it

was the beginning of the end, but thought it was only the beginning. How

was it his medical men did not know better?

I suppose the funeral is on Saturday. God bless and keep and sustain you.

Ever yours most affectionately,

JOHN H. NEWMAN.

The year had not yet come round when the last correspondence passed between

Mr. Hope-Scott and another dear friend, Dr. Hamilton, Bishop of Salisbury,

his brother-Fellow at Merton so many years before.

_J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q.C. to the Eight Rev. Dr. Hamilton (Bishop of

Salisbury)_.

Hyères: March 10, 1869.

My dear Friend,--I have watched the papers with anxiety, and learnt all I

could from home about your health, but have been unwilling to trouble you

with a letter. However, Manning has just been here, and we naturally spoke

with our old affection of you, and joined in hopes for your welfare; and I

thought you might like to know that two of your oldest friends have been so

engaged. Hence these few lines. May GOD keep you!

Yours ever affectionately,

JAMES E. HOPE-SCOTT.

_The Right Rev. Dr. Hamilton (Bishop of Salisbury) to J. R. Hope-Scott,

Esq., Q.C._

33 Grosvenor Street: March 13, 1869.

My dearly loved Friend,--I have received your note, _non sine multis

lachrymis_, and though I am too weak to write or answer myself, I must

dictate a few words of thankfulness to it. Few trials of my life I have

felt with such keenness as my separation from two such friends, from whom I

have learnt so much, and whom I have loved and love so dearly as Manning

and yourself. Perhaps this feeling for you both has helped to prevent my

doing that which it has been my daily aim not to do, namely, to hinder

either by word or deed that object which I venture to say is as dear to me

as to you--the reunion of Christendom. May GOD forgive me anything which

has led me to lose sight of this in all my ministrations! Nothing, however,

would tend more to forward this than a just and charitable estimate of the

claims of the Church of England on the part of the authorities of your

communion. I have dictated these few words, and my chaplain, Liddon, has

written them exactly as I have dictated them, and I beg you to receive them

as a legacy of affection and deep respect from your old brother-Fellow.

W. K. SARUM.

_J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q. C. to the Rev. Canon Liddon_.

Villa Favart, Hyères: March 17, 1869.

My dear Sir,--Accept my grateful thanks for the letter which you added to

that of my very dear friend the Bishop. To him I do not write, for it is

plain that he should make no exertion that can be avoided; but I trust to

your kindness to assure him that I was indeed deeply moved--more than I can

well say--both by his love for me and by his sufferings, and that my

prayers, and those of others far more worthy than myself, are offered to

GOD for him.

Yours very truly,

JAMES R. HOPE-SCOTT.

And another twelvemonth had not been completed before Mr. Hope-Scott's

attached friend and familiar neighbour of many years (both in London and at

Hyères), Serjeant Bellasis, was visibly nearing his departure. [Footnote:

He lingered till January 24, 1873.] The following letters witness, in a

most touching manner, to their mutual affection, and to that of Dr. Newman

for them both:--

_The Very Rev, Dr. Newman to J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q.C._

The Oratory: March 3, '70.

My dear Hope-Scott,--After writing a conversational letter to Bellasis

yesterday, I heard at night so sad an account, which I had not anticipated,

of his pain and his weakness and want of sleep, that I not only was

distressed that it had gone, and felt that it would harass him to receive a

second letter so soon, and, as he would anticipate, as unseasonable as the

former. Therefore I enclose with this a few lines to him, which you can let

him have when you think right.

I do not undervalue the seriousness of your first letter about him, and

have had him constantly in my mind; but I did not contemplate his pain, or

his sudden decline. I thought it would be a long business, but now I find

that the complaint is making its way.

What a severe blow it must be to you! but to me, in my own way, it is very

great too, though in a different way; for, though I am not in his constant

society as you are, he has long been _pars magna_ of this place, and

he has, by his various acts of friendship through a succession of years,

created for himself a presence in my thoughts, so that the thought of being

without him carries with it the sense of a void, to which it is difficult

to assign a limit. Three æquales I shall have lost--Badeley, H. Bowden, and

Bellasis; and such losses seem to say that I have no business here myself.

It is the penalty of living to lose the great props of life. What a

melancholy prospect for his poor boys! When you have an opportunity, say

everything kind from me to Mrs. Bellasis. I shall, I trust, say two masses

a week for him. He is on our prayer lists. What a vanity is life! how it

crumbles under one's touch!

I hope you are getting strong, and that this does not weigh too heavily on

you....

Ever yours affectionately,

JOHN H. NEWMAN.

_J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q.C. to the Very Rev. Dr. Newman_.

Hotel d'Orient, Hyères, Var, France:

March 6, '70.

Dear F. Newman,--I received yours yesterday evening, but withhold the

enclosure for Bellasis, as I think it might do him harm. [After giving a

somewhat better account of his friend's health:]

Masses and prayers I am sure he has many, and I know how grateful he is for

your deep interest in him.... Should he be able to get out, I hope for more

progress: but, with slight exceptions, he has now been confined to the

house for weeks. However, his patience helps his greatly, and when, as

lately he has often been, free from pain, his cheerfulness revives, and

with it his interest in the works he has undertaken, and the subjects which

have long interested him.

I am sure that the dedication of your new work [the 'Grammar of Assent'] to

him affects him, as that of your poems did Badeley, in a very soothing way.

Few have such extensive means of testifying to their friendships as you

have.

Yours affectionately,

JAMES E. HOPE-SCOTT.

Repeated griefs of this kind would not be without their effect on Mr. Hope-

Scott's own already failing health. By 1870 the physicians pronounced that

there was functional, though not organic, disease of the heart, the valve

losing its power to close. He spoke of this himself to a near relative at

the time, adding that he had immediately asked whether he might expect the

end to come suddenly; but had been told that in all probability it would

not, and that he would have warning of its approach. He now began to talk

of retiring, and did take the first step, by giving up a certain number of

causes. But he said to a professional friend: 'I own I dread giving up; it

is almost like the excitement of racing, and the reaction would be so

strong, life so flat, when such an interest is lost, and the stimulus

over.' Before this happened, meeting another friend in the street, who had

wisely retreated in time, Mr. Hope-Scott asked him how he got on? 'Oh, very

well; I fall back on my old classics--don't you do the same?' 'Oh no,'

replied Mr. Hope-Scott; 'when I go to the country, I find it indispensable

to allow my mind to lie entirely fallow. I live in the open air, go on

planting, and do no mental work whatever.'

This was the state of things when he had suddenly to meet a new sorrow, and

the last. A son, indeed (James Fitzalan), was born to him on December 18,

1870, thus replacing the long wished-for blessing which had been given and

withdrawn; but Lady Victoria's health had for years been enfeebled, a fever

came on, and, after lingering for a time between life and death, she

expired at Norfolk House on December 20, aged only thirty, leaving three

little girls, besides the newly born babe. It happened on this occasion, as

so often in Mr. Hope-Scott's life, that he had persuaded himself that

things would be as he wished they should. He never believed that Lady

Victoria was dying, though she was in her agony, and had been senseless for

ten days; nay, he could hardly be made to think it, even at the last

moment; and this time he never recovered the shock. The morning after the

funeral [Footnote: Lady Victoria Hope-Scott was laid beside her father and

her two infant children in the vault at Arundel Castle.] he said that he

considered he had had a warning that night--the disease had made a stride.

He had never contemplated surviving his wife, and had made all arrangements

on the supposition that he was to die before her. On the very night that

followed he altered his will. He sent for his confidential clerk, destroyed

quantities of papers, and, in short, evidently considered himself a dying

man. He now definitively retired from his profession, and, though he

survived for more than two years, what remains to be told is little more

than the story of a last illness.

The years 1871 and 1872, indeed, passed tranquilly enough, as if there was

a lull and a silence after the storm. Mr. Hope-Scott resided chiefly at

Abbotsford, and devoted part of his leisure in the first year to preparing

an edition (the Centenary) of the Abridgment of Lockhart's 'Life of Scott.'

[Footnote: _The Life of Sir Walter Scott, Earl., abridged from the larger

work_, by J. C. Lockhart, with a Prefatory Letter by James R. Hope-

Scott, Esq., Q.C. Edinburgh: Adam & Charles Black, 1871.] He also thought

that it was time for the larger 'Life' to be revised, and the extracts from

letters to be compared with the originals, &c., and actually began the task

after the republication of the Abridgment, but, I believe, very soon gave

it up. He dedicated the Abridgment to Mr. Gladstone, whose letter in reply

to his proposal to do so is subjoined:--

_The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P. to J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q.C._

11 Carlton House Terrace, S.W.

March 25, '71.

My dear Hope-Scott,--...I learn with pleasure that you now find yourself

able to make the effort necessary for applying yourself to what I trust you

will find a healthful and genial employment.

You offer me a double temptation, to which I yield with but too much

readiness. I am glad of anything which associates my name with yours; and I

feel it a great honour to be marked out in the public view by your

selection of me as a loyal admirer of Scott, towards whom, both as writer

and as man, I cannot help entertaining feelings, perhaps (though this is

saying much) even bordering upon excess.

Honesty binds me to wish you would do better for your purpose, but if you

do not think any other plan desirable, I accept your proposal with thanks.

Believe me

Affectionately yours,

W. E. GLADSTONE.

J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q.C.

From the letter of dedication, which I should have been glad, if space had

permitted, to give as a whole, I subjoin the opening and closing

paragraphs, with notices (inclusive of some critical remarks) of the deeply

interesting pages which intervene:--

_J. R. Hope-Scott, Esq., Q.C. to the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P._

Arundel Castle: April 10, 1871.

My dear Gladstone,--Although our friendship has endured for many years, and

has survived great changes, it is not on account of my affection for you

that I have desired to connect these pages with your name. It is because

from you, more than from any one else who is now alive, I have received

assurances of that strong and deep admiration of Walter Scott, both as an

author and as a man, which I have long felt myself, and which I heartily

agree with you in wishing to extend and perpetuate. On my part, such a

desire might on other grounds be natural; on yours it can only spring from

the conviction, which I know you to entertain, that both the writings and

the personal history of that extraordinary man, while affording

entertainment of the purest kind, and supplying stores of information which

can nowhere else be so pleasantly acquired, have in them a great deal which

no student of human nature ought to neglect, and much also which those who

engage in the struggle of life with high purposes--men who are prepared to

work earnestly and endure nobly--cannot pass without loss.

[After quoting passages from Mr. Gladstone's letters to himself, showing

the hold which Walter Scott had over his friend's mind, Mr. Hope-Scott

states his reasons for abandoning his original idea of having a new Life

written, and for preferring to publish an Abridgment of it, and the

Abridgment by Lockhart himself:--]

A work of art in writing is subject to the same rules as one in painting or

in architecture. Those who seek to represent it in a reduced form must,

above all things, study its proportions, and make their reduction equal

over all its parts. But, in the case of written compositions, there are no

mechanical appliances as there are in painting and architecture, for

varying the scale; and there is, moreover, a greater difficulty in catching

the leading principle of the design, and thus establishing the starting-

point for the process which is to follow. Hence, an abridgment by the

author himself must necessarily be the best--indeed, the only true

abridgment of what he has intended in his larger work; and I deem it very

fortunate that Cadell's influence overcame Lockhart's repugnance to the

task....

There is [however] an abiding reason why Scott's personal history should

not be too freely generalised, and an abstract notion be substituted for

the real man.... In Scott, if in any man, what was remarkable was the

sustained and continuous power of his character. It is to be traced in the

smallest things as well as in the greatest; in his daily habits as much as

in his public actions; in his fancies and follies as well as in his best

and wisest doings. Everywhere we find the same power of imagination, and

the same energy of will; and, though it has been said that no man is a hero

to his _valet-de-chambre_, I am satisfied that Scott's most familiar

attendants never doubted his greatness, or looked upon him with less

respect than those who judged him as he stood forth amidst the homage of

the world. In dealing with such a character, it is hardly necessary to say

that the omission of details becomes, after a certain point, a serious

injury to the truth of the whole portrait; and if any man should object

that this volume is not short enough, I should be tempted to answer, that

if he reads by foot-rule, he had better not think of studying, in any

shape, the life of Walter Scott.

[In what follows, Mr. Hope-Scott speaks of 'the depth and tenderness of

feeling which Lockhart, in daily life, so often hid under an almost fierce

reserve,' and regards it as matter of thankfulness that he was spared the

suffering he would have felt in the death of his only daughter, 'whose

singular likeness to her mother must have continually recalled to him both

the features and the character of her of whom he wrote' those touching

words in the original Life which Mr. Hope-Scott quotes, with evident

application to his own bereavement, to which he makes a short and sad

reference. He concludes:--]

And now, my dear Gladstone, _vive valeque_. You have already earned a

noble place in the history of your country, and though there is one great

subject on which we differ, I am able heartily to desire that your future

career may be as distinguished as your past. But since it is only too

certain that the highest honours of statesmanship can neither be won nor

held without exertions which are full of danger to those who make them, I

will add the further wish, that you may long retain, as safeguards to your

health, your happiness, and your usefulness, that fresh and versatile

spirit, and that strong sense of the true and beautiful, which have caused

you to be addressed on this occasion by Your affectionate friend,

JAMES R. HOPE-SCOTT.

The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone.

Dr. Newman's letter, on receiving from Mr. Hope-Scott a copy of the

Abridgment, is full of interest:--

_The Very Rev. Dr. Newman to J. R. Hope-Scott., Esq., Q.C._

The Oratory: May 14, 1871.

My dear Hope-Scott,--Thank you for your book. In one sense I deserve it; I

have ever had such a devotion, I may call it, to Walter Scott. As a boy, in

the early summer mornings I read 'Waverley' and 'Guy Mannering' in bed,

when they first came out, before it was time to get up; and long before

that, I think, when I was eight years old, I listened eagerly to the 'Lay

of the Last Minstrel,' which my mother and aunt were reading aloud. When he

was dying I was continually thinking of him, with Keble's words--'If ever

floating from faint earthly lyre,' &c. (Sixth after Trin.). [Footnote:

Compare a letter of Dr. Newman's to J. R. Hope in 1852. See _ante_, p.

143.]

It has been a trouble to me that his works seemed to be so forgotten now.

Our boys know very little about them. I think F. Ambrose had to give a

prize for getting up 'Kenilworth.' Your letter to Gladstone sadly confirms

it. I wonder whether there will ever be a crisis and correction of the

evil? It arises from the facilities of publication. Every season bears its

own crop of books, and every fresh season ousts the foregoing. Books are

all annuals; and, to revive Scott, you must annihilate the existing

generation of writers, which is legion. If it so fares with Scott, still

more does it so fare with Johnson, Addison, Pope, and Shakespeare. Perhaps

the competitive examinations may come to the aid. You should get Gladstone

to bring about a list of classics, and force them upon candidates. I do not

see any other way of mending matters. I wish I heard a better account of

you.

Ever yours affectionately,

JOHN H. NEWMAN.

During all this time Mr. Hope-Scott's health continued steadily to fail;

yet he suffered rather from malaise than from any acute symptoms. Now and

then there were gleams in which he seemed better for a space, but they were

but as the flickerings of the flame in the socket. In March 1872

Bournemouth was tried. In the summer of that year he was in Scotland, and

in July had the great happiness of receiving a visit of about a fortnight

from Dr. Newman at Abbotsford, which revived the memories of twenty years--

for so long was the interval since his former visit. This, I suppose, was

the last occasion of Mr. Hope-Scott's entertaining guests. He was able to

move about quietly; old times were gently talked over, and there was

nothing to show that the great separation was very imminent. It was even

possible, the doctors had told him when the disease was first apparent, to

linger under it for twenty years. Thus the last days at Abbotsford looked

as if lit up by the setting sun. He fell off, however, a day or two after

Dr. Newman left; went first to Luffness, and in October, whilst staying in

Edinburgh, the heart affection becoming worse, he seemed, for a time, in

immediate danger; yet rallied, and removed to London by easy stages,

halting first at Newcastle and then at Peterborough. Owing to the

thoughtful kindness of Mr. H. Hope, of Luffness, he was accompanied by Dr.

Howden, the family physician at Luffness. It was, however, a most anxious

journey, and it often seemed doubtful whether he would reach his

destination alive. Soon after his arrival in London he had a dangerous

attack, and received the last sacraments, with the Holy Father's blessing.

This was at No. 7 Hyde Park Place, a house which he had taken conjointly

with his widowed sister-in-law, the Hon. Mrs. G. W. Hope; and here, under

her affectionate care, and that of his daughter, Mary Monica, Mr. Hope-

Scott spent the few months that remained to him.

Miss Hope-Scott (now the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell Scott), during those months,

kept a diary, commencing March 13, 1873, of all that passed, which she has

kindly placed in my hands. At first the entries were usually of 'a good

night,' and 'tired,' or 'very tired,' during the day, though he is

occasionally able to go into the library, to talk a little with his infant

children in their turns, and to see near relatives from time to time. Soon

the nights get less good, the days more languid, and he is seldom able to

leave his room. For about a fortnight (April 4-17) there seemed a slight

improvement, but this did not last, and on April 28 there was a great

change for the worse. Sir W. Jenner, Sir W. Gull, and Mr. Sims held a

consultation, and pronounced very unfavourably. Father Clare, S. J.,

brought the Blessed Sacrament, and spent the night in the house. The

following morning, Tuesday, April 29, he heard his confession, and gave him

Holy Communion. It was the morning on which he usually received. The two

physicians hesitated about Extreme Unction being administered, for fear of

causing excitement. But, on the priest's asking him what he wished, the

reply at once was, 'Dear Father, give me all you can, and all the helps

which Holy Church can bestow.' During the administration of the sacrament

he answered all the prayers himself; and the physicians, on leaving the

room, said there had not been the least excitement. I take these

particulars from a letter of Father Clare's to the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell Scott,

in which he also says: 'During the whole of his illness I never knew him to

show the slightest impatience, I never heard one murmur; but in all our

conversation there was _invariably_ a cheerful resignation to the holy

will of our good God. His lively faith and wonderful fervour in receiving

Holy Communion, which was at least twice a week, I have never seen

surpassed.'

The Duke of Norfolk was telegraphed for from Arundel. He arrived about 2

P.M. Mr. Hope-Scott was able to see him, spoke of the blessing which his

church would bring on him (the splendid church of St. Philip's, Arundel,

just completed by the Duke), and promised to pray for him the next day,

when it was to be opened. Sir William Gull now left hardly any hope. The

ceremony of the opening of the church was deferred, and all the Arundel

party arrived that night. The following is the last paragraph in the

diary:--

'In the afternoon, dear papa, after taking something, said out loud his

favourite prayer, "_Fiat, laudetur_." [Footnote: This prayer is as

follows: _Fiat, laudetur, atque in æternum superexultetur, justissima,

altissima, et amabilissima voluntas Dei in omnibus. Amen._] Then,

looking at me, he said, "God's will be done," and asked me to say some

prayers. I said the _Angelus_, in which he joined, and the "Offering."

Father Clare comes about five, and goes out, to return about seven, meaning

to spend the night again. A little before seven I was in the library with

Aunt Lucy and Uncle Henry. Aunt Car. suddenly called me, and we all went

in. I gave dearest papa the crucifix to kiss, and Uncle Henry read the

prayers. Edward [Footnote: The persons mentioned by their Christian names

in this paragraph of the diary are--Lady Henry Kerr, Lord Henry Kerr, the

Hon. Mrs. G. W. Hope, and her son, Mr. Edward Stanley Hope, nephew to Mr.

Hope-Scott, and now (1883) one of the Charity Commissioners for England and

Wales.] was there too, Mr. Dunn, &c.

'He died very peacefully and calmly, about seven.'

To this is only to be added that there was conveyed to Mr. Hope-Scott on

his death-bed the special blessing of his Holiness Pope Pius IX.

Shortly after death, the body having been laid out, according to Catholic

custom, with lights round the bed and flowers upon it, a sudden change was

observed to have come over the face of the deceased, which assumed a

totally different expression. All signs of sickness or pain seemed to

vanish, and in one minute he had become like what he used to be in very

early years. Readers who may perhaps have witnessed a change of the kind,

which is not unfrequent, will understand the striking remark made by a

friend on this occasion: 'It is sometimes given to the dead to reveal their

blessedness to the living.'

The following particulars of the Requiem Mass for Mr. Hope-Scott, and of

the funeral, are taken, with alterations and omissions, from newspapers of

the day (the 'Tablet' of May 10; 'Scotsman,' May 6 and 8; and 'Edinburgh

Courant,' May 8, 1873).

The Requiem Mass for the repose of the soul of the late Mr. Hope-Scott,

Q.C., took place at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street,

on Monday, May 5, at eleven o'clock. The coffin was removed, on the

previous evening, from Hyde Park Place, and laid on a splendid catafalque

in the church. The mass was celebrated by the Very Rev. Fr. Whitty,

Provincial of the Jesuits, _coram Archiepiscopo_; and the sermon was

preached by the Very Rev. Father (now his Eminence Cardinal) Newman (by

whose kind permission it is placed in the Appendix to this volume).

Cherubini's Second Requiem in D minor, for male voices only, was used. Weak

with old age and sorrow, Father Newman had almost to be led to the pulpit,

but the simple vigour of language and the lucidity of style so peculiarly

his own remained what they had ever been. When, towards the conclusion of

his discourse, he came to speak of the last hours of the deceased, Father

Newman almost broke down, and for a moment it seemed that his feelings

would prevent him from finishing. The solemnity of the occasion--the church

draped in black, the old man come so far purposely to pay the last offices

to his friend--produced such an impression on those who witnessed it as

they are not likely to forget.

Among the clergy and laity present were--Mgr. Weld, the Hon. and Rev. Dr.

Talbot, Revs. E. G. Macmullen, C. B. Garside, Father Fitzsimon, S. J.,

Father Clare, and the Fathers, S. J., of Mount Street; Father Coleridge, S.

J., Father Amherst, S. J., Father Christie, S. J., Father Dalgairns, of the

Oratory, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch, the

Marquis and Marchioness of Lothian, Cecil, Marchioness Dowager of Lothian,

the Marchioness of Bute, Lord and Lady Howard of Glossop, Lord Henry Kerr,

Mr. Hope of Luffness, Mr. Edward S. Hope, Mr. Herbert Hope, Field-marshal

Sir William Gomm and Lady Gomm, Lord Edmund Howard, the Earl of Denbigh,

Lady Herbert of Lea, Lady Georgiana Fullerton, Mr. Allies, Mr. Langdale,

&c.

The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk and the Ladies Howard, Mr. Hope-Scott's

daughters, the Hon. Mrs. George W. Hope and Misses Hope, and Lady Henry

Kerr, occupied a separate tribune.

On Wednesday, May 7, the remains of Mr. Hope-Scott, Q.C., were interred in

the vaults of St. Margaret's Convent, Bruntsfield, Edinburgh. The coffin

had been conveyed from London on Tuesday, and was placed on a catafalque

within the choir of the chapel, where several sisters of the community

(Ursulines of Jesus) watched until the morning. The catafalque was draped

in black, surrounded by massive silver candlesticks hung with crape, and

lit up with numerous wax candles. The altar, sanctuary, organ, and choir

gallery were hung with black cloth. The east aisle of the chapel was

occupied by the relatives and friends of the deceased; the west aisle by

the young ladies of the convent school, about fifty in number, dressed in

white, and with white veils, and the household servants from Abbotsford;

whilst at the south were persons who had received special invitations. In

the stalls of the choir were the clergy, and the sisters of the convent in

their accustomed places.

The ceremonies commenced at eleven o'clock, when a procession, consisting

of the cross-bearer and acolytes, the clergy in attendance, and the Right

Rev. Dr. Strain, Bishop of Abila, V.A. of the Eastern District of Scotland,

entered the chapel at the great south door, and marched slowly up the

centre of the choir to the sanctuary, the organ sounding whilst the bell

was heard tolling in the distance. The Bishop was attended by the Rev.

George Rigg, St. Mary's, and the Rev. Mr. Clapperton. The Rev. W. Turner

acted as master of the ceremonies; the Rev. Father Foxwell, S. J., said the

Mass, which, by the express desire of the deceased, was a Low Mass,

although accompanied by music (Father Foxwell, stationed at Galashiels,

frequently said Mass at Abbotsford). During the Mass, among other exquisite

music sung by the choir, was the _Dies Irae_. The Rev. W. J. Amherst,

S. J., Norwich, a great personal friend of Mr. Hope-Scott's, preached the

sermon (which, by his kind permission, is placed in the Appendix to this

volume).

Bishop Strain then read the Burial Service in front of the bier, and

concluded by giving the absolution. The procession was then formed, and

during the singing of the _Dies Irae_ emerged from the church, and

walked to the vault, in the following order:--cross-bearer and acolytes,

the young ladies of the convent school, the _religieuses_ of the

community of St. Margaret's, the clergy and Bishop, then the coffin, borne

shoulder-high, and attended by the pall-bearers, the Duke of Norfolk, Lord

Henry Kerr, Mr. H. W. Hope of Luffness, and Dr. Lockhart of Milton

Lockhart. The ladies who followed the coffin were Miss Hope-Scott, the Hon.

Mrs. G. W. Hope, Lady Henry Kerr, and Mrs. Francis Kerr. Then followed the

relatives and friends, servants, and tenant-farmers of Abbotsford.

The procession marched slowly from the quadrangle in front of the chapel

northwards to the entrance to the vaults, the sisters of the community

chanting the psalm _Miserere_. It opened up at the mortuary door, and

the coffin was borne into the vault, and placed in the recess assigned to

it beside the coffin of his first wife, and under those of his two

children. A short service here took place, the _Benedictus_ was sung,

and the funeral service terminated.

The outer coffin, which was of richly polished oak, bound with brass

ornaments, had a beautiful crucifix on the lid, and beneath, a shield,

bearing the following inscription:--

'JAMES EGBERT HOPE-SCOTT, THIRD SON OF GENERAL

SIR ALEXANDER HOPE, OF LUFFNESS AND RANKEILLOUR. BORN JULY 15, 1812. DIED

APRIL 29, 1873. MAY HE REST IN PEACE.'

I have now placed before the reader the materials from which he will be

enabled in some measure to judge what Mr. Hope-Scott was, and how he

appeared to those around him. But to all beauty of character there belongs

a lustre, outside of and beyond it, which genius alone can portray. This

task has fortunately been performed by two of his most intimate friends, of

whose genius it is needless to say a word--Cardinal Newman and Mr.

Gladstone--by whose kind permission their respective papers on his life

will be appended to this volume. With reference to certain expressions on

religious subjects in Mr. Gladstone's Letter, it will be remembered that it

here appears as a biographical and historical document, and therefore

without omissions--a remark which I feel assured that the illustrious

writer will not misinterpret, and that both will accept the gratitude and

admiration due from all surviving friends of Mr. Hope-Scott, for the

splendid tribute which each of them has given to a memory so dear.

APPENDIX I.

_Funeral Sermon by his Eminence Cardinal Newman, preached at the Requiem

Mass for Mr. Hope-Scott, at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm

Street, May_ 5, 1873.

I have been asked by those whose wish at such a moment is a command, to say

a few words on the subject of the sorrowful, the joyful solemnity which has

this morning brought us together. A few words are all that is necessary,

all that is possible; just so many as are sufficient to unite the separate

thoughts, the separate memories, the separate stirrings of affection, which

are awakened in us by the presence in our midst of what remains on earth of

the dear friend, of the great soul, whom we have lost,--sufficient to open

a communication and create a sympathy between mind and mind, and to be a

sort of testimony of one to another in behalf of feelings which each of us

has in common with all.

Yet how am I the fit person even for as much as this? I can do no more than

touch upon some of those many points which the thought of him suggests to

me; and, whatever I may know of him and say of him, how can this be taken

as the measure of one whose mind had so many aspects, and who must, in

consequence, have made such distinct impressions, and exercised such

various claims, on the hearts of those who came near him?

It is plain, without my saying it, that there are those who knew him far

better than I could know him. How can I be the interpreter of their

knowledge or their feelings? How can I hope by any words of mine to do a

service to those who knew so well the depths of his rare excellence by a

continuous daily intercourse with him, and by the recurring special

opportunities given to them of its manifestation?

I only know what he was to me. I only know what his loss is to me. I only

know that he is one of those whose departure hence has made the heavens

dark to me. But I have never lived with him, or travelled with him; I have

seen him from time to time; I have visited him; I have corresponded with

him; I have had mutual confidences with him. Our lines of duty have lain in

very different directions. I have known him as a friend knows friend in the

tumult and the hurry of life. I have known him well enough to know how much

more there was to know in him; and to look forward, alas! in vain, to a

time when, in the evening and towards the close of life, I might know him

more. I have known him enough to love him very much, and to sorrow very

much that here I shall not see him again. But then I reflect, if I, who did

not know him as he might be known, suffer as I do, what must be their

suffering who knew him so well?

1. I knew him first, I suppose, in 1837 or 1838, thirty-five or six years

ago, a few years after he had become Fellow of Merton College. He expressed

a wish to know me. How our friendship grew I cannot tell; I must soon have

been intimate with him, from the recollection I have of letters which

passed between us; and by 1841 I had recourse to him, as a sort of natural

adviser, when I was in difficulty. From that time I ever had recourse to

him, when I needed advice, down to his last illness. On my first intimacy

with him he had not reached the age of thirty. I was many years older; yet

he had that about him, even when a young man, which invited and inspired

confidence. It was difficult to resist his very presence. True, indeed, I

can fancy those who saw him but once and at a distance, surprised and

perplexed by that lofty fastidiousness and keen wit which were natural to

him; but such a misapprehension of him would vanish forthwith when they

drew near to him, and had actual trial of him; especially, as I have said,

when they had to consult him, and had experience of the simplicity,

seriousness, and (I can use no other word) the sweetness of his manner, as

he threw himself at once into their ideas and feelings, listened patiently

to them, and spoke out the clear judgment which he formed of the matters

which they had put before him.

This is the first and the broad view I am led to take of him. He was,

emphatically, a friend in need. And this same considerateness and sympathy

with which he met those who asked the benefit of his opinion in matters of

importance was, I believe, his characteristic in many other ways in his

intercourse with those towards whom he stood in various relations. He was

always prompt, clear, decided, and disinterested. He entered into their

pursuits, though dissimilar to his own; he took an interest in their

objects; he adapted himself to their dispositions and tastes; he brought a

strong and calm good sense to bear upon their present or their future; he

aided and furthered them in their doings by his co-operation. Thus he drew

men around him; and when some grave question or undertaking was in

agitation, and there was, as is wont, a gathering of those interested in

it, then, on his making his appearance among them, all present were seen to

give to him the foremost place, as if he had a claim to it by right; and

he, on his part, was seen gracefully, and without effort, to accept what

was conceded to him, and to take up the subject under consideration;

throwing light upon it, and, as it were, locating it, pointing out what was

of primary importance in it, what was to be aimed at, and what steps were

to be taken in it. I am told that, in like manner, when residing on his

property in France, he was there too made a centre for advice and direction

on the part of his neighbours, who leant upon him and trusted him in their

own concerns, as if he had been one of themselves. It was his

unselfishness, as well as his practical good sense, which won upon them.

Such a man, when, young and ardent, with his advantages of birth and

position, he entered upon the public world, as it displays itself upon its

noblest and most splendid stage at Westminster, might be expected to act a

great part, and to rise to eminence in the profession which he had chosen.

Not for certain; for the refinement of mind, which was one of his most

observable traits, is in some cases fatal to a man's success in public

life. There are those who cannot mix freely with their fellows, especially

not with those who are below their own level in mental cultivation. They

are too sensitive for a struggle with rivals, and shrink from the chances

which it involves. Or they have a shyness, or reserve, or pride, or self-

consciousness, which restrains them from lavishing their powers on a mixed

company, and is a hindrance to their doing their best if they try. Thus

their public exhibition falls short of their private promise. Now, if there

was a man who was the light and the delight of his own intimates, it was he

of whom I am speaking; and he loved as tenderly as he was beloved, so that

he seemed made for domestic life.

Again, there are various departments in his profession, in which the

particular talents which I have been assigning to him might have had full

play, and have led to authority and influence, without any need or any

opportunity for those more brilliant endowments by which popular admiration

and high distinction are attained. It was by the display of talents of an

order distinct from clearness of mind, acuteness, and judgment, that he was

carried forward at once, as an advocate, to that general recognition of his

powers, which was the response that greeted his first great speech,

delivered in a serious cause before an august assembly. I think I am right

in saying that it was in behalf of the Anglican Chapters, threatened by the

reforming spirit of the day, that he then addressed the House of Lords; and

the occasion called for the exercise, not only of the talents which I have

already dwelt upon, but for those which are more directly oratorical. And

these were not wanting. I never heard him speak; but I believe he had, in

addition to that readiness and fluency of language, or eloquence, without

which oratory cannot be, those higher gifts which give to oratory its power

and its persuasiveness. I can well understand, from what I knew of him in

private, what these were in his instance. His mien, his manner, the

expression of his countenance, his youthfulness--I do not mean his youth

merely, but his youthfulness of mind, which he never lost to the last,--his

joyous energy, his reasonings so masterly, yet so prompt, his tact in

disposing of them for his purpose, the light he threw upon obscure, and the

interest with which he invested dull subjects, his humour, his ready

resource of mind in emergencies; gifts such as these, so rare, yet so

popular, were necessary for his success, and he had them at command. On

that occasion of his handselling them to which I have referred, it was the

common talk of Oxford, how the most distinguished lawyer of the day, a

literary man and a critic, on hearing the speech in question, pronounced

his prompt verdict upon him in the words, 'That young man's fortune is

made.' And, indeed, it was plain, to those who were in a position to

forecast the future, that there was no prize, as it is called, of public

life, to which that young man might not have aspired, if only he had had

the will.

2. This, then, is what occurs to me to say in the first place, concerning

the dear friend of whom we are now taking leave. Such as I have described

were the prospects which opened upon him on his start in life. But now,

secondly, by way of contrast, what came of them? He might, as time went on,

almost have put out his hand and taken what he would of the honours and

rewards of the world. Whether in Parliament, or in the Law, or in the

branches of the Executive, he had a right to consider no station, no power,

absolutely beyond his reach. His contemporaries and friends, who fill, or

have filled, the highest offices in the State, are, in the splendour of

their several careers, the illustration of his capabilities and his

promise. But, strange as it may appear at first sight, his indifference to

the prizes of life was as marked as his qualifications for carrying them

off. He was singularly void of ambition. To succeed in life is almost a

universal passion. If it does not often show itself in the high form of

ambition, this is because few men have an encouragement in themselves or in

their circumstances to indulge in dreams of greatness. But that a young man

of bold, large, enterprising mind, of popular talents, of conscious power,

with initial successes, with great opportunities, one who carried with him

the good-will and expectation of bystanders, and was cheered on by them to

a great future, that he should be dead to his own manifest interests, that

he should be unequal to the occasion, that he should be so false to his

destiny, that his ethical nature should be so little in keeping with his

gifts of mind, may easily be represented, not only as strange, but as a

positive defect, or even a fault. Why are talents given at all, it may be

asked, but for use? What are great gifts but the correlatives of great

work? We are not born for ourselves, but for our kind, for our neighbours,

for our country: it is but selfishness, indolence, a perverse

fastidiousness, an unmanliness, and no virtue or praise, to bury our talent

in a napkin, and to return it to the Almighty Giver just as we received it.

This is what may be said, and it is scarcely more than a truism to say it;

for, undoubtedly, who will deny it? Certainly we owe very much to those who

devote themselves to public life, whether in the direct service of the

State or in the prosecution of great national or social undertakings. They

live laborious days, of which we individually reap the benefit;

nevertheless, admitting this fully, surely there are other ways of being

useful to our generation still. It must be recollected, that in public life

a man of elevated mind does not make his own self tell upon others simply

and entirely. He is obliged to move in a groove. He must act with other

men; he cannot select his objects, or pursue them by means unadulterated by

the methods and practices of minds less elevated than his own. He can only

do what he feels to be second-best. He proceeds on the condition of

compromise; and he labours at a venture, prosecuting measures so large or

so complicated that their ultimate issue is uncertain.

Nor of course can I omit here the religious aspect of this question. As

Christians, we cannot forget how Scripture speaks of the world, and all

that appertains to it. Human society, indeed, is an ordinance of God, to

which He gives His sanction and His authority; but from the first an enemy

has been busy in its depravation. Hence it is that, while in its substance

it is divine, in its circumstances, tendencies, and results it has much of

evil. Never do men come together in considerable numbers, but the passion,

self-will, pride, and unbelief, which may be more or less dormant in them

one and one, bursts into a flame, and becomes a constituent of their union.

Even when faith exists in the whole people, even when religious men combine

for religious purposes, still, when they form into a body, they evidence in

no long time the innate debility of human nature, and in their spirit and

conduct, in their avowals and proceedings, they are in grave contrast to

Christian simplicity and straightforwardness. This is what the sacred

writers mean by 'the world,' and why they warn us against it; and their

description of it applies in its degree to all collections and parties of

men, high and low, national and professional, lay and ecclesiastical.

It would be hard, then, if men of great talent and of special opportunities

were bound to devote themselves to an ambitious life, whether they would or

not, at the hazard of being accused of loving their own ease, when their

reluctance to do so may possibly arise from a refinement and unworldliness

of moral character. Surely they may prefer more direct ways of serving God

and man; they may aim at doing good of a nature more distinctly religious,

at works, safely and surely and beyond all mistake meritorious; at offices

of kindness, benevolence, and considerateness, personal and particular; at

labours of love and self-denying exertions, in which their right hand knows

nothing that is done by their left. As to our dear friend, I have already

spoken of the influence which he exercised on all around him, on friends or

strangers with whom he was connected in any way. Here was a large field for

his active goodness, on which he did not neglect to exert himself. He gave

others without grudging his thoughts, time, and trouble. He was their

support and stay. When wealth came to him, he was free in his use of it. He

was one of those rare men who do not merely give a tithe of their increase

to their God; he was a fount of generosity ever flowing; it poured out on

every side; in religious offerings, in presents, in donations, in works

upon his estates, in care of his people, in almsdeeds. I have been told of

his extraordinary care of families left in distress, of his aid in

educating them and putting them out in the world, of his acts of kindness

to poor converts, to single women, and to sick priests; and I can well

understand the solicitous and persevering tenderness with which he followed

up such benevolences towards them from what I have seen in him myself. He

had a very retentive memory for their troubles and their needs. It was his

largeness of mind which made him thus open-hearted. As all his plans were

on a large scale, so were his private charities. And when an object was

public and required the support of many, then he led the way by a

munificent contribution himself. He built one church on his property at

Lochshiel; and another at Galashiels, which he had intended to be the

centre of a group of smaller ones round about; and he succeeded in actually

planting one of these at Selkirk. Nor did he confine himself to money

gifts: it is often more difficult to surrender what we have made our own

personally, than what has never come actually into our tangible possession.

He bought books freely, theological, historical, and of general literature;

but his love of giving was greater than his love of collecting. He could

not keep them; he gave them away again; he may be said to have given away

whole libraries. Little means has any one of determining the limits of his

generosity. I have heard of his giving or offering for great objects sums

so surprising, that I am afraid to name them. He alone knows the full

measure of his bounties, who inspired, and will reward it. I do not think

he knew it himself. I am led to think he did not keep a strict account of

what he gave away. Certainly I know one case in which he had given to a

friend many hundreds, and yet seemed to have forgotten it, and was obliged

to ask him when it was that he had done so.

I should trust that, in what I am saying, I have not given any one the

impression that he was inconsiderate and indiscriminate in giving. To have

done this would have been to contradict my experience of him and my

intention. As far as my opportunities of observing him extended, large as

were his bounties and charities, as remarkable was the conscientious care

with which he inquired into the nature and circumstances of the cases for

which his aid was solicited. He felt he was but the steward of Him who had

given him what he gave away.

He gave away as the steward of One to whom he must give account. There are

at this time many philanthropic and benevolent men who think of man only,

not of God, in their acts of liberality. I have already said enough to show

that he was not one of these. I have implied the presence in him of that

sense of religion, or religiousness, which was in fact his intimate and

true life. And, indeed, liberality such as his, so incessant and minute, so

well ordered, and directed too towards religious objects, almost of itself

evidences its supernatural origin. But I insist on it, not only for its own

sake, but also because it has a bearing upon that absence of ambition

which, in a man so energetic, so influential, is a very remarkable point of

character. Viewed in itself, it might be, even though not an Epicurean

selfishness, still a natural temper, the temper of a magnanimous mind, such

as might be found in ancient Greece or Rome, as well as in modern times.

But, in truth, in him it was much more than a gift of nature; it was a

fruit and token of that religious sensitiveness which had been bestowed on

him from above. If it really was the fact that his mind and heart were

fixed upon divine objects, this at once accounts for what was so strange,

so paradoxical in him in the world's judgment, his distaste for the honours

and the pageants of earth; and fixed, assuredly they were, upon the

invisible and eternal. It was a lesson to all who witnessed it, in contrast

with the appearance of the outward man, so keen and self-possessed amid the

heat and dust of the world, to see his real inner secret self from time to

time gleam forth from beneath the working-day dress in which his secular

occupations enveloped him.

I cannot do justice by my words to the impression which in this respect he

made on me. He had a tender conscience, but I mean something more than

that--I mean the emotion of a heart always alive and awake at the thought

of God. When a religious question came up suddenly in conversation, he had

no longer the manner and the voice of a man of the world. There was a

simplicity, earnestness, gravity in his look and in his words, which one

could not forget. It seemed to me to speak of a loving desire to please

God, a single-minded preference for His service over every service of man,

a resolve to approach Him by the ways which He had appointed. It was no

taking for granted that to follow one's own best opinion was all one with

obeying His will; no easy persuasion that a vague, obscure sincerity in our

conclusions about Him and our worship of Him was all that was required of

us, whether those conclusions belonged to this school of doctrine or that.

That is, he had deep within him that gift which St. Paul and St. John speak

of, when they enlarge upon the characteristics of faith. It was the gift of

faith, of a living, loving faith, such as 'overcomes the world' by seeking

'a better country, that is, a heavenly.' This it was that kept him so

'unspotted from the world' in the midst of worldly engagements and

pursuits.

No wonder, then, that a man thus minded should gradually have been led on

into the Catholic Church. Judging as we do from the event, we thankfully

recognise in him an elect soul, for whom, in the decrees of Omnipotent

Love, a seat in heaven has been prepared from all eternity--whose name is

engraven on the palms of those Hands which were graciously pierced for his

salvation. Such eager, reverential thoughts of God as his, prior to his

recognising the Mother of Saints, are surely but the first tokens of a

predestination which terminates in heaven. That straightforward, clear,

good sense which he showed in secular matters did not fail him in religious

inquiry. There are those who are practical and sensible in all things save

in religion; but he was consistent; he instinctively turned from bye-ways

and cross-paths, into which the inquiry might be diverted, and took a

broad, intelligible view of its issues. And, after he had been brought

within the Fold, I do not think I can exaggerate the solicitude which he

all along showed, the reasonable and prudent solicitude, to conform himself

in all things to the enunciations and the decisions of Holy Church; nor,

again, the undoubted conviction he has had of her superhuman authority, the

comfort he has found in her sacraments, and the satisfaction and trust with

which he betook himself to the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, to the

glorious St. Michael, to St. Margaret, and all saints.

3. I will make one remark more. I have spoken, first, of his high natural

gifts, of his various advantages for starting in life, and of his secular

prospects. Next, in contrast with this first view of him, I have insisted

on his singular freedom from ambition, and have traced it to that

religiousness of mind which was so specially his; to his intimate sense of

the vanity of all secular distinction, and his supreme devotion to Him who

alone is 'Faithful and True.' And now, when I am brought to the third

special feature of his life, as it presents itself to me, I find myself

close to a sacred subject, which I cannot even touch upon without great

reverence and something of fear.

We might have been led to think that a man already severed in spirit,

resolve, and acts from the world in which he lived, would have been granted

by his Lord and Saviour to go forward in his course freely, without any

unusual trials, such as are necessary in the case of common men for their

perseverance in the narrow way of life. But those, for whom God has a love

more than ordinary, He watches over with no ordinary jealousy; and if the

world smiles on them, He sends them crosses and penances so much the more.

He is not content that they should be by any common title His; and, because

they are so dear and near to Him, He provides for them afflictions to bring

them nearer still. I hope it is not presumptuous thus to speak of the

inscrutable providences of God. I know that He has His own wise and special

dealings with every one of us, and that what He determines for one is no

rule for another. I am contemplating, and, if so be, interpreting, His

loving ways and purposes only towards the very man before us.

Now, so it was, there was just one aspect of this lower world which he

might innocently love; just one in which life had charms for a heart as

affectionate as it was religious. I mean that assemblage of objects which

are included under the dear name of Home. If there was rest and solace to

be found on earth, he found it there. Is it not remarkable, then, that in

this, his sole earthly sanctuary, He who loved him with so infinite a love

met him, visited him, not once or twice, but again and again, with a stern

rod of chastisement? Stroke after stroke, blow after blow, stab after stab,

was dealt against his very heart. 'Great and wonderful are Thy works, O

Lord God Almighty; just and true are Thy ways, O King of ages. Who shall

not fear Thee, O Lord, and magnify Thy name? for Thou only art holy.' I may

speak with more vivid knowledge of him here than in other respects, for I

was one of the confidants of his extreme suffering under the succession of

terrible inflictions which left wounds never to be healed. They ended only

with his life; for the complaint, which eventually mastered him, was

brought into activity by his final bereavement. Nay, I must not consider

even that great bereavement his final one; his call to go hence was itself

the final agony of that tender, loving heart. He who had in time past been

left desolate by others, was now to leave others desolate. He was to be

torn away, as if before his time, from those who, to speak humanly, needed

him so exceedingly. He was called upon to surrender them in faith to Him

who had given them. It was about two hours before his death, with this

great sacrifice, as we may suppose, this solemn summons of his Supreme Lord

confronting him, that he said, with a loud voice, 'Thy will be done;'

adding his favourite prayer, so well known to us all: 'Fiat, laudetur,

atque in æternum superexaltetur, sanctissima, altissima, amabilissima

voluntas Dei in omnibus.' They were almost his last words.

We too must say, after him, 'Thy will be done.' Let us be sure that those

whom God loves He takes away, each of them, one by one, at the very time

best for their eternal interests. What can we, in sober earnest, wish, save

that very will of God? Is He not wiser and more loving than we are? Could

we wish him back whom we have lost? Who is there of us who loves him most

but would feel the cruelty of recalling to this tumultuous life, with its

spiritual perils and its dark future, a soul who is already rejoicing in

the end and issue of his trial, in salvation secured, and heaven begun in

him? Rather, who would not wish to have lived his life, and to have died

his death? How well for him that he lived, not for man only, but for God!

What are all the interests, pleasures, successes, glories of this world,

when we come to die? What can irreligious virtue, what can innocent family

affection do for us, when we are going before the Judge, whom to know and

love is life eternal, whom not to know and not to love is eternal death?

O happy soul, who hast loved neither the world nor the things of the world

apart from God! Happy soul, who, amid the world's toil, hast chosen the one

thing needful, that better part which can never be taken away! Happy soul,

who, being the counsellor and guide, the stay, the light and joy, the

benefactor of so many, yet hast ever depended simply, as a little child, on

the grace of God and the merits and strength of thy Redeemer! Happy soul,

who hast so thrown thyself into the views and interests of other men, so

prosecuted their ends, and associated thyself in their labours, as never to

forget, there is one Holy Catholic Roman Church, one Fold of Christ and Ark

of salvation, and never to neglect her ordinances or to trifle with her

word! Happy soul, who, as we believe, by thy continual almsdeeds,

offerings, and bounties, hast blotted out such remains of daily recurring

sin and infirmity as the sacraments have not reached! Happy soul, who by

thy assiduous preparation for death, and the long penance of sickness,

weariness, and delay, hast, as we trust, discharged the debt that lay

against thee, and art already passing from penal purification to the light

and liberty of heaven above!

And so farewell, but not farewell for ever, dear James Robert Hope-Scott!

He is gone from us, but only gone before us. We then must look forward, not

backward. We shall meet him again, if we are worthy, in 'Mount Sion, and

the heavenly Jerusalem,' in 'the company of many thousands of angels, the

Church of the firstborn who are written in the heavens,' with 'God, the

Judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and Jesus, the

Mediator of the New Testament, and the blood which speaketh better things

than that of Abel.'

J. H. N.

APPENDIX II.

_Words spoken in the Chapel of the Ursulines of Jesus, St. Margaret's

Convent, Edinburgh, on the 7th day of May, 1873, at the Funeral of James

Robert Hope-Scott, Q.C. By the Rev. William J. Amherst, S.J._

My Dear Brethren,--In complying with the request which has been made to me,

to say a few words on this solemn occasion about one who was so

immeasurably my superior in everything, I feel as a child would when

suddenly asked to give an opinion on some abstruse question which it could

not comprehend. But when asked to address you, however sensible I might

have been of my own inferiority, I could not, even in thought, entertain a

reluctance; I could not show the slightest hesitation to speak the praises

of one whom I admired so much, to ask your prayers for one whom I so much

loved.

Scotland is blessed in giving a resting-place to one of her noblest sons;

and this religious community is doubly blessed in providing the holy spot

where his body shall repose. I need not enter into all the particulars of

his life. Those which I should naturally think of to-day are sufficiently

known to you all. But if I do not enter into any details, it is not that

they are without a very strong interest. They might well be recorded as the

history of a great and noble character, as an example to the young men of

our own day, and as possessing, from his family connections, more than

ordinary value for every one. But I must speak of his character in general,

and single out those points which I consider deserving of especial praise.

We must praise the dear deceased. It is our duty to do so. What are our

desires now? What is our great wish?

That God may have mercy on his soul. God will hear us when we appeal to Him

by the good works which His servant has done. We should all praise him,

that we may be so many witnesses before God of the things which we know

must entitle him to mercy from his Father who is in heaven.

When I first heard that he was dead--especially when I was asked to speak

about him--I began to think of his character in a more careful manner than

I had ever done before. Besides my own thoughts about him, I have heard

what they say of him who were most closely allied to him. I have listened

to those who, though not related to him, were his most intimate friends and

acquaintance. I know what is thought of him by those who knew him well. I

have seen letters written since his death from many different persons; from

those who knew him in early days, those who knew him in middle life, and

again, those who knew him in later days. I have read letters from some who

knew him during the whole of his and their lives. There is a unanimity in

the thoughts of all about him which is most striking. The thoughts and

words of every one seem to form one beautiful melody, one harmonious song.

They all testify to the same great intellectual qualities, the same

goodness of heart, the same excellence of demeanour. They speak of him as

being one who was more fit for the foremost places in the State than some

who have actually attained them. They speak of him in such terms as these,

'the loveable,' 'the amiable, 'the beautiful.' Besides having talents of

the highest order, the dear deceased possessed a nature peculiarly

susceptible of good impressions. And he seems to have opened his whole

heart to receive the dew of heaven; and the grace of God produced a

hundredfold in his soul. To have known a man such as he was, who possessed

such power of mind combined with such high attainments, such soundness of

principle with such rectitude in practice, such independence of thought,

and such submission to conscience and lawful authority; to have known him--

to have been, I may say, on terms of friendship and intimacy with him--will

be amongst the most pleasing and the saddest recollections of my life. I

have said his submission to conscience. It seems almost like presumption in

me, standing as I do in the midst of those who knew him so much better than

myself, to single out any one distinguishing characteristic; but it always

struck me that a great conscientiousness was that which showed itself the

most, and shone most brilliantly to those who had the happiness of knowing

him. The voice of conscience seemed to have a magic effect upon him. The

call was no sooner heard than it was obeyed, and without any apparent

hesitation of the will. It was this delicacy of conscience, and his good-

will to act upon it, combined with his most perfect demeanour, which gave

him that authority over others which was so beautifully spoken of by his

venerable friend on Monday last, when I and many of you, my dear brethren,

had the happiness of being present. For it was this conscientiousness which

purified, consolidated, and gave direction to all the great qualities of

his soul. To this influence which he had over others I am myself a willing

witness. I felt the force of it myself. And in saying this, my dear

brethren, I speak most sincerely what I believe to be true. I should deem

it an irreverence on an occasion like this to say a word which I did not

believe. Though by no means a young man myself when I first had the

happiness of making acquaintance with the dear deceased, during the few

years that I knew him he exercised an influence over me, for the effects of

which I now thank God, and hope that I shall thank Him for all eternity.

It was, my dear brethren, to this great gift of conscientiousness, aided by

the grace of God, that he who has left us owed the greatest blessing of his

life--his submission to the one holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. The

obstacles which stood in the way of his entering the Church must have been

great. The old French saying does not stand good when one who is not a

Catholic is thinking of entering the Church. It is not the first step

towards the Church which, in this country at least, costs the sacrifice.

The first step costs little; it most frequently costs nothing. It is

generally a pleasant step to take. Many have taken that step; but few have

persevered in their onward march. The step which costs the sacrifice is

that which crosses the threshold when the door has been arrived at. For on

one side stands that powerful tempter, human respect, whose baneful

influence has sent back hundreds, perhaps thousands, into the dreary waste.

On the other side stands ambition, with noble and captivating mien. I need

not speculate here as to what ambition may say to others; but I will

imagine what ambition may have said to our departed friend. It may have

addressed him in some such words as these: 'You are conscious, innocently

conscious, of possessing great talents. You cannot have associated as you

have done with men of great intellect, with the first men of the day,

without having in some degree measured yourself with them, without knowing

something of your own great power. You are, perhaps, desirous yourself of

advancing in the highest paths. You may have a praiseworthy ambition of

using the gifts you have received for the good of others, and to make a

return to God for all that He has bestowed upon you. You cannot but know

that, from your family connections, and the position you hold in society,

you have as fine an opening as was ever presented to a young man. Enter the

Catholic Church, and all such knowledge will be useless; all such thoughts

may be cast aside.' There is no use, my dear brethren, in blinding

ourselves to the truth in this matter. We know it, and it is well that we

should recognise it. In this country, which boasts so much of its religious

liberty, the influence--the persecution I must call it--of public opinion

is such, that when a man enters the Church, he deprives himself of all

chance of progress in the high walks of life. It may be said that in the

line in which he had hitherto walked, he succeeded as well after he entered

the Church as he had done before. It is true that he reached the highest

point of eminence as an advocate, and his religion was no obstacle in the

way; but if it was so, it was because it was the interest of suitors to

make use of his power. But if he ever entertained any idea of attaining to

the highest offices in the State--and he may well have done so--the fact of

his having entered the Catholic Church would, in all probability, have

proved a bar to his advance. He resisted the tempters; he despised human

respect, and he thrust aside ambition. Having walked up to the open door of

the Church, he did what conscience told him he ought to do, and passing the

threshold, he went in. My dear brethren, there can be no doubt that the

life which he led before this time had prepared him for the step which he

took. He had a great devotion to the will of God. His favourite prayer was

those well-known words: 'May the most just, the most high, and the most

amiable will of God be done, praised, and eternally exalted in all things!'

And though before he became a Catholic his thoughts may not have been put

into that particular formula, yet no doubt the substance of those words had

been his prayer through life. As the will of God had been his guiding star,

so, and as a consequence, he always had a great love for Jesus Christ our

Redeemer. I cannot, indeed, state this as a positive fact on my own

personal knowledge, but it could not have been otherwise; and you, my dear

brethren, who knew him so much better than I did, will, I think, agree with

me in this respect. When he became a Catholic, Jesus Christ was the object

of his continually increasing love. By the means which God provided for him

in the Church, his faith in his Redeemer, his hope in his Redeemer, and his

love for his Redeemer, grew stronger, and went on increasing to his dying

day. [Footnote: The last words which he heard on earth whilst the crucifix

was pressed to his lips, and they were spoken by those lips which here he

loved the most, were these: 'You know that you have loved Jesus all your

life.'] As he loved Jesus all his life, pray, my dear brethren, that his

merciful Lord may show mercy to him now.

Some amongst you, my dear brethren, have already heard from the lips of one

as much my superior as the subject of my discourse was, that a

distinguishing feature of the departed was the intensity of his domestic

affection. And the venerable preacher observed that the great trial of him

who has left us was to receive a succession of terrible wounds in the

tenderest part of his noble nature. You will remember his words. He said

that God had repeatedly struck him; that He had stabbed him. It was so,

indeed; and yet, my dear brethren, at the same time that a merciful God so

severely tried His servant, it was through those same domestic affections

that He gave to him the greatest comfort, next to a good conscience, that a

man can have on his death-bed. For to him who had always been so kind and

gentle with others, and anticipated all their wants, was given during the

many long months of his illness all that help and comfort which the most

tender, filial, and sisterly love could give. As God blessed him in making

him the object of such strong and persevering affection, so He has blessed

those also who were the willing instruments of His mercy.

Pray, my dear brethren, that he may rest in peace. We all owe a great deal

to him, more than we can ever repay during life. Generosity was a

remarkable feature in the dear deceased. His generosity was of a noble

kind. It was not confined to generosity with his worldly means. He was

generous in his sympathies. He sympathised with all who had any relations

with him. No one was ever with him who did not feel this. He was generous

with his worldly means; he was generous with his counsel and advice. He was

ready and willing to help any one in any way he could. I feel that I owe

him much myself. I have already alluded to the obligations which I am under

to him. And who is there amongst you, my dear brethren, who does not, in

some respect, owe him much? As he was generous to others, let us be

generous to him. Let us pray, and continually pray, to God for him. If any

of you may be inclined to relax in your prayers for his soul, because you

think that his good works were such that we have reason to hope that he is

even now enjoying the sight of God, I do not quarrel with you for so

thinking--I may think so myself; but still I urge you to pray. Pray as if

you thought it were not so. Do not let your hope lessen the effect of your

love. Pray for him as you would wish him and others to pray for you if you

were dead.

And here, my dear brethren, I might finish my discourse. But who is there

who knew the dear departed, who does not feel an irresistible impulse to

turn from the dead to the living? This influence may have been felt on

other occasions by others. For my part, I have never so deeply felt how

impossible it is to separate the one who has gone from those whom he has

left behind. Pray for the father; and pray also for the children. Pray for

those whose future must be a matter of interest to you all. And you may

pray with a firm hope of being heard. For it would seem that there is a

special providence over them, for already those children have found a home

--homes, I may say--which a guardian angel might have chosen for them. Pray

that God would ratify and confirm all those blessings which that fond

parent had bestowed upon his own, especially those blessings which, with

increased earnestness, he must have desired when he saw that, at a critical

moment in life, the hand which had guided was to make sign no more. Pray,

my dear brethren, that those two honoured names which he bore, and which

for so many years have been allied to all that is best and of sterling

worth, to all that is great and noble, may long continue the ornament and

the pride of Scotland. Once more, let me turn from the living to the dead;

and I will conclude with the prayer of the Church--'Eternal rest give to

him, O Lord; and may a perpetual light shine upon him! May he rest in

peace!'

APPENDIX III.

_The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P., to Miss Hope-Scott [now the Hon.

Mrs. Maxwell Scott_].

Hawarden: Sept. 13, 1873.

My Dear Miss Hope-Scott,--I found awaiting me, through your kindness, on my

return from Scotland, Dr. Newman's Address on your much-loved father's

death. I need not say that one of my first acts was to read it. It does not

discourage me from attempting to put on paper my recollections of him, as

my free intervals of time may permit. It is well that a character of such

extraordinary grace as his should have been portrayed by one who could

scarcely, I think, even if he tried, compose a sentence that would not be

'a thing of beauty.' His means and materials for undertaking that labour of

love were as superior to mine as his power of performing it. I will only

say that I countersign, with full assent, to the best of my knowledge, the

several traits which Dr. Newman has given. He must have much more to say. I

shall at once lay before you all my little store of knowledge, in addition

to that worthier tribute of your father's own letters, to which you are not

less welcome. Lights upon his mental history my memory may, I hope, serve

here and there to throw; but those will be principally for the period

antecedent to what he himself described as 'the great change of his life.'

Few men, perhaps, have had a wider contact with their generation, or a more

varied experience of personal friendships, than myself. Among the large

numbers of estimable and remarkable people whom I have known, and who have

now passed away, there is in my memory an inner circle, and within it are

the forms of those who were marked off from the comparative crowd even of

the estimable and the remarkable by the peculiarity and privilege of their

type. Of these very few, some four or five I think only, your father was

one: and with regard to them it always seemed to me as if the type in each

case was that of the individual exclusively, and as if there could be but

one such person in our world at a time. After the early death of Arthur

Hallam, I used to regard your father distinctly as at the head of all his

contemporaries in the brightness and beauty of his gifts.

We were at Eton at the same time, but he was considerably my junior, so

that we were not in the way of being drawn together. At Christ Church we

were again contemporaries, but acquaintances only, scarcely friends. I find

he did not belong to the 'Oxford Essay Club,' in which I took an active

part, and which included not only several of his friends, but one with

whom, unless my memory deceives me, he was most intimate--I mean Mr.

Leader. And yet I have to record our partnership on two occasions in a

proceeding which in Oxford was at that time, and perhaps would have been at

any time, singular enough. At the hazard of severe notice, and perhaps

punishment, we went together to the Baptist chapel of the place, once to

hear Dr. Chalmers, and the other time to hear Mr. Rowland Hill. I had

myself been brought up in what may be termed an atmosphere of Low Church;

and, though I cannot positively say why, I believe this to have been the

case with him; and questions of communion or conformity at that date

presented themselves to us not unnaturally as questions of academic

discipline, so that we did not, I imagine, enter upon any inquiry whether

we in any degree compromised our religious position by the act, or by any

intention with which it was done.

After Oxford (which I quitted in December 1831) the next occasion on which

I remember to have seen him was in his sitting-room at Chelsea Hospital.

There must, however, have been some shortly preceding contact, or I should

not have gone there to visit him. I found him among folios and books of

grave appearance. It must have been about the year 1836. He opened a

conversation on the controversies which were then agitated in the Church of

England, and which had Oxford for their centre. I do not think I had paid

them much attention; but I was an ardent student of Dante, and likewise of

Saint Augustine; both of them had acted powerfully upon my mind; and this

was in truth the best preparation I had for anything like mental communion

with a person of his elevation. He then told me that he had been seriously

studying the controversy, and that in his opinion the Oxford authors were

right. He spoke not only with seriousness, but with solemnity, as if this

was for him a great epoch; not merely the adoption of a speculative

opinion, but the reception of a profound and powerful religious impulse.

Very strongly do I feel the force of Dr. Newman's statements as to the

religious character of his mind. It is difficult in retrospect to conceive

of this, except as growing up with him from infancy. But it appeared to me

as if at this period, in some very special manner, his attention had been

seized, his intellect exercised and enlarged in a new field; and as if the

idea of the Church of Christ had then once for all dawned upon him as the

power which, under whatever form, was from thenceforward to be the central

object of his affections, in subordination only to Christ Himself, and as

His continuing representative.

From that time I only knew of his career as one of unwearied religious

activity, pursued with an entire abnegation of self, with a deep

enthusiasm, under a calm exterior, and with a grace and gentleness of

manner, which, joined to the force of his inward motives, made him, I

think, without doubt the most winning person of his day. It was for about

fifteen years, from that time onwards, that he and I lived in close, though

latterly rarer intercourse. Yet this was due, on my side, not to any

faculty of attraction, but to the circumstance that my seat in Parliament,

and my rather close attention to business, put me in the way of dealing

with many questions relating to the Church and the universities and

colleges, on which he desired freely to expand his energies and his time.

I will here insert two notices which illustrate the opposite sides of his

character. It was in or about 1837 that I came to know well his sister-in-

law, Lady F. Hope, then already a widow. I remember very clearly her

speaking to me about the manner in which he had ministered to her sorrow.

It was not merely kindness, or merely assiduity, or any particular act of

which she spoke. She seemed to speak of him as endowed with some special

gift, as if he had, like one of old, been 'surnamed Barnabas, which is,

being interpreted, the Son of Consolation.'

I now pass to the other pole of his mind, his relish for all fun, humour,

and originality of character. In one of his tranquil years he told me with

immense amusement an anecdote he had brought from Oxford. He was in company

with two men, Mr. Palmer, commonly called Deacon Palmer, and Arthur

Kinnaird, of whom the one was not more certain to supply the material of

paradox, than the other to draw it out. The deacon had been enlarging in

lofty strain on the power and position of the clergy. 'Then I suppose,'

said Kinnaird, 'you would hold that the most depraved and irreligious

priest has a much higher standing in the sight of God than any layman?' 'Of

course,' was the immediate reply. [Footnote: Of course, Mr. Palmer, who was

clear-headed, knew what he was saying, and meant that, in comparing an

irreligious priest with a religious layman, the priest, _as such_,

belongs to a higher spiritual order than the layman _as such_, just as

it is a mere truism to say that a fallen angel, as regards his degree in

the order of creation, is superior to a saint.--ED.]

His correspondence with me, beginning in February 1837, truly exhibits the

character of our friendship, as one founded in common interests, of a kind

that gradually commanded more and more of the public attention, but that

with him were absolutely paramount. The moving power was principally on his

side. The main subjects on which it turned, and which also formed the basis

of our general intercourse, were as follows: First, a missionary

organisation for the province of Upper Canada. Then the question of the

Relations of Church and State, forced into prominence at that time by a

variety of causes, and among them not least by a series of lectures, which

Dr. Chalmers delivered in the Hanover Square Rooms, to distinguished

audiences, with a profuse eloquence, and with a noble and almost

irresistible fervour. Those lectures drove me upon the hazardous enterprise

of handling the same subject upon what I thought a sounder basis. Your

father warmly entered into this design; and bestowed upon a careful and

prolonged examination of this work in MS., and upon a searching yet most

tender criticism of its details, an amount of thought and labour which it

would, I am persuaded, have been intolerable to any man to supply, except

for one for whom each and every day as it arose was a new and an entire

sacrifice to duty. As in the year 1838, when the manuscript was ready, I

had to go abroad on account mainly of some overstrain upon the eyes, he

undertook the whole labour of carrying the work through the press; and he

even commended me, as you will see from the letters, because I did not show

an ungovernable impatience of his aid. [Footnote: J. R. Hope to Mr.

Gladstone, August 29, 1838, in ch. ix. vol. i. p. 164.]

The general frame of his mind at this time, in October 1838, will be pretty

clearly gathered from a letter of that month, No. 24 in the series, written

when he had completed that portion of his labours. [Footnote: Ibid.,

October 11, 1838, ch. ix. vol. i. p. 165.] He had full, unbroken faith in

the Church of England, as a true portion of the Catholic Church; to her he

had vowed the service of his life; all his desire was to uphold the

framework of her institutions, and to renovate their vitality. He pushed

her claims, you may find from the letters, further than I did; but the

difference of opinion between us was not such as to prevent our cordial co-

operation then and for years afterwards; though in using such a term I seem

to myself guilty of conceit and irreverence to the dead, for I well know

that he served her from an immeasurably higher level.

If I have not yet referred to his main occupation, it is because I desire

to speak specially of what I know specially. It was, however, without

doubt, in his Fellowship at Merton that he found at this period the

peculiar work of his life. A wonderful combination of fertility with

solidity always struck me as one of his most marked mental characteristics.

Only by that facility could he have accumulated and digested the learning

which he acquired in relation to Church, and especially to College History

and College Law. In mastering these systems how deeply he had drunk of the

essential spirit of the times which built them up, may be seen from a very

striking letter (No. 9) respecting Walter de Merton. [Footnote: J. R. Hope

to Mr. Gladstone, dated 'Rochester: Sunday, July 29, 1838,' in ch. viii.

vol. i. p. 147.] He gave the world some idea of the extent and fruitfulness

of these labours in connection with the next subject on which we had much

communication together, the subject of what was termed in 1840 Cathedral

Reform. My part was superficial, and was performed in the House of Commons.

His was of a very different character.

As a hearer, and a rapt hearer, I can say that Dr. Newman (p. 10) has not

exaggerated the description of the speech which he delivered, as counsel

for the Chapters (I think) before the House of Lords in 1840.[Footnote: See

ch. xi. vol. i. p. 198.] I need not say that, during the last forty years,

I have heard many speeches, and many, too, in which I had reason to take

interest, and yet never one which, by its solid as well as by its winning

qualities, more powerfully impressed me. At this period he had (I think

never or) rarely spoken in public, and he had not touched thirty years of

age.

I cannot now say who was the prime mover in the next matter of interest

which we pursued in common. It was the foundation of Trinity College,

Glenalmond. We drew into our partnership the deceased Dean Ramsay, one of

the very few men known to me who might, perhaps, compete even with your

father in attracting affection, though very different in powers of mind.

The Dean worked with us usefully and loyally, although, as was to a certain

extent his nature, sometimes in fear and trembling.

The early prosecution of this enterprise was left for a time mainly to me,

while your father paid his visit to Italy in 1840, in company with Mr,

Rogers, now Lord Blachford, from whom I hope you may obtain memorials of it

far better worth your having than any which I could supply, even had I been

his companion. I remember that I wrote for him in bad Italian a letter of

introduction to Manzoni, of whom, and of whose religious standing-ground,

he gives (No. 32 [Footnote: See ch. xiii. vol. i. p. 244, Mr. Hope to Mr.

Gladstone (Milan: November 18,1840).]) a remarkable account. I wish I could

recover now that letter, on account of the person for whom, and the person

to whom, it was written.

I think it was shortly before or shortly after this tour, that your father

one day spoke to me--I well remember the spot where he stood--about his

state and course of life. He had taken a resolution, with a view to the

increase of his means, to apply some part of his time to the ordinary

duties of his profession; whether he then said that it would be at the

Parliamentary Bar or not, I am not able to say. He, on this occasion, told

me that he did not intend to marry; that, giving a part of his time in the

direction I have just mentioned, he meant to reserve all the rest for the

Church and its institutions; and of these two several employments he said,

'I regard the first as my kitchen-garden, but the second as my flower-

garden.' [Footnote: Compare letter of J. R. Hope to Mr. Gladstone, quoted

in ch. xxii vol. ii. p. 94.] And so it was that, almost without a rival in

social attractions, and in the springtide of his youth and promise, he laid

with a cheerful heart the offering of his life upon the altar of his God.

It was, I think, the undertaking to found Trinity College which gave rise

to another friendship, that it gave me the greatest pleasure to witness--

between him and my father. In 1840 my father was moving on towards

fourscore years, but 'his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated;'

he was full of bodily and mental vigour; 'whatsoever his hand found to do,

he did it with his might;' he could not understand or tolerate those who,

perceiving an object to be good, did not at once and actively pursue it;

and with all this energy he joined a corresponding warmth and, so to speak,

eagerness of affection, a keen appreciation of humour, in which he found a

rest, and an indescribable frankness and simplicity of character, which,

crowning his other qualities, made him, I think (and I strive to think

impartially), nearly or quite the most interesting old man I have ever

known. Nearly half a century of years separated the two; but your father, I

think, appreciated mine more than I could have supposed possible, and

always appeared to be lifted to a higher level of life and spirits by the

contact. On one occasion we three set out on a posting expedition, to

examine several sites in the midland counties of Scotland, which had been

proposed for the new college. As we rolled along, wedged into one of the

post-chaises of those days, through various kinds of country, and

especially through the mountains between Dunkeld and Crieff, it was a

perpetual play, I might almost say roar, of fun and laughter. The result of

this tour, after the consideration of various sites near Perth, Dunkeld,

and Dunblane, was the selection of the spot on which the college now

stands. I am ashamed to recollect that we were, I do not say assisted in

reaching this conclusion, but cheered up in fastening on it, by a luncheon,

which Mr. Patton, the proprietor, gave us, of grouse newly killed, roasted

by an apparatus for the purpose on the moment, and bedewed with what I

think is called partridge-eye champagne.

Your father's influence operated materially in procuring a preference for

this beautiful but somewhat isolated site on the banks of the Almond. The

general plan of the buildings was, I think, conceived by Mr. Dyce--another

rare specimen of the human being--a master of Art and Thought in every

form, and one whose mind was stocked to repletion with images of Beauty. I

need not tell you what was your father's estimate of him. As to the site,

the introduction of railways, which did not then exist for Scotland, has

essentially altered the scale for relative advantage for all situations, in

proportion as they are near to or removed from these channels of

communication, and has caused us, in estimating remoteness from centres, to

think of a mile as much as we should formerly have thought of ten. But I

ought to record that, in all questions relating to the college, your

father's mind instinctively leaned to what may be called the ecclesiastical

side; and though the idea of a great school was incorporated in the plan,

his desire was that even this should not be too near any considerable town.

I remember also his saying to me, with reference to Glenalmond, and the

opportunities which the college chapel would afford, 'You know it will

plant the Church in a new district.'

He laboured much for the college; and had, if my memory serves, a great

hand in framing the Constitution, with respect to which his academic

learning gave him a just authority. He laboured for it at first in love and

enthusiasm, afterwards in duty, at last perhaps in honour: but after a few

years it necessarily vanished from his thoughts, and he became unable to

share in facing the difficulties through which it had to pass. Events were

now impending which profoundly agitated, not only what is termed the

religious world, but the general mind of the country. I need not here refer

to the unwise proceedings of great and ardent Churchmen, which darkened the

skies over their heads, and brought their cause from calm and peaceful

progress to storm, and in some senses to shipwreck. I do not think that,

with his solid judgment, he was a party to any of those proceedings. They

seem to have gradually brought about an opinion on the part of the ruling

authorities of the English Church that some effort should be made to

counteract the excesses of the party, and to confront the tendencies, or

supposed tendencies, now first disclosed, towards the Church of Rome, by

presenting to the public mind a telling idea of Catholicity under some

other form. I am now construing events, not relating them; but they are

events which it will be a prime duty of the future historian to study, for

they have (I think) sensibly affected in its religious aspects the history

of this country, nay, even the history of Western Christendom.

About this time Baron Bunsen became the representative of Prussia at the

British Court. I remember that your father used to strike me by his

suspicions and apprehensions of particular persons; and Bunsen, if I

recollect right, was among them. That distinguished person felt an intense

interest in England; he was of a pious and an enthusiastic mind, a mind of

almost preternatural activity, vivacity, and rapidity, a bright

imagination, and a wide rather than a deep range of knowledge. He was in

the strongest sympathy, both personal and ecclesiastical, with the then

reigning King of Prussia, who visited England in the autumn, I think, of

1841. Sir Robert Peel, however loyal to the _entente_ with France, had

a strong desire for close relations of friendship with Germany; and the

marriage of the Queen, then recent, told in the same sense. All these

circumstances opened the way for the singular project of the Anglican

Bishopric of Jerusalem, which I believe to have been the child of Bunsen's

fertile and energetic brain, and which received at that particular juncture

a welcome due, I think, to special circumstances such as those which I have

enumerated.

Wide as was the range of Bunsen's subsequent changes, he at this time

represented the opinions of the Evangelical German Church, with the strong

leaning of an _amateur_ towards the Episcopate as a form of

Government, not as the vehicle of the continuous, corporate, and visible

life of the Christian Church. He had, beyond all men I ever knew, the

faculty of persuading himself that he had reconciled opposites; and this

persuasion he entertained with such fervour that it became contagious. From

some of these letters (in accordance with my recollections) it would appear

that in the early stages of this really fantastic plan (see No. 48)

[Footnote: See ch. xvi. (vol. i. p. 313), J. R. Hope to Mr. Gladstone,

November 19, 1841.] your father's aid had been enlisted. I must not conceal

that my own was somewhat longer continued. The accompanying correspondence

amply shows his speedy and strong dissatisfaction and even disgust. I do

not know whether the one personal influence, which alone, I think, ever

seriously affected his career, was brought to bear upon him at this time.

But the movement of his mind, from this juncture onwards, was traceably

parallel to, though at a certain distance from, that of Dr. Newman. My

opinion is (I put it no higher) that the Jerusalem Bishopric snapped the

link which bound Dr. Newman to the English Church. I have a conviction that

it cut away the ground on which your father had hitherto most firmly and

undoubtingly stood. Assuredly, from 1841 or 1842 onwards, his most fond,

most faithful, most ideal love progressively decayed, and doubt nestled and

gnawed in his soul. He was, however, of a nature in which levity could find

no place. Without question, he estimated highly, as it deserves to be

estimated, the tremendous nature of a change of religious profession, as

between the Church of England and the Church of Rome; a change dividing

asunder bone and marrow. Nearly ten years passed, I think, from 1841,

during which he never wrote or spoke to me a positive word indicating the

possibility of this great transition. Long he harboured his misgivings in

silence, and ruminated upon them. They even, it seemed to me, weighed

heavily upon his bodily health. I remember that in 1843 I wrote an article

in a review (mentioned in the correspondence) which referred to the

remarkable words of Archbishop Laud respecting the Church of Rome as it

was; and applied to the case those other remarkable words of Lord Chatham

respecting America, 'Never, never, never.' He said to me, half playfully

(for the article took some hold upon his sympathies), 'What, Gladstone,

never, never, never?'

It must have been about this time that I had another conversation with him

about religion, of which, again, I exactly recollect the spot. Regarding

(forgive me) the adoption of the Roman religion by members of the Church of

England as nearly the greatest calamity that could befall Christian faith

in this country, I rapidly became alarmed when these changes began; and

very long before the great luminary, Dr. Newman, drew after him, it may

well be said, 'the third part of the stars of heaven.' This alarm I

naturally and freely expressed to the man upon whom I most relied, your

father. On the occasion to which I refer he replied to me with some

admission that they were calamitous; 'but,' he said, 'pray remember an

important compensation, in the influence which the English mind will bring

to bear upon the Church of Rome itself. Should there be in this country any

considerable amount of secession to that Church, it cannot fail to operate

sensibly in mitigating whatever gives most offence in its practices or

temper.' I do not pretend to give the exact words, but their spirit and

effect I never can forget. I then thought there was great force in them.

When I learned that he was to be married, my opinion was that he had only

allowed his thoughts to turn in the direction of the bright and pure

attachment he had formed, because the object to which they had first been

pledged had vanished or been hidden from his view. I think that his

feelings underwent a rally, rather, perhaps, than his understanding, when I

was first put forward as a candidate for the University of Oxford in 1847.

At least, I recollect his speaking with a real zest and interest at that

time of my wife, as a skilful canvasser, hard to resist.

I have just spoken of your father as the man on whom I most relied; and so

it was. I relied on one other, also a remarkable man, who took the same

course, at nearly the same time; but on him most, from my opinion of his

sagacity. From the correspondence of 1838 you might suppose that he relied

upon me, that he had almost given himself to me. But whatever expressions

his warm feelings combined with his humility may have prompted, it really

was not so; nor ought it to have been so, for I always felt and knew my own

position beside him to be one of mental as well as moral inferiority. I

cannot remember any occasion on which I exercised an influence over him. I

remember many on which I tried; and especially when I saw his mind shaken,

and, so to speak, on the slide. But these attempts (of which you may

possibly have some written record) completely failed, and drove him into

reserve. Never, on any one occasion, would he enter freely into the

question with me. I think the fault lay much on my side. My touch was not

fine enough for his delicate spirit. But I do not conceal from you that I

think there was a certain amount of fault on his side also. Notwithstanding

what I have said of his humility, notwithstanding what Dr. Newman has most

truly said of his self-renouncing turn, and total freedom from ambition,

there was in him, I think, a subtle form of self-will, which led him, where

he had a foregone conclusion or a latent tendency, to indulge it, and to

refuse to throw his mind into free partnership with others upon questions

of doubt and difficulty. Yet I must after all admit his right to be silent,

unless where he thought he was to receive real aid; and of this he alone

could be the judge.

Indeed, his own intellectual calibre was too large to allow him to be other

than fastidious in his judgment of the capacities of other men. He had a

great opinion of the solidity and tact of Denison, Bishop of Salisbury. He

thought also very highly of Lord Blachford. When Archbishop (then

Archdeacon) Manning produced his work on the 'Unity of the Church,' he

must, I think, have seen it before the world saw it; for I remember his

saying to me, 'That is going to be a great book,' or what would have been

not less emphatic, 'That is going to be a book.' Again, he was struck with

Mr. W. Palmer's work on the Church, to which also testimony has been borne

by Dr. Newman in his 'Apologia.' But I do not recollect that he had an

unreserved admiration at once of character and intellect in any case except

one--that of Dr. Newman himself.

Whatever may have been the precise causes of the reticence to which I have

referred (and it is possible that physical weakness was among them), the

character of our friendship had during these later years completely

changed. It was originally formed in common and very absorbing interests.

He was not of those shallow souls which think, or persuade themselves they

think, that such a relation can continue in vigour and in fruitfulness when

its daily bread has been taken away. The feeling of it indeed remained on

both sides, as you will see. On my side, I may say that it became more

intense; but only according to that perversity, or infirmity, of human

nature, according to which we seem to love truly only when we lose. My

affection for him, during those later years before his change, was, I may

almost say, intense; and there was hardly anything, I think, which he could

have asked me to do, and which I would not have done. But as I saw more and

more through the dim light what was to happen, it became more and more like

the affection which is felt for one departed.

As far as narrative is concerned, I am now at the close. In 1850 came the

discussions and alarms connected with the Gorham judgment; and came also

the last flickering of the flame of his attachment to the Church of

England. Thereafter I never found myself able to turn to account as an

opening any word he spoke or wrote to me. The year had been, for my wife

and me, one of sorrow and anxiety, and I was obliged to spend the winter in

Italy. In the spring of 1851 I dined at his brother's and met him. He spoke

a few words indicative of his state of mind, but fell back immediately into

silence. I was engaged at the time in opposing with great zeal the

Ecclesiastical Titles Bill, but not even this circumstance led him to give

me his confidence. The crisis had come. I am bound to say that relief soon

became visible in its effect upon his bodily health. His road and mine were

now definitively parted. After the change had taken place, it happened to

me to be once, and once only, brought into contact with him in the course

of his ordinary professional employment. I had been giving evidence in a

committee-room on behalf of a railway. He was the opposing counsel, and had

to put some questions to me in cross-examination. His manner in performing

this usually harsh office was as engaging as in ordinary social

intercourse; and though I have no doubt he did his duty by his clients, I

thought he seemed to handle me with a peculiar tenderness.

On June 18, 1851, he wrote to me the beautiful letter, No. 95. [Footnote:

See ch. xxi. (vol. ii. p. 87), where this letter is given.] It was the

epitaph of our friendship, which continued to live, but only, or almost

only, as it lives between those who inhabit separate worlds. On no day

since that date, I think, was he absent, however, from my thoughts; and now

I can scarcely tear myself from the fascination of writing about him.

And so, too, you will feel the fascination of reading about him; and it

will serve to relieve the weariness with which otherwise you would have

toiled through so long a letter. I hope it is really about him, and that

egotism has not slily crept into the space which was meant to be devoted to

him. It notices slighter as well as graver matters; for the slight touches

make their contribution to the exhibition of every finely shaded character.

If anything which it contains has hurt you, recollect the chasm which

separates our points of view; recollect that what came to him as light and

blessing and emancipation, had never offered itself to me otherwise than as

a temptation and a sin; recollect that when he found what he held his

'pearl of great price,' his discovery was to me beyond what I could

describe, not only a shock and a grief, but a danger too. I having given

you my engagement, you having accepted it, I have felt that I must above

all things be true, and that I could only be true by telling you

everything. If I have traversed some of the ground in sadness, I now turn

to the brighter thought of his present light and peace and progress; may

they be his more and more abundantly, in that world where the shadows that

our sins and follies cast no longer darken the aspect and glory of the

truth; and may God ever bless you, the daughter of my friend!

Believe me always and warmly yours,

W. E. GLADSTONE.

Miss Hope-Scott.

APPENDIX IV.

VERSES BY J. R. HOPE-SCOTT.

FEAST OF THE CIRCUMCISION, 1859 (THE BIRTHDAY OF C. H. S.).

New Year's Day returns again,

Does it bring us joy or pain?

Does it teach us to rely

On the world, or pass it by?

Will it be like seasons gone,

Or undo what they have done?

Shall we trust the future more

Than the time we've spent before?

Is it hope, or is it fear

That attends our new-born year?

Childhood, busy with its toys,

Answers, it expects new joys;

Youth, untaught by pleasures past,

Thinks to find some that will last;

Manhood counts its honours o'er,

And resolves to gather more;

While old age sits idly by,

Only hoping not to die.

Thus the world--now, Christian, say

What for me means New Year's Day.

New Year's Day is but a name,

While our hearts remain the same;

All our years are old and few,

Christ alone can make them new.

Around Him our seasons move,

Each made fruitful by His love.

Summer's heat and winter's snow

May unheeded come and go;

What He suffered, what He taught,

Makes the year of Christian thought.

Then to know thy gain or loss,

From the cradle towards the Cross

Follow Him, and on the way

Thou wilt find His New Year's Day.

Advent, summoning thy heart

In His coming to take part,

Warned thee of its double kind,

Mercy first, but wrath behind;

Bade thee hope the Incarnate Word,

Bade thee fear the avenging Lord.

Christmas next, with cheerful voice,

Called upon thee to rejoice;

But, while yet the Blessed Child

Sweetly on thy homage smiled,

Lo! beside His peaceful bed

Stephen laid a martyr's head.

Next a day of joy was won

For thee by our dear Saint John;

But its sun had scarcely set

When the earth with blood was wet:

Rachel, weeping for her slain,

Would not raise her heart again;

And St. Thomas, bowing down,

Grasped in death his jewelled crown.

Thus the old year taught thee: say,

Thinkest thou that New Year's Day

Will these lessons sweep away?

Foolish thought! the opening year

Claims a sacrifice more dear

Than the martyrdom of saints,

Or the blood of innocents.

Christ Himself doth now begin,

Sinless, to atone for sin;

Welcomes suffering for our good,

Takes His Saviour's name in blood,

And by Circumcision's pain

Makes the old year new again.

Then, with Him to keep the Feast,

Bring thy dearest and thy best;

Common gifts will not suffice

To attend His sacrifice.

Jesus chose His mother's part,

And she brought a pierced heart.

But what Christ for many chose,

Doth His utmost love disclose;

Bid her not unkind to be,

But to share that choice with thee.

Ask her sufferings, ask yet more,

Ask for those thy Saviour bore;

Upon earth hath never been

Sorrow like His sorrow seen;

He exhausted man's distress,

Pain, and shame, and loneliness.

Ask to feel His thorny crown,

Ask to make His wounds thine own;

With His mother claim to be

Partner in His agony.

This obtain, and thou wilt care

Little what thy New Years are;

There can thee no grief befall

Which the Cross did not forestall;

Joy in this world there is none

Like that which the Cross hath won.

Grasp it, and the year begin

With no fear, except of sin;

Love it, and, in turning o'er

All the gifts in hope's bright store,

Choose but one--to love it more.

LOW TIDE AT SUNSET ON THE HIGHLAND COAST.

Ye dark wild sands, o'er which th' impatient eye

Travels in haste to watch the evening sky,

When last I gazed, how nobly heaved your breast,

In purple waves and scattered sunbeams drest!

Then o'er you shouted many a gallant crew,

And in gay bands the sea-fowl circling flew;

In your embrace you held the restless tide,

And shared awhile great Ocean's power and pride.

But now how sad, how dreary is the scene

In which so much of life hath lately been!

Your barren wastes untraversed by a sail,

Your only voice the curlew's distant wail;

With rocky limbs and furrowed brow you lie

Like some lone corpse by living things passed by;

Till Night in mercy spreads her clouded pall,

And rising winds mourn at your funeral.

Yes, you are changed, but not more changed than he

Who lately stood beside that smiling sea;

For whom each bark which hastened to the shore

Some welcome freight of love or honour bore;

Who saw reflected in the peaceful flood

His home made happy by the bright and good.

Gladly he looked upon you; now, apart,

He veils his brow and hides his desolate heart;

From him life's joys have quickly ebbed away,

Leaving the rocks, the sands, and the declining day.

To-morrow's tide again the shore will lave,

To-morrow's sun will gild the crested wave;

New ships will launch and speed across the main,

And the wild sea-fowl ply their sport again;

But for the broken-hearted there is none

To gather back the spoils which Death hath won.

None, did I say? O foolish, impious thought,

In one whom God hath made, and Christ hath bought!

Thou who dost hold the ocean in Thy hand,

And the sun's courses guide by Thy command,

Hast Thou no morrow for the darkened soul,

No tide returning o'er its sands to roll?

Must its deep bays, once emptied of their sea,

For ever waste, for ever silent be?

Not such Thy counsels--not for this the Cross

Stretched its wide arms, and saved a world from loss!

When life's great waters are by sorrow dried,

Then gush new fountains from Christ's wounded side;

The Ark is there to gather in our love,

The Spirit, dove-like, o'er the stream to move.

Then look again, and mirrored in thy breast

Behold the home in which thy dear ones rest;

See forms which lately vanished from thy sight,

Shine back with crowns, and palms, and robes of light!

See richer freights than ever ocean bore

Guided by angel pilots to the shore!

In faith, in penitence, in hope shall be

Thy traffic on that bright and changeless sea.

ON RESUMING HIS PROFESSION.

Mourner, arise! this busy fretful life

Calls thee again to share its toils and strife;

The pause conceded to thy grief is o'er,

And the world's march can stay for thee no more.

Then dry thy tears, and with a steadfast mien

Resume thy station in the troubled scene;

Sad, but resolved, thy wonted vigour prove,

Nor let men deem thee weak from sorrowing love.

The wakeful bed, the sudden sharp distress,

The still recurring void of loneliness;

The urgent prayer, the hope, the humble fear,

Which seek beyond the grave that soul so dear,--

These yet are thine, but thine to tell no more.

Hide, then, from careless hearts thy sad but precious store,

And if life's struggle should thy thoughts beguile,

Quicken the pulse, and tempt the cheerful smile,

Should worldly shadows cross that form unseen,

And duty claim a place where grief hath been,

Spurn not the balm by toil o'er suffering shed,

Nor fear to be disloyal to the dead.

'Twas nature bade thee grieve, and for thy grief

The Lord of nature now ordains relief.

Like iron molten by the founder's art,

To fierce affliction yields the stubborn heart.

The fiery blast its ancient form destroys,

And bids it flow released from base alloys;

But the kind God, who doth the flames control,

Wills to re-cast, not to consume, the soul:

Hence tempering breezes, hence the lessened pain,

That the vexed heart may rest and form again.

Then be it so--but, ere that heart grows cold,

See that its later be its nobler mould.

See that, by pain made new, and purged from dross,

It bear, in sharp relief, the image of the Cross.