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Memoirs of James Robert Hope Scott, Volume 2

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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.

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