I. JAMES STEPHEN, WRITER ON IMPRISONMENT FOR DEBT

During the first half of the eighteenth century a James Stephen, the first of the family of whom I have any knowledge, was tenant of a small farm in Aberdeenshire, on the borders of Buchan. He was also engaged in trade, and, though it is stated that smuggler would be too harsh a name to apply to him, he had no insuperable objection to dealing in contraband articles. He was considered to belong to the respectable class, and gave his sons a good education. He had nine children by his wife, Mary Brown. Seven of these were sons, and were said to be the finest young men in the country. Alexander, the eldest, was in business at Glasgow; he died when nearly seventy, after falling into distress. William, the second son, studied medicine, and ultimately settled at St. Christopher’s, in the West Indies, where he was both a physician and a planter. He probably began life as a ‘surgeon to a Guineaman,’ and he afterwards made money by buying ‘refuse’ (that is, sickly) negroes from slave ships, and, after curing them of their diseases, selling them at an advanced price. He engaged in various speculations, and had made money when he died in 1781, in his fiftieth year. His career, as will be seen, was of great importance to his relations. The other sons all took to trade, but all died before William. The two sisters, Mrs. Nuccoll and Mrs. Calder, married respectably, and lived to a great age. They were able to be of some service to nephews and nieces.

My story is chiefly concerned with the third son, James, born about 1733. After studying law for a short time at Aberdeen, he was sent abroad, when eighteen years old, to Holland, and afterwards to France, with a view to some mercantile business. He was six feet three inches in height, and a man of great muscular power. Family traditions tell of his being attacked by two footpads, and knocking their heads together till they cried for mercy. Another legend asserts that when a friend offered him a pony to carry him home after dinner, he made and won a bet that he would carry the pony. In the year 1752 this young giant was sailing as supercargo of a ship bound from Bordeaux to Scotland, with wine destined, no doubt, to replenish the ‘blessed bear of Bradwardine,’ and its like. The ship had neared the race of Portland, when a storm arose, and she was driven upon the cliffs of Purbeck Island. James Stephen, with four of the crew, escaped to the rocks, the rest being drowned. Stephen roped his companions to himself, and scaled the rocks in the dark, as Lovel, in the ‘Antiquary,’ leads the Wardours and Edie Ochiltree up the crags of the Halket Head. Next day, the outcasts were hospitably received by Mr. Milner, Collector of Customs at Poole. Stephen had to remain for some time on the spot to look after the salvage of the cargo. The drowned captain had left some valuable papers in a chest. He appeared in a dream to Stephen, and gave information which led to their recovery. The news that his ghost was on the look-out had, it is said, a wholesome effect in deterring wreckers from interference with the cargo.

Mr. Milner had six children, the youngest of whom, Sibella, was a lovely girl of fifteen. She had a fine voice, and had received more than the usual education of the times. She fell in love with the gallant young stranger, and before long they were privately married. This event was hastened by their desire to anticipate the passage of the Marriage Act (June 1753), which was expected to make the consent of parents necessary. The poor girl, however, yielded with much compunction, and regarded the evils which afterwards befell her as providential punishments for her neglect of filial duty.

James Stephen was a man of many prepossessing qualities, and soon became reconciled to his wife’s family. He was taken into partnership by one of his brothers-in-law, a William Milner, then a merchant at Poole. Here his two eldest children were born, William on October 27, 1756, and James on June 30, 1758. Unfortunately the firm became bankrupt; and the bankruptcy led to a lifelong quarrel between James Stephen and his elder brother, William, who had taken some share in the business. James then managed to start in business in London, and for some time was fairly prosperous. Unluckily, while at Poole he had made a great impression upon Sir John Webbe, a Roman Catholic baronet, who had large estates in the neighbourhood. Sir John had taken up a grand scheme for developing his property at Hamworthy, close to Poole. Stephen, it seems, had discovered that there were not only brick earth and pipeclay but mineral springs and coal under the barren soil. A town was to be built; a trade started with London; Sir John’s timber was to be turned into ships; a colliery was to be opened and, in short, a second Bristol was to arise in Dorsetshire. Sir John was to supply the funds, and Stephen’s energy and ability marked him out as the heaven-sent manager. Stephen accepted the proposals, gave up his London business, and set to work with energy. Coal was found, it is said, ‘though of too sulphureous a kind for use;’ but deeper diggings would, no doubt, lay bare a superior seam. After a year or two, however, affairs began to look black; Sir John Webbe became cool and then fell out with his manager; and the result was that, about 1769, James Stephen found himself confined for debt in the King’s Bench prison.

Stephen, however, was not a man to submit without knowing the reason why. He rubbed up his old legal knowledge, looked into the law-books, and discovered that imprisonment for debt was contrary to Magna Charta. This doctrine soon made converts in the King’s Bench. Three of his fellow prisoners enjoy such immortality as is conferred by admission to biographical dictionaries. The best known was the crazy poet, Christopher Smart, famous for having leased himself for ninety-nine years to a bookseller, and for the fine ‘Song of David,’ which Browning made the text of one of his later poems. Another was William Jackson, an Irish clergyman, afterwards known as a journalist on the popular side, who was convicted of high treason at Dublin in 1795, and poisoned himself in the dock. A third was William Thompson, known as ‘Blarney,’ a painter, who had married a rich wife in 1767, but had apparently spent her money by this time. Mrs. Stephen condescended to enliven the little society by her musical talents. The prisoners in general welcomed Stephen as a champion of liberty. A writ of ’Habeas Corpus’ was obtained, and Stephen argued his case before Lord Mansfield. The great lawyer was naturally less amenable to reason than the prisoners. He was, however, impressed, it is reported, by the manliness and energy of the applicant. ‘It is a great pity,’ he said, ’but the prisoner must be remanded.’ James Stephen’s son, James, a boy of twelve, was by his side in court, and a bystander slipped five shillings into his hand; but the father had to go back to his prison. He stuck to his point obstinately. He published a pamphlet, setting forth his case. He wrote letters to the ‘Public Advertiser,’ to which Junius was then contributing. He again appealed to the courts, and finally called a meeting of his fellow prisoners. They resolved to break out in a body, and march to Westminster, to remonstrate with the judges. Stephen seized a turnkey, and took the keys by force; but, finding his followers unruly, was wise enough to submit. He was sent with three others to the ‘New Jail.’ The prisoners in the King’s Bench hereupon rose, and attacked the wall with a pickaxe. Soldiers were called in, and the riot finally suppressed.

Stephen, in spite of these proceedings, was treated with great humanity at the ‘New Jail;’ and apparently without much severity at the King’s Bench to which he presently returned. ‘Blarney’ Thompson painted his portrait, and I possess an engraving with the inscription, ’Veritas a quocunque dicitur a Deo est.’ Not long ago a copy of this engraving was given to my brother by a friend who had seen it in a shop and recognised the very strong family likeness between James and his great-grandson, James Fitzjames.

Stephen soon got out of prison. Sir John Webbe, at whose suit he had been arrested, agreed to pay the debts, gave him 500_l._ and settled an annuity of 40_l._ upon Mrs. Stephen. I hope that I may infer that Sir John felt that his debtor had something to say for himself. The question of making a living, however, became pressing. Stephen, on the strength, I presume, of his legal studies, resolved to be called to the bar. He entered at the Middle Temple; but had scarcely begun to keep his terms when the authorities interfered. His letters to the papers and attacks upon Lord Mansfield at the very time when Junius was at the height of his power (I do not, I may observe, claim the authorship of the letters for James Stephen) had, no doubt, made him a suspicious character. The benchers accordingly informed him that they would not call him to the bar, giving as their reasons his ’want of birth, want of fortune, want of education, and want of temper.’ His friend, William Jackson, hereupon printed a letter, addressing the benchers in the true Junius style. He contrasts Stephen with his persecutors. Stephen might not know Law Latin, but he had read Bracton and Glanville and Coke; he knew French and had read Latin at Aberdeen; he had been educated, it was true, in some ‘paltry principles of honour and honesty,’ while the benchers had learnt ‘more useful lessons;’ he had written letters to Wilkes copied in all the papers; he had read Locke, could ’harangue for hours upon social feelings, friendship, and benevolence,’ and would trudge miles to save a family from prison, not considering that he was thereby robbing the lawyers and jailors of their fees. The benchers, it seems, had sworn the peace against him before Sir John Fielding, because he had made a friendly call upon a member of the society. They mistook a card of introduction for a challenge. Jackson signs himself ’with the profoundest sense of your Masterships’ demerits, your Masterships’ inflexible detestor,’ and probably did not improve his friend’s position.

Stephen, thus rejected, entered the legal profession by a back door, which, if not reputable, was not absolutely closed. He entered into a kind of partnership with a solicitor who was the ostensible manager of the business, and could be put forward when personal appearance was necessary. Stephen’s imposing looks and manner, his acquaintance with commercial circles and his reputation as a victim of Mansfield brought him a certain amount of business. He had, however, to undertake such business as did not commend itself to the reputable members of the profession. He had a hard struggle and was playing a losing game. He became allied with unfortunate adventurers prosecuting obscure claims against Government, which, even when admitted, did not repay the costs incurred. He had to frequent taverns in order to meet his clients, and took to smoking tobacco and possibly to other indulgences. His wife, who was a delicate woman, was put to grievous shifts to make both ends meet. Her health broke down, and she died at last on March 21, 1775. She had brought him six children, of whom the eldest was nineteen and the youngest still under four. I shall speak directly of the two eldest. Two daughters were taken in charge by their grandmother Stephen, who was still living in Scotland; while the two little ones remained with their father at Stoke Newington, where he now lived, ran about the common and learnt to ride pigs. James Stephen himself lived four years more, sinking into deeper difficulties; an execution was threatened during his last illness, and he died in 1779, leaving hardly enough to pay his debts.

II. JAMES STEPHEN, MASTER IN CHANCERY

I have now to tell the story of the second son, James, my grandfather, born in 1758. His education, as may be anticipated, was desultory. When four or five years old, he was sent to a school at Vauxhall kept by Peter Annet (1693-1769), the last of the Deists who (in 1763) was imprisoned for a blasphemous libel. The elder Stephen was then living at Lambeth, and the choice of a schoolmaster seems to show that his opinions were of the free-thinking type. About 1767 the boy was sent to a school near his mother’s family at Poole. There at the early age of ten he fell desperately in love with his schoolmaster’s daughter, aged fifteen, and was hurt by the levity with which his passion was treated. At the same period he became a poet, composed hymns, and wrote an epigram upon one of his father’s creditors. He accompanied his father to the King’s Bench Prison, and there Christopher Smart and others petted the lad, lent him books, and encouraged his literary aspirations. During his father’s later troubles he managed to keep up a subscription to a circulating library and would read two volumes a day, chiefly plays and novels, and, above all, the ‘Grand Cyrus’ and other old-fashioned romances. His mother tried to direct him to such solid works as Rapin’s History, and he learnt her favourite Young’s ‘Night Thoughts’ by heart. He had no schooling after leaving Poole, until, about 1772, he was sent to a day school on Kennington Green, kept by a cheesemonger who had failed in business, and whose sole qualifications for teaching were a clerical wig and a black coat. Here occurred events which profoundly affected his career. A schoolfellow named Thomas Stent, son of a stockbroker, became his warm friend. The parent Stents forbade the intimacy with the son of a broken merchant. Young Stephen boldly called upon Mrs. Stent to protest against the sentence. She took a liking to the lad and invited him to her house, where the precocious youth fell desperately in love with Anne Stent, his schoolfellow’s sister, who was four months his senior. The attachment was discovered and treated with ridicule. The girl, however, returned the boy’s affection and the passion ran its course after the most approved fashion. The hero was forbidden the house and the heroine confined to her room. There were clandestine meetings and clandestine correspondence, in which the schoolboy found the advantage of his studies in the ‘Grand Cyrus.’ At last in 1773 the affair was broken off for the time by the despatch of James Stephen to Winchester, where one of his Milner uncles boarded him and sent him to the school. His want of preparation prevented him from profiting by the teaching, and after the first half year his parents’ inability to pay the bills prevented him from returning. He wrote again to Miss Stent, but received a cold reply, signifying her obedience to parental authority. For the next two years he learnt nothing except from his studies at the circulating library. His mother, sinking under her burthens, did what she could to direct him, and he repaid her care by the tenderest devotion. Upon her death he thought for a moment of suicide. Things were looking black indeed. His elder brother William now took a bold step. His uncle and godfather, William, who had quarrelled with the family after the early bankruptcy at Poole, was understood to be prospering at St. Christopher’s. The younger William, who had been employed in a mercantile office, managed to beg a passage to the West Indies, and threw himself upon the uncle’s protection. The uncle received the boy kindly, promised to take him into partnership as a physician, and sent him back by the same ship in order to obtain the necessary medical training at Aberdeen. He returned just in time. James had been thinking of volunteering under Washington, and had then accepted the offer of a ‘book-keeper’s’ place in Jamaica. He afterwards discovered that a ‘book-keeper’ was an intermediate between the black slave-driver and the white overseer, and was doomed to a miserable and degrading life. It was now settled that he should go with William to Aberdeen, and study law. He entered at Lincoln’s Inn, and looked forward to practising at St. Christopher’s. The uncle refused to extend his liberality to James; but a student could live at Aberdeen for 20_l._ a year; the funds were somehow scraped together; and for the next two sessions, 1775-76 and 1776-77, James was a student at the Marischal College. The town, he says, was filthy and unwholesome; but his Scottish cousins were cordial and hospitable, the professors were kindly; and though his ignorance of Latin and inability even to read the Greek alphabet were hindrances, he picked up a little mathematics and heard the lectures of the great Dr. Beattie. His powers of talk and his knowledge of London life atoned for his imperfect education. He saw something of Aberdeen society; admired and danced with the daughters of baillies, and was even tempted at times to forget his passion for Anne Stent, who had sent a chilling answer to a final appeal.

In 1777, Stephen returned to London, and had to take part of his father’s dwindling business. He thus picked up some scraps of professional knowledge. On the father’s death, kind Scottish relations took charge of the two youngest children, and his brother William soon sailed for St. Christopher’s. James was left alone. He appealed to the uncle, George Milner, with whom he had lived at Winchester, and who, having married a rich wife, was living in comfort at Comberton, near Cambridge. The uncle promised to give him 50_l._ a year to enable him to finish his legal education. He took lodgings on the strength of this promise, and resolved to struggle on, though still giving an occasional thought to Washington’s army.

Isolation and want of money naturally turn the thoughts of an energetic young man to marriage. James Stephen resolved once more to appeal to Anne Stent. Her father’s doors were closed to him; but after long watching he managed to encounter her as she was walking. He declared his unaltered passion, and she listened with apparent sympathy. She showed a reserve, however, which was presently explained. In obedience to her parents’ wishes, she had promised to marry a young man who was on his return from the colonies. The avowal led to a pathetic scene: Anne Stent wept and fainted, and finally her feelings became so clear that the couple pledged themselves to each other; and the young gentleman from the colonies was rejected. Mr. Stent was indignant, and sent his daughter to live elsewhere.

The young couple, however, were not forbidden to meet, and found an ally in James Stephen’s former schoolfellow, Thomas Stent. He was now a midshipman in the royal navy; and he managed to arrange meetings between his sister and her lover. Stent soon had to go to sea, but suggested an ingenious arrangement for the future. A lovely girl, spoken of as Maria, was known to both the Stents and passionately admired by the sailor. She lived in a boarding-house, and Stent proposed that Stephen should lodge in the same house, where he would be able both to see Anne Stent and to plead his friend’s cause with Maria. This judicious scheme led to difficulties. When, after a time, Stephen began to speak to Maria on behalf of Stent, the lady at last hinted that she had another attachment, and, on further pressure, it appeared that the object of the attachment was Stephen himself. He was not insensible, as he then discovered, to Maria’s charms. ‘I have been told,’ he says, ’that no man can love two women at once; but I am confident that this is an error.’

The problem, however, remained as to the application of this principle to practice. The first consequence was a breach with the old love. Miss Stent and her lover were parted. Maria, however, was still under age, and Stephen was under the erroneous impression that a marriage with her would be illegal without the consent of her guardians, which was out of the question. While things were in this state, Thomas Stent came back from a cruise covered with glory. He hastened at once from Portsmouth to his father, and persuaded the delighted old gentleman to restore his daughter to her home and to receive James Stephen to the house as her acknowledged suitor. He then sent news of his achievement to his friend; and an interview became necessary, to which James Stephen repaired about as cheerfully, he says, as he would have gone to Tyburn tree. He had to confess that he had broken off the engagement to his friend’s sister because he had transferred his affections to his friend’s mistress. Stent must have been a magnanimous man. He replied, after reflection, that the news would break his father’s heart. The arrangement he had made must be ostensibly carried out. Stephen must come to the elder Stent’s house and meet the daughter on apparently cordial terms. Young Stent’s friendship was at an end; but Stephen felt bound to adopt the prescribed plan.

Meanwhile Stephen’s finances were at a low ebb. His uncle, Milner, had heard a false report, that the nephew had misrepresented the amount of his father’s debts. He declined to pay the promised allowance, and Stephen felt the insult so bitterly that, after disproving the story, he refused to take a penny from his uncle. He was once reduced to his last sixpence, and was only kept afloat by accepting small loans, amounting to about 5_l._, from an old clerk of his father’s. At last, towards the end of 1780 a chance offered. The ‘fighting parson,’ Bate, afterwards Sir Henry Bate Dudley, then a part proprietor of the ‘Morning Post,’ quarrelled with a fellow proprietor, Joseph Richardson, put a bullet into his adversary’s shoulder and set up a rival paper, the ’Morning Herald.’ A vacancy was thus created in the ‘Morning Post,’ and Richardson gave the place to Stephen, with a salary of two guineas a week. Stephen had to report debates on the old system, when paper and pen were still forbidden in the gallery. At the trial of Lord George Gordon (February 5 and 6, 1781) he had to be in Westminster Hall at four in the morning; and to stand wedged in the crowd till an early hour the next morning, when the verdict was delivered. He had then to write his report while the press was at work. The reporters were employed at other times upon miscellaneous articles; and Stephen acquired some knowledge of journalism and of the queer world in which journalists then lived. They were a rough set of Bohemians, drinking, quarrelling, and duelling, and indulging in coarse amusements. Fortunately Stephen’s attendance upon the two ladies, for he still saw something of both, kept him from joining in some of his fellows’ amusements.

In 1781 there came a prospect of relief. The uncle in St. Christopher’s died and left all his property to his nephew William. William at once sent home supplies, which enabled his brother James to give up reporting, to be called to the bar (January 26, 1782) and in the next year to sail to St. Christopher’s. His love affair had unravelled itself. He had been suspended between the two ladies, and only able to decide that if either of them married he was bound to marry the other. Miss Stent seems to have been the superior of Maria in intellect and accomplishments, though inferior in beauty. She undoubtedly showed remarkable forbearance and good feeling. Ultimately she married James Stephen before he sailed for the West Indies. Maria not long afterwards married someone else, and, to the best of my belief, lived happily ever afterwards.

My grandfather’s autobiography, written about forty years later, comes to an end at this point. It is a curious document, full of the strong religious sentiment by which he came to be distinguished; tracing the finger of Providence in all that happened to him, even in the good results brought out of actions for which he expresses contrition; and yet with an obvious pleasure in recalling the vivid impressions of his early and vigorous youth. I omit parts of what is at times a confession of error. This much I think it only right to say. Although he was guilty of some lapses from strict morality, for which he expresses sincere regret, it is also true that, in spite of his surroundings and the temptations to which a very young man thrown upon the London world of those days was exposed, he not only showed remarkable energy and independence and a strong sense of honour, but was to all appearance entirely free from degrading vices. His mother’s influence seems to have impressed upon him a relatively high standard of morality, though he was a man of impetuous and ardent character, turned loose in anything but a pure moral atmosphere.

James Stephen had at this time democratic tendencies. He had sympathised with the rebellious colonists, and he had once covered himself with glory by a speech against slavery delivered in Coachmakers’ Hall in presence of Maria and Miss Stent. He had then got up the subject for the occasion. He was now to make practical acquaintance with it. His ship touched at Barbadoes in December 1783; and out of curiosity he attended a trial for murder. Four squalid negroes, their hands tied by cords, were placed at the bar. A planter had been found dead with injuries to his head. A negro girl swore that she had seen them inflicted by the four prisoners. There was no jury, and the witnesses were warned in ’the most alarming terms’ to conceal nothing that made against the accused. Stephen, disgusted by the whole scene, was glad to leave the court. He learnt afterwards that the prisoners were convicted upon the unsupported evidence of the girl. The owner of two of them afterwards proved an alibi conclusively, and they were pardoned; but the other two, convicted on precisely the same evidence, were burnt alive. Stephen resolved never to have any connection with slavery. During his stay at St. Christopher’s he had free servants, or, if he hired slaves, obtained their manumission. No one who had served him long remained in slavery, except one man, who was so good and faithful a servant that his owner refused to take even the full value when offered by his employer. Other facts strengthened his hatred of the system. In 1786 he was engaged in prosecuting a planter for gross cruelty to two little negroes of 6 and 7 years of age. After long proceedings, the planter was fined 40_s._

A lawyer’s practice at St. Christopher’s was supposed to be profitable. The sugar colonies were flourishing; and Nelson, then captain of the ‘Boreas,’ was giving proof of his character, and making work for the lawyers by enforcing the provisions of the Navigation Act upon recalcitrant American traders and their customers.

Stephen earned enough to be able to visit England in the winter of 1788-9. There he sought the acquaintance of Wilberforce, who was beginning his crusade against the slave trade. Information from a shrewd observer on the spot was, of course, of great value; and, although prudence forbade a public advocacy of the cause, Stephen supplied Wilberforce with facts and continued to correspond with him after returning to St. Christopher’s. The outbreak of the great war brought business. During 1793-4 the harbour of St. Christopher’s was crowded with American prizes, and Stephen was employed to defend most of them in the courts. His health suffered from the climate, and he now saved enough to return to England at the end of 1794. He then obtained employment in the Prize Appeal Court of the Privy Council, generally known as the ‘Cockpit.’ He divided the leading business with Dallas until his appointment to a Mastership in Chancery in 1811.

Stephen was now able to avow his anti-slavery principles and soon became one of Wilberforce’s most trusted supporters. He was probably second only to Zachary Macaulay, who had also practical experience of the system. Stephen’s wife died soon after his return, and was buried at Stoke Newington on December 10, 1796. He was thrown for a time into the deepest dejection. Wilberforce forced himself upon his solitude, and with the consolations of so dear a friend his spirits recovered their elasticity. Four years later the friendship was drawn still closer by Stephen’s marriage to the only surviving sister of Wilberforce, widow of the Rev. Dr. Clarke, of Hull. She was a rather eccentric but very vigorous woman. She spent all her income, some 300_l._ or 400_l._ a year, on charity, reserving 10_l._ for her clothes. She was often to be seen parading Clapham in rags and tatters. Thomas Gisborne, a light of the sect, once tore her skirt from top to bottom at his house, Yoxall Lodge, saying ‘Now, Mrs. Stephen, you must buy a new dress.’ She calmly stitched it together and appeared in it next day. She made her stepchildren read Butler’s ‘Analogy’ before they were seven. But in spite of her oddities and severities, she seems to have been both respected and beloved by her nearest relations.

The marriage probably marked Stephen’s final adhesion to the Evangelical party. He maintained till his death the closest and most affectionate alliance with his brother-in-law Wilberforce. The nature of their relations may be inferred from Wilberforce’s ‘Life and Letters.’ Wilberforce owed much of his influence to the singular sweetness of his disposition and the urbanity of his manners. His wide sympathies interested him in many causes, and even his antagonists were not enemies. Stephen, on the other hand, as Mr. Henry Adams says, was a ‘high-minded fanatic.’ To be interested in any but the great cause was to rouse his suspicions. ‘If you,’ he once wrote to Wilberforce, ’were Wellington, and I were Massena, I should beat you by distracting your attention from the main point.’ Any courtesies shown by Wilberforce to his opponents or to his old friend Pitt seemed to his ardent coadjutor to be concessions to the evil principle. The Continental war, he held, was a Divine punishment inflicted upon England for maintaining the slave trade; and he expounded this doctrine in various pamphlets, the first of which, ‘The Crisis of the Sugar Colonies,’ appeared in 1802.

Yet Stephen owes a small niche in history to another cause, upon which he bestowed no little energy. His professional practice had made him familiar with the course of the neutral trade. In October 1805, almost on the day of the battle of Trafalgar, he published a pamphlet called ‘War in Disguise.’ The point of this, put very briefly, was to denounce a practice by which our operations against France and Spain were impeded. American ships, or ships protected by a fraudulent use of the American flag, sailed from the hostile colonies, ostensibly for an American port, and then made a nominally distinct but really continuous voyage to Europe. Thus the mother countries were still able to draw supplies from the colonies. The remedy suggested in Stephen’s pamphlet was to revive the claims made by England in the Seven Years’ War which entitled us to suppress the trade altogether. The policy thus suggested was soon embodied in various Orders in Council. The first was made on January 7, 1807, by the Whig Government before they left office and a more stringent order followed in November. The last was drawn by Perceval, the new Chancellor of the Exchequer. Perceval was a friend of Wilberforce and sympathised both with his religious views and his hatred of the slave trade. He soon became intimate with Stephen, to whose influence the Orders in Council were generally attributed. Brougham, the chief opponent of the policy, calls ‘War in Disguise’ ’brilliant and captivating,’ and says that its statement of facts was undeniable. I cannot say that I have found it amusing, but it is written with vigour and impressive earnestness. Brougham calls Stephen the ’father of the system’; and, whether the system were right or wrong, it had undoubtedly a great influence upon the course of events. I fear that my grandfather was thus partly responsible for the unfortunate war with the United States; but he clearly meant well. In any case, it was natural that Perceval should desire to make use of his supporter’s talents. He found a seat in Parliament for his friend. Stephen was elected member for Tralee on Fe, 1808, and in the Parliament which met in 1812 was returned for East Grimstead.

Stephen thus entered Parliament as an advocate of the Government policy. His revolutionary tendencies had long vanished. He delivered a speech upon the Orders in Council on May 6, 1809, which was reprinted as a pamphlet. He defended the same cause against the agitation led by Brougham in 1812. A Committee of the whole House was granted, and Stephen was cross-examining one of Brougham’s witnesses (May 11, 1812), when a shot was heard in the lobby, and Perceval was found to have been murdered by Bellingham. Stephen had just before been in Perceval’s company, and it was thought, probably enough, that he would have been an equally welcome victim to the maniac. He was made ill by the shock, but visited the wretched criminal to pray for his salvation.

Stephen, according to Brougham, showed abilities in Parliament which might have given him a leading position as a debater. His defective education, his want of tact, and his fiery temper, prevented him from rising to a conspicuous position. His position as holding a Government seat in order to advocate a particular measure, and the fact that politics in general were to him subsidiary to the one great end of abolishing slavery, would also be against him. Two incidents of his career are characteristic. The benchers of Lincoln’s Inn had passed a resolution ’after dinner’ it was said by way of apology that no one should be called to the bar who had written for hire in a newspaper. A petition was presented to the House of Commons upon which Stephen made an effective speech (March 23, 1810). He put the case of a young man struggling against difficulties to obtain admission to a legal career and convicted of having supported himself for a time by reporting. Then he informed the House that this was no imaginary picture, but the case of ‘the humble individual who now addresses you.’ Immense applause followed; Croker and Sheridan expressed equal enthusiasm for Stephen’s manly avowal, and the benchers’ representatives hastened to promise that the obnoxious rule should be withdrawn. When the allied sovereigns visited London in 1814 another characteristic incident occurred. They were to see all the sights: the King of Prussia and Field-Marshal Bluecher were to be edified by hearing a debate; and the question arose how to make a debate conducted in so august a presence anything but a formality. ‘Get Whitbread to speak,’ suggested someone, ’and Stephen will be sure to fly at him.’ The plan succeeded admirably. Whitbread asked for information about the proposed marriage of the Princess Charlotte to the Prince of Orange. Stephen instantly sprang up and rebuked the inquirer. Whitbread complained of the epithet ‘indecent’ used by his opponent. The Speaker intervened and had to explain that the epithet was applied to Mr. Whitbread’s proposition and not to Mr. Whitbread himself. Stephen, thus sanctioned, took care to repeat the phrase; plenty of fire was introduced into the debate, and Field-Marshal Bluecher had the pleasure of seeing a parliamentary battle.

Whitbread was obnoxious to Stephen as a radical and as an opponent of the Orders in Council. Upon another question Stephen was still more sensitive. When the topic of slavery is introduced, the reporters describe him as under obvious agitation, and even mark a sentence with inverted commas to show that they are giving his actual words. The slave-trade had been abolished before he entered Parliament; but Government was occasionally charged with slackness in adopting some of the measures necessary to carry out the law, and their supporters were accused of preserving ‘a guilty silence.’ Such charges stung Stephen to the quick. ‘I would rather,’ he exclaimed (June 15, 1810), ’be on friendly terms with a man who had strangled my infant son than support an administration guilty of slackness in suppressing the slave trade.’ ‘If Lord Castlereagh does not keep to his pledges,’ he exclaimed (June 29, 1814, when Romilly spoke of the ’guilty silence’), ’may my God not spare me, if I spare the noble lord and his colleagues!’ The Government declined to take up a measure for the registration of slaves which Stephen had prepared, and which was thought to be necessary to prevent evasions of the law. Thereupon he resigned, in spite of all entreaties, accepting the Chiltern Hundreds, April 14, 1815.

Brougham warmly praises his independence, and wishes that those who had spoken slightingly of his eloquence would take to heart his example. Stephen had in 1811 been rewarded for his support of the Orders in Council by a Mastership in Chancery. Romilly observes that the appointment was questionable, because Stephen, though he was fully qualified by his abilities, was not sufficiently versed in the law. His friends said that it was no more than a fair compensation for the diminution of the prize business which resulted from the new regulations. He held the office till 1831, when failing health caused his retirement. He lived for many years at Kensington Gore on the site of the present Lowther Lodge; and there from 1809 to 1821 Wilberforce was his neighbour. His second wife, Wilberforce’s sister, died in October 1816. After leaving Parliament, he continued his active crusade against slavery. He published, it is said, four pamphlets in 1815; and in 1824 brought out the first volume of his ’Slavery of the British West India Colonies delineated.’ This is an elaborate digest of the slave laws; and it was followed in 1830 by a second volume describing the actual working of the system. From about 1819 Stephen had a small country house at Missenden, Bucks. Here he was occasionally visited by his brother-in-law, and a terrace upon which they used to stroll is still known as ‘Wilberforce’s Walk.’ Stephen had a keen love of country scenery and had inherited from his father a love of long daily walks. I record from tradition one story of his prowess. In the early morning of his seventieth birthday, it is said, he left Missenden on foot, walked twenty-five miles to Hampstead, where he breakfasted with a son-in-law, thence walked to his office in London, and, after doing his day’s work, walked out to Kensington Gore in the evening. It was a good performance, and I hope not injurious to his health, nor can I accept the suggestion that the old gentleman may have taken a lift in a pony carriage by which he used to be followed in his walks. He certainly retained his vigour, although he had suffered from some serious illnesses. He was attacked by yellow fever in the West Indies, when his brother William and another doctor implored him to let them bleed him. On his obstinate refusal, they turned their backs in consultation, when he suddenly produced a bottle of port from under his pillow and took it off in two draughts. Next day he left his bed and defended a disregard of professional advice which had been suggested by previous observations. He became a staunch believer in the virtues of port, and though he never exceeded a modest half-bottle, drank it steadily till the last. He was, I am told, and a portrait confirms the impression, a very handsome old man with a beautiful complexion, masses of white hair, and a keen thoughtful face. He died at Bath, October 10, 1832. He was buried at Stoke Newington by the side of his mother. There Wilberforce had promised to be buried by his friend; but for him Westminster Abbey was a fitter resting-place.

The Master and his elder brother had retrieved the fortunes of the family. William returned to England, and died about 1807. He left a family by his wife, Mary Forbes, and his daughter Mary became the wife of Archdeacon Hodson and the mother of Hodson of ‘Hodson’s Horse.’ The Master’s younger brother, John, also emigrated to St. Christopher’s, practised at the bar, and ultimately became Judge of the Supreme Court of New South Wales in 1825. He died at Sydney in 1834. John’s fourth son, Alfred, born at St. Christopher’s, August 20, 1802, was called to the bar at Lincoln’s Inn in 1823, became in 1825 Solicitor-General of Tasmania, in 1839 judge, and in 1843 Chief Justice, of New South Wales. He retired in 1873, and was for a time Lieutenant-Governor of the Colony. He received many honours, including the Grand Cross of the Order of St. Michael and St. George, and a seat in the Privy Council; and, from all that I have heard, I believe that he fully deserved them. He took an important part in consolidating the criminal law of the colonies, and near the end of his long career (at the age of 89) became conspicuous in advocating a change in the law of divorce. The hardships suffered by women who had been deserted by bad husbands had excited his sympathy, and in spite of much opposition he succeeded in obtaining a measure for relief in such cases. Sir Alfred died on October 15, 1894. He was twice married, and had five sons and four daughters by one marriage and four sons and five daughters by the other. One of his sons is a judge in the colony, and I believe that at the period of his death he had considerably more than a hundred living descendants in three generations. He was regarded with universal respect and affection as a colonial patriarch, and I hope that his memory may long be preserved and his descendants flourish in the growing world of Australia. To the very end of his life, Sir Alfred maintained his affectionate relations with his English relatives, and kept up a correspondence which showed that his intellectual vigour was unabated almost to the last.

III. MASTER STEPHEN’S CHILDREN

I have now to speak of the generation which preceded my own, of persons who were well known to me, and who were the most important figures in the little world in which my brother and I passed our infancy. James Stephen, the Master, was survived by six children, of whom my father was the third. I will first say a few words of his brothers and sisters. The eldest son, William, became a quiet country clergyman. He was vicar of Bledlow, Bucks (for nearly sixty years), and of Great Stagsden, Beds, married a Miss Grace, but left no children, and died January 8, 1867. I remember him only as a mild old gentleman with a taste for punning, who came up to London to see the Great Exhibition of 1851, and then for the first time had also the pleasure of seeing a steamboat. Steamboats are rare in the Buckinghamshire hills, among which he had vegetated ever since their invention.

Henry John, the second son, born January 18, 1787, was at the Chancery bar. He married his cousin, Mary Morison, and from 1815 till 1832 he lived with his father at Kensington Gore. A nervous and retiring temper prevented him from achieving any great professional success, but he was one of the most distinguished writers of his time upon legal subjects. His first book, ’Treatise on the Principles of Pleading in Civil Actions,’ originally published in 1824, has gone through many editions both in England and America. Chancellor Kent, as Allibone’s dictionary informs me, calls it ’the best book that ever was written in explanation of the science,’ and many competent authorities have assured me that it possesses the highest merits as a logical composition, although the law of which it treats has become obsolete. The reputation acquired by this book led to his appointment to a seat in the Common Law Commission formed in 1828; and in the same year he became serjeant-at-law. His brother commissioners became judges, but his only promotion was to a commissionership of bankruptcy at Bristol in 1842. In 1834 he published a ‘Summary of the Criminal Law,’ which was translated into German. His edition of Blackstone’s Commentaries first appeared in 1841. It contained from the first so much of his own work as to be almost an independent performance. In later editions he introduced further changes to adapt it to later legislation, and it is still a standard book.

He lived after the Bristol appointment at Cleevewood in the parish of Mangotsfield. He retired in February 1854, and lived afterwards in Clifton till his death on November 28, 1864. I remember him as a gentle and courteous old man, very shy, and, in his later years, never leaving his house, and amusing himself with speculating upon music and the prophecies. He inherited apparently the nervous temperament of his family with less than their usual dash of the choleric. My uncle, Sir George, declares that the serjeant was appointed to a judgeship by Lord Lyndhurst, but immediately resigned, on the ground that he felt that he could never bear to pass a capital sentence. I record the anecdote, not as true (I have reasons for thinking it erroneous), but as indicating the impression made by his character.

The fourth brother, George, born about 1794, was a man of very different type. In him appeared some of the characteristics of his irascible and impetuous grandfather. His nature was of coarser fibre than that of his sensitive and nervous brothers. He was educated at Magdalene College, Cambridge; and was afterwards placed in the office of the Freshfields, the eminent firm of solicitors. He had, I have been told, an offer of a partnership in the firm, but preferred to set up for himself. He was employed in the rather unsavoury duty of procuring evidence as to the conduct of Queen Caroline upon the Continent. In 1826 he undertook an inquiry ordered by the House of Commons in consequence of complaints as to the existence of a slave trade in Mauritius. He became acquainted with gross abuses, and resolved thereupon to take up the cause with which his family was so closely connected. He introduced himself to O’Connell in order to learn some of the secrets of the great art of agitation. Fortified by O’Connell’s instructions, he proceeded to organise the ‘celebrated Agency Committee.’ This committee, headed by Zachary Macaulay, got up meetings and petitions throughout the country, and supported Buxton in the final assault upon slavery. For his services in the cause, George Stephen was knighted in 1838. He showed a versatile ability by very miscellaneous excursions into literature. He wrote in 1837 ‘Adventures of a Gentleman in search of a Horse,’ which became popular, and proved that, besides understanding the laws relating to the subject, he was the only one, as I believe, of his family who could clearly distinguish a horse from a cow. A very clever but less judicious work was the ‘Adventures of an Attorney in search of Practice,’ first published in 1839, which gave or was supposed to give indiscreet revelations as to some of his clients. Besides legal pamphlets, he proved his sound Evangelicalism by a novel called ’The Jesuit at Cambridge’ (1847), intended to unveil the diabolical machinations of the Catholic Church. An unfortunate catastrophe ruined his prospects. He had founded a society for the purchase of reversions and acted as its solicitor. It flourished for some years, till misunderstandings arose, and Sir George had to retire, besides losing much more than he could afford. He then gave up the profession which he had always disliked, was called to the bar in 1849 and practised for some years at Liverpool, especially in bankruptcy business. At last he found it necessary to emigrate and settled at Melbourne in 1855. He found the colonists at least as perverse as the inhabitants of his native country. He wrote a ‘Life of Christ’ (not after the plan of Renan) intended to teach them a little Christianity, and a (so-called) life of his father, which is in the main an exposition of his own services and the ingratitude of mankind. The state of Australian society seemed to him to justify his worst forebodings; and he held that the world in general was in a very bad way. It had not treated him too kindly; but I fear that the complaints were not all on one side. He was, I suppose, one of those very able men who have the unfortunate quality of converting any combination into which they enter into an explosive compound. He died at Melbourne, June 20, 1879.

The Master’s two daughters were Sibella, born 1792, and Anne Mary, whose birth caused the death of her mother in December 1796. Sibella married W. A. Garratt, who was second wrangler and first Smith’s prizeman in 1804. He was a successful barrister and a man of high character, though of diminutive stature. ‘Mr. Garratt,’ a judge is reported to have said to him, ‘when you are addressing the court you should stand up.’ ’I am standing up, my lord.’ ’Then, Mr. Garratt, you should stand upon the bench.’ ‘I am standing upon the bench, my lord.’ He had been disinherited by his father, I have heard, for preferring a liberal profession to trade, but upon his father’s death his brothers made over to him the share which ought to have been left to him. He was for many years on the Committee of the Church Missionary Society, and wrote in defence of Evangelical principles.

His houses at Hampstead and afterwards at Brighton were among our youthful resorts; and my aunt remains in my memory as a gentle, kindly old lady, much afflicted by deafness. Mr. Garratt died in 1858, aged 77, and his wife at the same age on February 7, 1869.

Anne Mary, my other aunt, married Thomas Edward Dicey. He was a schoolfellow and college friend of my father. I may observe, for the sake of Cambridge readers, that, after passing his first year of university life at Oxford, he came to Cambridge ignorant of mathematics and in delicate health, which prevented him from reading hard. In spite of this, he was senior wrangler in 1811 a feat which would now be impossible for a Newton. He was the calmest and gentlest of human beings, and to his calmness was attributable the fact that he lived till 1858, although when he was twenty the offices refused to insure his life for a year on any terms. Those who knew him best regarded him as a man of singular wisdom and refinement. He lived, till he came to London for the later education of his boys, in a small country house at Claybrook, near Lutterworth, and was proprietor of the ‘Northampton Mercury,’ one of the oldest papers in England, founded, I believe, by his grandfather. This Claybrook house was the scene of some of our happiest childish days. My aunt was a most devoted mother of four sons, whose early education she conducted in great part herself. In later years she lived in London, and was the most delightful of hostesses. Her conversation proved her to possess a full share of the family talents, and although, like her sister, she suffered from deafness, a talk with her was, to my mind at least, as great a treat as a talk with the most famous performers in the social art. After her husband’s death, she was watched by her youngest son, Frank, who had become an artist, with a tender affection such as is more frequently exhibited by a daughter to an infirm father. She died on October 28, 1878, and has been followed by two of her sons, Henry and Frank. The two surviving sons, Edward and Albert Venn Dicey, Vinerian professor of Law at Oxford, are both well known in the literary and political world.

I must now tell so much as I know, and is relevant to my purpose, of my father’s life. James Stephen, fourth at least of the name, and third son of the Master, was born January 3, 1789, at Lambeth, during his father’s visit to England. He had an attack of small-pox during his infancy, which left a permanent weakness of eyesight. The Master’s experience had not taught him the evils of desultory education. James, the younger, was, I believe, under various schoolmasters, of whom I can only mention John Prior Estlin, of St. Michael’s Hill, Bristol, a Unitarian, and the Rev. H. Jowett, of Little Dunham, Norfolk, who was one of the adherents to Evangelicalism. The change probably marks the development of his father’s convictions. He entered Trinity Hall, Cambridge, in 1806. At that time the great Evangelical leader at Cambridge was Isaac Milner, the President of Queens’ College. Milner’s chief followers were William Farish, of Magdalene, and Joseph Jowett, of Trinity Hall, both of them professors. Farish, as I have said, married my grandfather’s sister, and the colleges were probably selected for my father and his brother George with a view to the influence of these representatives of the true faith. The ‘three or four years during which I lived on the banks of the Cam,’ said my father afterwards, ’were passed in a very pleasant, though not a very cheap, hotel. But had they been passed at the Clarendon, in Bond Street, I do not think that the exchange would have deprived me of any aids for intellectual discipline or for acquiring literary and scientific knowledge.’ That he was not quite idle I infer from a copy of Brotier’s ‘Tacitus’ in my possession with an inscription testifying that it was given to him as a college prize. He took no university honours, took the degree of LL.B. in 1812, and was called to the bar at Lincoln’s Inn November 11, 1811. His father had just become Master in Chancery, and was able to transfer some of his clients to the son. James the younger thus gained some experience in colonial matters, and ’employed himself in preparing a digest of the colonial laws in general.’ He obtained leave from the third Earl Bathurst, then and for many years afterwards the head of the Colonial Department, to examine the official records for this purpose. In 1813 Lord Bathurst, who was in general sympathy with the opinions of the Clapham sect, appointed James Stephen Counsel to the Colonial Department. His duties were to report upon all acts of colonial legislature. He received a fee of three guineas for each act, and the office at first produced about 300_l._ a year. After a time the post became more laborious. He was receiving 1,000_l._ a year some ten years after his appointment, with, of course, a corresponding increase of work. The place was, however, compatible with the pursuit of the profession, and my father in a few years was making 3,000_l._ a year, and was in a position which gave him as fair a prospect of obtaining professional honours as was enjoyed by any man of his standing. The earliest notice which I have found of him from an outsider is a passage in Crabb Robinson’s diaries. Robinson met him on July 10, 1811, and describes him as a ’pious sentimentalist and moralist,’ who spoke of his prospects ’with more indifference than was perhaps right in a layman.’ The notice is oddly characteristic. From 1814 my father was for nine years a member of the committee of the Church Missionary Society, after which time his occupations made attendance impossible. I have already indicated the family connection with the Clapham sect, and my father’s connection was now to be drawn still closer. On December 22, 1814, he married Jane Catherine Venn, second daughter of the Rev. John Venn, of Clapham.

IV. THE VENNS

My brother was of opinion that he inherited a greater share of the Venn than of the Stephen characteristics. I certainly seem to trace in him a marked infusion of the sturdy common sense of the Venns, which tempered the irritable and nervous temperament common to many of the Stephens. The Venns were of the very blue blood of the party. They traced their descent through a long line of clergymen to the time of Elizabeth. The troubles of two loyalist Venns in the great rebellion are briefly commemorated in Walker’s ‘Sufferings of the Clergy.’ The first Venn who is more than a name was a Richard Venn, who died in 1739. His name occasionally turns up in the obscurer records of eighteenth-century theology. He was rector of St. Antholin’s, in the city of London, and incurred the wrath of the pugnacious Warburton and of Warburton’s friend (in early days) Conyers Middleton. He ventured to call Middleton an ‘apostate priest’; and Middleton retorted that if he alluded to a priest as the ‘accuser,’ everyone would understand that he meant to refer to Mr. Venn. In fact, Venn had the credit of having denounced Thomas Bundle, who, according to Pope, ‘had a heart,’ and according to Venn was a deist in disguise. Bundle’s reputation was so far damaged that his theology was thought too bad for Gloucester, and, like other pieces of damaged goods, he was quartered upon the Irish Church.

Richard Venn married the daughter of the Jacobite conspirator John Ashton, executed for high treason in 1691. His son Henry, born March 2, 1724, made a more enduring mark and became the chief light of the movement which was contemporaneous with that led by Wesley and Whitefield, though, as its adherents maintained, of independent origin. He was a sturdy, energetic man. As a boy he had shown his principles by steadily thrashing the son of a dissenting minister till he became the terror of the young schismatic. He played (his biographer says) in 1747 for Surrey against all England, and at the end of the match gave his bat to the first comer, saying, ’I will never have it said of me, Well struck, Parson!’ He was ordained a few days later, and was ’converted by Law’s “Serious Call."’ While holding a curacy at Clapham he became a friend of John Thornton, father of the better known Henry Thornton. John was a friend of John Newton and of the poet Cowper, to whom he allowed money for charitable purposes, and both he and his son were great lights at Clapham. From 1759 to 1771 Venn was vicar of Huddersfield, and there became famous for eloquence and energy. His ’Complete Duty of Man’ the title is adopted in contrast to the more famous ’Whole Duty of Man’ was as the sound of a trumpet to the new party. For three generations it was the accepted manual of the sect and a trusted exposition of their characteristic theology. Venn’s health suffered from his pastoral labours at Huddersfield; and from 1771 till near his death (June 24, 1797) he was rector of Yelling, in Huntingdonshire. There his influence extended to the neighbouring University of Cambridge. The most eminent Cambridge men of the day, Paley, and Watson, and Hey, were tending to a theology barely distinguishable from the Unitarianism which some of them openly adopted. But a chosen few, denounced by their enemies as methodistical, sought the spiritual guidance of Henry Venn. The most conspicuous was Charles Simeon (1759-1836), who for many years was the object of veneration and of ridicule for his uncouth eloquence in the pulpit of Trinity Church. Even to my own day, his disciples and disciples’ disciples were known to their opponents as ’Sims.’

John Venn, son of this Henry Venn, born at Clapham in 1759, was brought up in the true faith. He was a pupil of Joseph Milner, elder brother of the more famous Isaac Milner, and was afterwards, like his father, at Sidney Sussex College. Simeon was one of his intimate friends. In 1792 Venn became rector of Clapham; and there provided the spiritual food congenial to the Thorntons, the Shores, the Macaulays, the Wilberforces, and the Stephens. The value of his teaching may be estimated by any one who will read three volumes of sermons published posthumously in 1814. He died July 1, 1813; but his chief claim to remembrance is that he was the projector and one of the original founders of the Church Missionary Society, in 1799, which was, as it has continued to be, the most characteristic product of the evangelical party.’

John Venn’s children were of course intimate with the Stephens. In later life the sons, Henry and John, had a great influence upon my father; Henry in particular was a man of very remarkable character. He was educated by his father till 1813, when he was sent to live with Farish, then Lucasian professor and resident at Chesterton, close to Cambridge. He was at Queen’s College, then flourishing under the patronage of evangelical parents attracted by Milner’s fame; was nineteenth wrangler in 1818, and for a time was fellow and tutor of his college. In 1827 Wilberforce gave him the living of Drypool, a suburb of Hull, and there in 1829 he married Martha, fourth daughter of Nicholas Sykes, of Swanland, Yorkshire. In 1834 he became vicar of St. John’s, Holloway, in the parish of Islington. About 1838 he became subject to an affection of the heart caused mainly by his efforts in carrying his wife upstairs during her serious illness. The physician told him that the heart might possibly adapt itself to a new condition, but that the chances were greatly in favour of a fatal end to the illness. He was forced to retire for two years from work, while his wife’s illness developed into a consumption. She died March 21, 1840. Venn’s closest relations used to speak with a kind of awe of the extraordinary strength of his conjugal devotion. He was entreated to absent himself from some of the painful cérémonials at her funeral, but declined. ‘As if anything,’ he said, ‘could make any difference to me now.’ His own health, however, recovered contrary to expectation; and he resolutely took up his duties in life. On October 5, 1841 he was appointed honorary secretary to the Church Missionary Society, having been on the Committee since 1819, and he devoted the rest of his life to its service with unflagging zeal. He gave up his living of 700_l._ a year and refused to take any remuneration for his work. He was appointed by Bishop Blomfield to a prebend at St. Paul’s, but received and desired no other preferment. He gradually became infirm, and a few months before his death, January 12, 1873, was compelled to resign his post. Henry Venn laboured through life in the interests of a cause which seemed to him among the highest, and which even those who hold entirely different opinions must admit to be a worthy one, the elevation that is, moral and spiritual, of the lower races of mankind. He received no rewards except the approval of his conscience and the sympathy of his fellows; and he worked with an energy rarely paralleled by the most energetic public servant. His labours are described in a rather shapeless book to which I may refer for full details. But I must add a few words upon his character. Venn was not an eloquent man either in the pulpit or on paper; nor can I ascribe him any power of speculative thought. He had been from youth steeped in the evangelical doctrine, and was absolutely satisfied with it to the last. ‘I knew,’ he once said, ’as a young man all that could be said against Christianity, and I put the thoughts aside as temptations of the devil. They have never troubled me since.’ Nor was he more troubled by the speculative tendencies of other parties in the Church. His most obvious mental characteristic was a shrewd common sense, which one of his admirers suggests may have been caught by contagion in his Yorkshire living. In truth it was an innate endowment shared by others of his family. In him it was combined with a strong sense of humour which is carefully kept out of his writing, and which, as I used to fancy, must have been at times a rather awkward endowment. The evangelical party has certain weaknesses to which, so far as I know, my uncle contrived to shut his eyes. The humour, however, was always bubbling up in his talk, and combined as it was with invariable cheeriness of spirit, with a steady flow of the strongest domestic affection, and with a vigorous and confident judgment, made him a delightful as well as an impressive companion. Although outside of the paths which lead to preferment or to general reputation, he carried a great weight in all the counsels of his party. His judgment, no doubt, entitled him to their respect. Though a most devoted clergyman, he had some of the qualities which go to make a thoroughly trustworthy lawyer. He was a marked exception to the famous observation of Clarendon that ’the clergymen understand the least, and take the worst measure of human affairs of all mankind that can write and read.’ Henry Venn’s example showed that the clergyman’s gown need not necessarily imply disqualification for a thorough man of business. He was a man to do thoroughly whatever he undertook. ’What a mercy it is,’ said his sister Emelia, ’that Henry is a good man, for good or bad he could never repent.’

His younger brother, John, was a man of much less intellectual force but of singular charm of character. In 1833 he became incumbent of a church at Hereford in the gift of the Simeon trustees, and lived there till his death in 1890, having resigned his living about 1870. He had the simplicity of character of a Dr. Primrose, and was always overflowing with the kindliest feelings towards his relatives and mankind in general. His enthusiasm was, directed not only to religious ends but to various devices for the physical advantage of mankind. He set up a steam corn mill in Hereford, which I believe worked very successfully for the supply of pure flour to his parishioners, and he had theories about the production of pigs and poultry upon which he could dilate with amusing fervour. He showed his principles in a public disputation with a Roman Catholic priest at Hereford. I do not know that either of them converted anybody; but John Venn’s loveableness was not dependent upon dialectical ability. He was accepted, I may say, as the saint of our family; and Aylstone Hill, Hereford, where he lived with his unmarried sister Emelia, (a lady who in common sense and humour strongly resembled her brother Henry), was a place of pilgrimage to which my father frequently resorted, and where we all found a model of domestic happiness.

The youngest sister, Caroline, married the Rev. Ellis Batten, a master at Harrow School. He died young in 1830, and she was left with two daughters, the elder of whom, now Mrs. Russell Gurney, survives, and was in early years one of the most familiar members of our inner home circle.

I must now speak of my mother. ‘In one’s whole life,’ says Gray, ’one can never have any more than a single mother’ a trite observation, he adds, which yet he never discovered till it was too late. Those who have made the same discovery must feel also how impossible it is to communicate to others their own experience, and indeed how painful it is even to make the attempt. Almost every man’s mother, one is happy to observe, is the best of mothers. I will only assert what I could prove by evidence other than my own impressions. My mother, then, must have been a very handsome young woman. A portrait not a very good one shows that she had regular features and a fine complexion, which she preserved till old age. Her beauty was such as implies a thoroughly good constitution and unbroken health. She was too a rather romantic young lady. She knew by heart all such poetry as was not excluded from the sacred common; she could repeat Cowper and Wordsworth and Campbell and Scott, and her children learnt the ‘Mariners of England’ and the ‘Death of Marmion’ from her lips almost before they could read for themselves. She accepted, of course, the religious opinions of her family, but in what I may call a comparatively mild form. If she had not the humour of her brother Henry and her sister Emelia, she possessed an equal amount of common sense. Her most obvious characteristic as I knew her was a singular serenity, which indicated a union of strong affection and sound judgment with an entire absence of any morbid tendencies. Her devotion to her husband and children may possibly have influenced her estimate of their virtues and talents. But however strong her belief in them, it never betrayed her to partiality of conduct. We were as sure of her justice as of her affection. Her servants invariably became attached to her. Our old nurse, Elizabeth Francis, lived with us for forty-three years, and her death in 1865 was felt as a deep family sorrow. The quaint Yorkshire cook, whose eccentricities had given trouble and whose final parting had therefore been received with equanimity on the eve of a journey abroad, was found calmly sitting in our kitchen when we returned, and announcing, truly as it turned out, that she proposed to stay during the rest of my mother’s life. But this domestic loyalty was won without the slightest concession of unusual privileges. Her characteristic calmness appeared in another way. She suffered the heaviest of blows in the death of her husband, after forty-five years of unbroken married happiness, and of her eldest son. On both occasions she recovered her serenity and even cheerfulness with marked rapidity, not certainly from any want of feeling, but from her constitutional incapacity for dwelling uselessly upon painful emotions. She had indeed practised cheerfulness as a duty in order to soothe her husband’s anxieties, and it had become part of her character. The moral equilibrium of her nature recovered itself spontaneously as wounds cure by themselves quickly in thoroughly sound constitutions. She devoted her spare time in earlier years and almost her whole time in later life to labours among the poor, but was never tempted to mere philanthropic sentimentalism. A sound common sense, in short, was her predominant faculty; and, though her religious sentiments were very strong and deep, she was so far from fanatical that she accepted with perfect calmness the deviations of her children from the old orthodox faith. My brother held, rightly as I think, that he inherited a large share of these qualities. To my father himself, the influence of such a wife was of inestimable value. He, the most nervous, sensitive of men, could always retire to the serene atmosphere of a home governed by placid common sense and be soothed by the gentlest affection. How necessary was such a solace will soon be perceived.

V. JAMES STEPHEN, COLONIAL UNDER-SECRETARY

The young couple began prosperously enough. My father’s business was increasing; and after the peace they spent some summer vacations in visits to the continent. They visited Switzerland, still unhackneyed, though Byron and Shelley were celebrating its charms. Long afterwards I used to hear from my mother of the superlative beauties of the Wengern Alp and the Staubbach (though she never, I suspect, read ’Manfred’), and she kept up for years a correspondence with a monk of the hospital on the St. Bernard. Her first child, Herbert Venn Stephen, was born September 30, 1822; and about this time a change took place in my father’s position. He had a severe illness, caused, it was thought, by over-work. He had for a time to give up his chancery business and then to consider whether he should return to it and abandon the Colonial Office, or give up the bar to take a less precarious position now offered to him in the office. His doubts of health and his new responsibilities as a father decided him. On January 25, 1825, he was appointed Counsel to the Colonial Office, and on August 2 following Counsel to the Board of Trade, receiving 1,500_l._ a year for the two offices, and abandoning his private practice. A daughter, Frances Wilberforce, was born on September 8, 1824, but died on July 22 following. A quaint portrait in which she is represented with her elder brother, in a bower of roses, is all that remains to commemorate her brief existence. For some time Herbert was an only son; and a delicate constitution made his education very difficult. My father hit upon the most successful of several plans for the benefit of his children when, at the beginning of 1829, he made arrangements under which Frederick Waymouth Gibbs became an inmate of our family in order to give my brother a companion. Although this plan was changed three years later, Frederick Gibbs became, as he has ever since remained, a kind of adopted brother to us, and was in due time in the closest intimacy with my brother James Fitzjames.

After his acceptance of the permanent appointment my father’s energies were for twenty-two years devoted entirely to the Colonial Office. I must dwell at some length upon his character and position, partly for his sake and partly because it is impossible without understanding them to understand my brother’s career.

My brother’s whole life was profoundly affected, as he fully recognised, by his father’s influence. Fitzjames prefixed a short life of my father to a posthumous edition of the ‘Essays in Ecclesiastical Biography.’ The concluding sentence is significant of the writer’s mood. ’Of Sir James Stephen’s private life and character,’ he says, ’nothing is said here, as these are matters with which the public has no concern, and on which the evidence of his son would not be impartial.’ My brother would, I think, have changed that view in later years. I, at any rate, do not feel that my partiality, whatever it may be, is a disqualification for attempting a portrait. And, though the public may have no right to further knowledge, I think that such part of the public as reads these pages may be the better for knowing something more of a man of whom even a son may say that he was one of the conspicuously good and able men of his generation.

The task, however, is no easy one. His character, in the first place, is not one to be defined by a single epithet. ‘Surely,’ said his friend Sir Henry Taylor to him upon some occasion, ’the simple thing to do is so and so.’ He answered doubtfully, adding, ’The truth is I am not a simple man.’ ‘No,’ said Taylor, ’you are the most composite man that I have met with in all my experience of human nature.’ Taylor entered the Colonial Office in the beginning of 1824, and soon formed an intimate and lifelong friendship with his colleague. His autobiography contains some very vivid records of the impression made by my father’s character upon a very fine observer in possession of ample opportunities for knowledge. It does something, though less than I could wish, to diminish another difficulty which encounters me. My father’s official position necessarily throws an impenetrable veil over the work to which his main energies were devoted. His chief writings were voluminous and of great practical importance: but they repose in the archives of the Colonial Office; and even such despatches of his as have seen the light are signed by other names, and do not necessarily represent his opinions. ‘The understanding,’ says my brother in the ‘Life,’ ’upon which permanent offices in the civil service of the Crown are held is that those who accept them shall give up all claim to personal reputation on the one hand and be shielded from personal responsibility on the other.’ Of this compact, as Fitzjames adds, neither my father nor his family could complain. His superiors might sometimes gain credit or incur blame which was primarily due to the adoption of his principles. He was sometimes attacked, on the other hand, for measures attributed to his influence, but against which he had really protested, although he was precluded from any defence of his conduct. To write the true history of our colonial policy in his time would be as much beyond my powers as it is outside my purpose; to discriminate his share in it would probably be now impossible for anyone. I can only take a few hints from Sir Henry Taylor and from my brother’s account which will sufficiently illustrate some of my father’s characteristics.

‘For a long period,’ says Taylor, ’Stephen might better have been called the “Colonial Department” itself than “Counsel to the Colonial Department."’ During Lord Glenelg’s tenure of office (1835-1839), and for many years before and after, ’he literally ruled the Colonial empire.’ This involved unremitting labour. Taylor observes that Stephen ‘had an enormous appetite for work,’ and ’rather preferred not to be helped. I,’ he adds, humorously, ’could make him perfectly welcome to any amount of it.’ For years he never left London for a month, and, though in the last five years preceding his retirement in 1847, he was absent for rather longer periods, he took a clerk with him and did business in the country as regularly as in town.

His duties were of the most various kind. The colonies, as my brother observes, were a collection of states varying from youthful nations like Canada down to a small settlement of Germans on the rock of Heligoland; their populations differed in race, laws, religion, and languages; the authority of the Crown varied from absolute power over an infant settlement to supremacy over communities in some essential respects independent. My father’s duty was to be familiar with every detail of these complicated relations, to know the state of parties and local politics in each colony, and to be able to advise successive Secretaries of State who came without special preparation to the task. He had to prepare drafts of all important despatches and of the numerous Acts of Parliament which were required during a period of rapid and important changes. ‘I have been told,’ says my brother, elsewhere, that ’he was a perfectly admirable Under-Secretary of State, quick, firm, courageous, and a perfect master of his profession and of all the special knowledge which his position required, and which, I believe, no other man in England possessed to anything like the same extent.’

A man of long experience, vast powers of work, and decided views naturally obtained great influence with his superiors; and that such an influence was potent became generally believed among persons interested in and often aggrieved by the policy of the Government. Stephen was nicknamed as ‘King Stephen,’ or ‘Mr. Over-Secretary Stephen,’ or ’Mr. Mother-Country Stephen.’ The last epithet, attributed to Charles Buller, meant that when the colonies were exhorted to pay allegiance to the mother country they were really called upon to obey the irrepressible Under-Secretary. I dimly divine, though I am not much of a politician, that there is an advantage in criticising the permanent official in a department. He cannot answer an attack upon him, and it is also an attack upon the superior who has yielded to his influence. At any rate, though my father received the warmest commendation from his official superiors, he acquired a considerable share of unpopularity. For this there were other reasons, of which I shall presently speak.

Little as I can say of the details of this policy in which he was concerned, there are one or two points of which I must speak. My father had accepted the appointment, according to Taylor, partly with the view of gaining an influence upon the slavery question. In this, says Taylor, he was eminently successful, and his success raised the first outcry against him. His family and friends were all, as I have shown, deeply engaged in the anti-slavery agitation. As an official he could of course take no part in such action, and his father had to give solemn assurances that the son had given him no information. But the power of influencing the Government in the right direction was of equal importance to the cause. The elaborate Act, still in force, by which previous legislation against the slave trade was finally consolidated and extended was passed in 1824 (5 George IV. ca. It was drawn by my father and dictated by him in one day and at one sitting. It fills twenty-three closely printed octavo pages. At this time the Government was attempting to adopt a middle course between the abolitionists and the planters by passing what were called ’meliorating Acts,’ Acts, that is, for improving the treatment of the slaves. The Colonial Assemblies declined to accept the proposals. The Colonial Office remonstrated, obtained reports and wrote despatches, pointing out any abuses discovered: the despatches were laid before Parliament and republished by Zachary Macaulay in the ‘Anti-slavery Reporter.’ Agitation increased. An insurrection of slaves in Jamaica in 1831, cruelly suppressed by the whites, gave indirectly a death blow to slavery. Abolition, especially after the Reform Bill, became inevitable, but the question remained whether the grant of freedom should be immediate or gradual, and whether compensation should be granted to the planters. The problem had been discussed by Stephen, Taylor, and Lord Howick, afterwards Earl Grey (1802-1894), and various plans had been considered. In March 1833, however, Mr. Stanley, afterwards Lord Derby, became head of the Colonial Office; and the effect was at first to reduce Stephen and Taylor to their ‘original insignificance.’ They had already been attacked in the press for taking too much upon themselves, and Stanley now prepared a measure without their assistance. He found that he had not the necessary experience for a difficult task, and was soon obliged to have recourse to Stephen, who prepared the measure which was finally passed. The delay had made expedition necessary if slavery was not to continue for another year. My father received notice to draw the Act on Saturday morning. He went home and completed his task by the middle of the day on Monday. The Act (3 & 4 William IV. contains sixty-six sections, fills twenty-six pages in the octavo edition of the Statute-book, and creates a whole scheme of the most intricate and elaborate kind. The amanuensis to whom it was dictated used to tell the story as an illustration of his own physical powers. At that time, as another clerk in the office tells my brother, ’it was no unusual thing for your father to dictate before breakfast as much as would fill thirty sides of office folio paper,’ equal to about ten pages of the ’Edinburgh Review,’ The exertion, however, in this instance was exceptional: only upon one other occasion did my father ever work upon a Sunday; it cost him a severe nervous illness and not improbably sowed the seed of later attacks.

I can say little of my father’s action in later years. On September 17, 1834, he was appointed to the newly created office of Assistant Under-Secretary of State. He had, says Taylor, for many years done the work of the Under-Secretary, and he objected to doing it any longer on the same terms. The Under-Secretary complained to Lord Melbourne that his subordinate desired to supplant him, and got only the characteristic reply, ’It looks devilishly like it.’ In 1836 he had to retire, and my father became Under-Secretary in his place, with a salary of 2,000_l._ a year, on February 4 of that year, and at the same time gave up his connection with the Board of Trade. He was actively concerned in the establishment of responsible government in Canada. The relations with that colony were, as my brother says, ’confused and entangled in every possible way by personal and party questions at home and by the violent dissensions which existed in Canada itself.’ The difficulty was aggravated, he adds, by the fact that my father, whatever his personal influence, had no authority whatever; and although his principles were ultimately adopted he had constantly to take part in measures which he disapproved. ‘Stephen’s opinions,’ says Taylor, ’were more liberal than those of most of his chiefs, and at one period he gave more power than he intended to a Canadian Assembly from placing too much confidence in their intentions.’ Upon this matter, however, Taylor admits that he was not fully informed. I will only add that my father appears to have shared the opinions then prevalent among the Liberal party that the colonies would soon be detached from the mother country. On the appointment of a Governor-General of Canada, shortly before his resignation of office, he observes in a diary that it is not unlikely to be the last that will ever be made.

I have already noticed my father’s unpopularity. It was a not unlikely result of exercising a great and yet occult influence upon a department of Government which is likely in any case to be more conspicuous for its failures than for its successes. There were, however, more personal reasons which I think indicate his peculiar characteristics. I have said enough to illustrate his gluttony of work. I should guess that, without intending it, he was also an exacting superior. He probably over-estimated the average capacity for work of mankind, and condemned their indolence too unsparingly. Certainly his estimate of the quantity of good work got out of officials in a public office was not a high one. Nor, I am sure, did he take a sanguine view of the utility of such work as was done in the Colonial Office. ‘Colonial Office being an Impotency’ (as Carlyle puts it in his ‘Reminiscences,’ ’as Stephen inarticulately, though he never said or whispered it, well knew), what could an earnest and honest kind of man do but try to teach you how not to do it?’ I fancy that this gives in Carryle’s manner the unpleasant side of a true statement. My father gave his whole life to work, which he never thought entirely satisfactory, although he did his duty without a word of complaint. Once, when advising Taylor to trust rather to literature than to Government employment, he remarked, ’You may write off the first joints of your fingers for them, and then you may write off the second joints, and all that they will say of you is, “What a remarkably short-fingered man!"’ But he had far too much self-respect to grumble at the inevitable results of the position.

My father, however, was a man of exquisitely sensitive nature a man, as my mother warned his children, ‘without a skin,’ and he felt very keenly the attacks of which he could take no notice. In early days this had shown itself by a shyness ‘remarkable,’ says Taylor, beyond all ’shyness that you could imagine in anyone whose soul had not been pre-existent in a wild duck.’ His extreme sensibility showed itself too in other ways. He was the least sanguine of mankind. He had, as he said in a letter, ’a morbidly vivid perception of possible evils and remote dangers.’ A sensitive nature dreads nothing so much as a shock, and instinctively prepares for it by always anticipating the worst. He always expected, if I may say so, to be disappointed in his expectations. The tendency showed itself in a general conviction that whatever was his own must therefore be bad. He could not bear to have a looking-glass in his room lest he should be reminded of his own appearance. ‘I hate mirrors vitrical and human,’ he says, when wondering how he might appear to others. He could not bear that his birthday should be even noticed, though he did not, like Swift, commemorate it by a remorseful ceremonial. He shrank from every kind of self-assertion; and in matters outside his own province often showed to men of abilities very inferior to his own a deference which to those who did not know him might pass for affectation. The life of a recluse had strong attractions for him. He was profoundly convinced that the happiest of all lives was that of a clergyman, who could devote himself to study and to the quiet duties of his profession. Circumstances had forced a different career upon him. He had as a very young man taken up a profession which is not generally supposed to be propitious to retiring modesty; and was ever afterwards plunged into active business, which brought him into rough contact with politicians and men of business of all classes. The result was that he formed a manner calculated to shield himself and keep his interlocutors at a distance. It might be called pompous, and was at any rate formal and elaborate. The natural man lurked behind a barrier of ceremony, and he rarely showed himself unless in full dress. He could unbend in his family, but in the outer world he put on his defensive armour of stately politeness, which even for congenial minds made familiarity difficult if it effectually repelled impertinence. But beneath this sensitive nature lay an energetic and even impetuous character, and an intellect singularly clear, subtle, and decisive. His reasons were apt to be complicated, but he came to very definite results, and was both rapid and resolute in action. He had ’a strong will,’ says Taylor, ’and great tenacity of opinion. When he made a mistake, which was very seldom considering the prodigious quantity of business he despatched, his subordinates could rarely venture to point it out; he gave them so much trouble before he could be evicted from his error.’ In private life, as Taylor adds, his friends feared to suggest any criticisms; not because he resented advice but because he suffered so much from blame.

Another peculiarity was oddly blended with this. Among his topics of self-humiliation, sufficiently frequent, one was his excess of ‘loquacity.’ A very shy man, it is often remarked, may shrink from talking, but when he begins to talk he talks enormously. My father, at any rate, had a natural gift for conversation. He could pour out a stream of talk such as, to the best of my knowledge, I have never heard equalled. The gift was perhaps stimulated by accidents. The weakness of his eyes had forced him to depend very much upon dictation. I remember vividly the sound of his tread as he tramped up and down his room, dictating to my mother or sister, who took down his words in shorthand and found it hard to keep pace with him. Even his ordinary conversation might have been put into print with scarcely a correction, and was as polished and grammatically perfect as his finished writing. The flow of talk was no doubt at times excessive. Taylor tells of an indignant gentleman who came to his room after attempting to make some communication to the Under-Secretary. Mr. Stephen, he said, had at once begun to speak, and after discoursing for half an hour without a moment’s pause, courteously bowed the gentleman out, thanking him for the valuable information which still remained unuttered. Sir James Stephen, said Lord Monteagle to Carlyle, ’shuts his eyes on you and talks as if he were dictating a colonial despatch.’ This refers to a nervous trick of shyness. When talking, his eyelids often had a tremulous motion which concealed the eyes themselves, and gave to at least one stranger the impression that he was being addressed by a blind man.

The talk, however, was always pointed and very frequently as brilliant as it was copious. With all the monotony of utterance, says Taylor, ’there was such a variety and richness of thought and language, and often so much wit and humour, that one could not help being interested and attentive.’ On matters of business, he adds, ’the talk could not be of the same quality and was of the same continuity.’ He gives one specimen of the ‘richness of conversational diction’ which I may quote. My father mentioned to Taylor an illness from which the son of Lord Derby was suffering. He explained his knowledge by saying that Lord Derby had spoken of the case to him in a tone for which he was unprepared. ’In all the time when I saw him daily I cannot recollect that he ever said one word to me about anything but business; and when the stupendous glacier, which had towered over my head for so many years, came to dissolve and descend upon me in parental dew, you may imagine, &c., &c. My brother gives an account to which I can fully subscribe, so far as my knowledge goes. Our father’s printed books, he says, show his mind ’in full dress, as under restraint and subject to the effect of habitual self-distrust. They give no idea of the vigour and pungency and freedom with which he could speak or let himself loose or think aloud as he did to me. Macaulay was infinitely more eloquent, and his memory was a thing by itself. Carlyle was striking and picturesque, and, after a fashion, forcible to the last degree. John Austin discoursed with the greatest dignity and impressiveness. But my father’s richness of mind and union of wisdom, good sense, keenness and ingenuity, put him, in my opinion, quite on the same sort of level as these distinguished men; and gave me a feeling about him which attuned itself with and ran into the conviction that he was also one of the very kindest, most honourable, and best men I ever knew in my whole life.’ From my recollection, which is less perfect than was my brother’s, I should add that one thing which especially remains with me was the stamp of fine literary quality which marked all my father’s conversation. His talk, however copious, was never commonplace; and, boy as I was when I listened, I was constantly impressed by the singular skill with which his clear-cut phrases and lively illustrations put even familiar topics into an apparently new and effective light.

The comparison made by my brother between my father’s talk and his writings may be just, though I do not altogether agree with it. The ‘Essays in Ecclesiastical Biography,’ by which he is best known, were written during the official career which I have described.

The composition was to him a relaxation, and they were written early in the morning or late at night, or in the intervals of his brief holidays. I will not express any critical judgment of their qualities; but this I will say: putting aside Macaulay’s ‘Essays,’ which possess merits of an entirely different order, I do not think that any of the collected essays republished from the ‘Edinburgh Review’ indicate a natural gift for style equal to my father’s. Judging from these, which are merely the overflowing of a mind employed upon other most absorbing duties, I think that my father, had he devoted his talents to literature, would have gained a far higher place than has been reached by any of his family.

My father gave in his Essays a sufficient indication of his religious creed. That creed, while it corresponded to his very deepest emotions, took a peculiar and characteristic form. His essay upon the ’Clapham Sect’ shows how deeply he had imbibed its teaching, while it yet shows a noticeable divergence. All his youthful sympathies and aims had identified him with the early evangelicals. As a lad he had known Granville Sharp, the patriarch of the anti-slavery movement; and till middle life he was as intimate as the difference of ages permitted with Wilberforce and with Thomas Gisborne, the most refined if not most effective preacher of the party. He revered many of the party from the bottom of his heart. His loving remembrance of his intercourse with them is shown in every line of his description, and to the end of his life he retained his loyalty to the men, and, as he at least thought, to their creed. The later generation, which called itself evangelical, repudiated his claim. He was attacked in their chief organ. When some remonstrance was made by his brother-in-law, Henry Venn, he wrote to the paper (I quote from memory), ’I can only regret that any friend of mine should have stooped to vindicate me from any censure of yours’; and declined further controversy.

The occasion of this was an attack which had been made upon him at Cambridge, where certain learned dons discovered on his appointment to the professorship of history that he was a ‘Cerinthian.’ I do not pretend to guess at their meaning. Anyhow he had avowed, in an ‘epilogue’ to his Essays, certain doubts as to the meaning of eternal damnation a doctrine which at that time enjoyed considerable popularity. The explanation was in part simple. ’It is laid to my charge,’ he said, ’that I am a Latitudinarian. I have never met with a single man who, like myself, had passed a long series of years in a free intercourse with every class of society who was not more or less what is called a Latitudinarian.’ In fact, he had discovered that Clapham was not the world, and that the conditions of salvation could hardly include residence on the sacred common. This conviction, however, took a peculiar form in his mind. His Essays show how widely he had sympathised with many forms of the religious sentiment. He wrote with enthusiasm of the great leaders of the Roman Catholic Church; of Hildebrand and St. Francis, and even of Ignatius Loyola; and yet his enthusiasm does not blind him to the merits of Martin Luther, or Baxter, or Wesley, or Wilberforce. There were only two exceptions to his otherwise universal sympathy. He always speaks of the rationalists in the ordinary tone of dislike; and he looks coldly upon one school of orthodoxy. ’Sir James Stephen,’ as was said by someone, ’is tolerant towards every Church except the Church of England.’ This epigram indicated a fact. Although he himself strenuously repudiated any charge of disloyalty to the Church whose ordinances he scrupulously observed, he was entirely out of sympathy with the specially Anglican movement of later years. This was no doubt due in great part to the intensely strong sympathies of his youth. When the Oxford movement began he was already in middle life and thoroughly steeped in the doctrines which they attacked. He resembled them, indeed, in his warm appreciation of the great men of Catholicism. But the old churchmen appealed both to his instincts as a statesman and to his strong love of the romantic. The Church of the middle ages had wielded a vast power; men like Loyola and Xavier had been great spiritual heroes. But what was to be said for the Church of England since the Reformation? Henry Martyn, he says, in the ‘Clapham Sect,’ is ’the one heroic name which adorns her annals since the days of Elizabeth. Her apostolic men either quitted or were cast out of her communion. Her Acta Sanctórum may be read from end to end with a dry eye and an unquickened pulse.’ He had perhaps heard too many sermons. ‘Dear Mother Church,’ he says after one such experience, ’thy spokesmen are not selected so as to create any danger that we should be dazzled by human eloquence or entangled by human wisdom.’ The Church of England, as he says elsewhere (’Baxter’), afforded a refuge for three centuries to the great, the learned, and the worldly wise, but was long before it took to the nobler end of raising the poor, and then, as he would have added, under the influence of the Clapham Sect. The Church presented itself to him mainly as the religious department of the State, in which more care was taken to suppress eccentricity than to arouse enthusiasm; it was eminently respectable, but at the very antipodes of the heroic. Could he then lean to Rome? He could not do so without damning the men he most loved, even could his keen and in some ways sceptical intellect have consented to commit suicide. Or to the Romanising party in the Church? The movement sprang from the cloister, and he had breathed the bracing air of secular life. He was far too clear-headed not to see whither they were tending. To him they appeared to be simply feeble imitations of the real thing, dabbling with dangerous arguments, and trying to revive beliefs long sentenced to extinction.

And yet, with his strong religious beliefs, he could not turn towards the freethinkers. He perceived indeed with perfect clearness that the Christian belief was being tried by new tests severer than the old, and that schools of thought were arising with which the orthodox would have to reckon. Occasional intimations to this effect dropped from him in his conversations with my brother and others. But, on the whole, the simple fact was that he never ventured to go deeply into the fundamental questions. His official duties left him little time for abstract thought; and his surpassingly ingenious and versatile mind employed itself rather in framing excuses for not answering than in finding thorough answers to possible doubts. He adopted a version of the doctrine crede ut intelligas, and denounced the mere reasoning machines like David Hume who appealed unequivocally to reason. But what the faculty was which was to guide or to overrule reason in the search for truth was a question to which I do not think that he could give any distinct answer. He was too much a lover of clearness to be attracted by the mysticism of Coleridge, and yet he shrank from the results of seeing too clearly.

I have insisted upon this partly because my father’s attitude greatly affected my brother, as will be presently seen. My brother was not a man to shrink from any conclusions, and he rather resented the humility which led my father, in the absence of other popes, to attach an excessive importance to the opinions of Henry and John Venn men who, as Fitzjames observes, were, in matters of speculative inquiry, not worthy to tie his shoes. Meanwhile, as his health became weaker in later years, my father seemed to grow more weary of the secular world, and to lean more for consolation under anxiety to his religious beliefs. Whatever doubts or tendencies to doubt might affect his intellect, they never weakened his loyalty to his creed. He spoke of Christ, when such references were desirable, in a tone of the deepest reverence blended with personal affection, which, as I find, greatly impressed my brother. Often, in his letters and his talk, he would dwell upon the charm of a pious life, free from secular care and devoted to the cultivation of religious ideals in ourselves and our neighbours. On very rare occasions he would express his real feelings to companions who had mistaken his habitual reserve for indifference. We had an old ivory carving, left to him in token of gratitude by a gentleman whom he had on some such occasion solemnly reproved for profane language, and who had at the moment felt nothing but irritation.

The effect of these tendencies upon our little domestic circle was marked. My father’s occupations naturally brought him into contact with many men of official and literary distinction. Some of them became his warm friends. Besides Henry Taylor, of whom I have spoken, Taylor’s intimate friends, James Spedding and Aubrey de Vere, were among the intimates of our household; and they and other men, younger than himself, often joined him in his walks or listened to his overflowing talk at home. A next-door neighbour for many years was Nassau Senior, the political economist, and one main author of the Poor Law of 1834. Senior, a very shrewd man of the world, was indifferent to my father’s religious speculations. Yet he and his family were among our closest friends, and in habits of the most familiar intercourse with us. With them was associated John Austin, regarded by all the Utilitarians as the profoundest of jurists and famous for his conversational powers; and Mrs. Austin, a literary lady, with her daughter, afterwards Lady Duff Gordon. I think of her (though it makes me feel old when I so think) as Lucy Austin. She was a brilliant girl, reported to keep a rifle and a skull in her bedroom. She once startled the sense of propriety of her elders by performing in our house a charade, in which she represented a dying woman with a ’realism’ to use the modern phrase worthy of Madame Sarah Bernhardt. Other visitors were occasionally attracted. My father knew John Mill, though never, I fancy, at all intimately. He knew politicians such as Charles Greville, the diarist, who showed his penetration characteristically, as I have been told, by especially admiring my mother as a model of the domestic virtues which he could appreciate from an outside point of view.

We looked, however, at the world from a certain distance, and, as it were, through a veil. My father had little taste for general society. It had once been intimated to him, as he told me, that he might find admission to the meetings of Holland House, where, as Macaulay tells us, you might have the privilege of seeing Mackintosh verify a reference to Thomas Aquinas, and hearing Talleyrand describe his ride over the field of Austerlitz. My father took a different view. He declined to take advantage of this opening into the upper world, because, as he said, I don’t know from what experience, the conversation turned chiefly upon petty personal gossip. The feasts of the great were not to his taste. He was ascetic by temperament. He was, he said, one of the few people to whom it was the same thing to eat a dinner and to perform an act of self-denial. In fact, for many years he never ate a dinner, contenting himself with a biscuit and a glass of sherry as lunch, and an egg at tea, and thereby, as the doctors said, injuring his health. He once smoked a cigar, and found it so delicious that he never smoked again. He indulged in snuff until one day it occurred to him that snuff was superfluous; when the box was solemnly emptied out of the window and never refilled. Long sittings after dinner were an abomination to him, and he spoke with horror of his father’s belief in the virtues of port wine. His systematic abstemiousness diminished any temptation to social pleasures of the ordinary kind. His real delight was in quieter meetings with his own family with Stephens, and Diceys, and Garratts, and above all, I think, with Henry and John Venn. At their houses, or in the country walks where he could unfold his views to young men, whose company he always enjoyed, he could pour out his mind in unceasing discourse, and be sure of a congenial audience.

Our household must thus be regarded as stamped with the true evangelical characteristics and yet with a difference. The line between saints and sinners or the Church and the world was not so deeply drawn as in some cases. We felt, in a vague way, that we were, somehow, not quite as other people, and yet I do not think that we could be called Pharisees. My father felt it a point of honour to adhere to the ways of his youth. Like Jonadab, the son of Rechab, as my brother observes, he would drink no wine for the sake of his father’s commandments (which, indeed, is scarcely a felicitous application after what I have just said). He wore the uniform of the old army, though he had ceased to bear unquestioning allegiance. We never went to plays or balls; but neither were we taught to regard such recreations as proofs of the corruption of man. My father most carefully told us that there was nothing intrinsically wrong in such things, though he felt strongly about certain abuses of them. At most, in his favourite phrase, they were ‘not convenient.’ We no more condemned people who frequented them than we blamed people in Hindostan for riding elephants. A theatre was as remote from us as an elephant. And therefore we grew up without acquiring or condemning such tastes. They had neither the charm of early association nor the attraction of forbidden fruit. To outsiders the household must have been pervaded by an air of gravity, if not of austerity. But we did not feel it, for it became the law of our natures, not a law imposed by external sanctions. We certainly had a full allowance of sermons and Church services; but we never, I think, felt them to be forced upon us. They were a part, and not an unwelcome part, of the order of nature. In another respect we differed from some families of the same creed. My father’s fine taste and his sensitive nature made him tremblingly alive to one risk. He shrank from giving us any inducement to lay bare our own religious emotions. To him and to our mother the needless revelation of the deeper feelings seemed to be a kind of spiritual indelicacy. To encourage children to use the conventional phrases could only stimulate to unreality or actual hypocrisy. He recognised, indeed, the duty of impressing upon us his own convictions, but he spoke only when speaking was a duty. He read prayers daily in his family, and used to expound a few verses of the Bible with characteristic unction. In earlier days I find him accusing himself of a tendency to address ’homiletical epistles’ to his nearest connections; but he scrupulously kept such addresses for some adequate occasion in his children’s lives. We were, indeed, fully aware, from a very early age, of his feelings, and could not but be continuously conscious that we were under the eye of a father governed by the loftiest and purest motives, and devoting himself without stint to what he regarded as his duty. He was a living ‘categorical imperative.’ ’Did you ever know your father do a thing because it was pleasant?’ was a question put to my brother, when he was a small boy, by his mother. She has apparently recorded it for the sake of the childish answer: ‘Yes, once when he married you.’ But we were always conscious of the force of the tacit appeal.

I must not give the impression that he showed himself a stern parent. I remember that when his first grandchild was born, I was struck by the fact that he was the most skilful person in the family at playing with the baby. Once, when some friends upon whom he was calling happened to be just going out, he said, ’Leave me the baby and I shall be quite happy.’ Several little fragments of letters with doggerel rhymes and anecdotes suited for children recall his playfulness with infants, and as we grew up, although we learnt to regard him with a certain awe, he conversed with us most freely, and discoursed upon politics, history, and literature, and his personal recollections, as if we had been his equals, though, of course, with a width of knowledge altogether beyond our own. The risk of giving pain to a ‘skinless’ man was all that could cause any reserve between us; but a downright outspoken boy like my brother soon acquired and enjoyed a position on the most affectionate terms of familiarity. We knew that he loved us; that his character was not only pure but chivalrous; and that intellectually he was a most capable guide into the most delightful pastures.

I will conclude by a word or two upon his physical characteristics. No tolerable likeness has been preserved. My father was rather above middle height, and became stout in later years. Though not handsome, his appearance had a marked dignity. A very lofty brow was surmounted by masses of soft fine hair, reddish in youth, which became almost white before he died. The eyes, often concealed by the nervous trick I have mentioned, were rather deeply set and of the purest blue. They could flash into visibility and sparkle with indignation or softer emotion. The nose was the nose of a scholar, rather massive though well cut, and running to a sharp point. He had the long flexible lips of an orator, while the mouth, compressed as if cut with a knife, indicated a nervous reserve. The skull was very large, and the whole face, as I remember him, was massive, though in youth he must have been comparatively slender.

His health was interrupted by some severe illnesses, and he suffered much at times from headache. His power of work, however, shows that he was generally in good health; he never had occasion for a dentist. He was a very early riser, scrupulously neat in dress, and even fanatical in the matter of cleanliness. He had beautiful but curiously incompetent hands. He was awkward even at tying his shoes; and though he liked shaving himself because, he said, that it was the only thing he could do with his hands, and he shaved every vestige of beard, he very often inflicted gashes. His handwriting, however, was of the very best. He occasionally rode and could, I believe, swim and row. But he enjoyed no physical exercise except walking, a love of which was hereditary. I do not suppose that he ever had a gun or a fishing-rod in his hand.

And now, having outlined such a portrait as I can of our home, I begin my brother’s life.