else in life, and I was completely miserable.'

'Oh, Emily!'

'Yes, it was misery. Ask for no more details, Ida. I cannot persuade myself to tell them. I feel it all too sharply even now. The change from the dream to the reality, the descent from the supreme felicity to the bitter mortification, the affronts of an insulted wife and the struggle to hide them. That long, great effort, Ida, of concealment, is the secret of what you sometimes call my serene coldness or my cold serenity. It taught me the necessity of a tranquil manner, and with the help of time and habit, the feeling really became tranquil too at last.'

'Emily-you-you so good, so sweet-you ill-used. I cannot bear it, it is horrible. Oh, what a man! -and you had really loved him so much?

'Yes, I had. I had believed it impossible to be happy without him; and yet it was impossible to be happy with him. But, Ida, this is in confidence. I have given up my secret, hoping it might be of use to you. But never allude to it again; promise me-never.'

'I never will-never,' said Ida, tightly pressing her friend's hand while she spoke.

There was another long interval of silence, and then Emily resumed, in her usual calm tones,

'My dear Richard was my best friend. He felt for me. His devotion has been untiring. He has been as obedient as a son to every wish of mine. He has been as kind and considerate as a brother. There cannot be a better man than Richard.' 'Let us go now to Aunt Kitty,' said Ida.

from her mind, every other impression was obliterated under that of the present danger.

Her aunt's devotion, her long indulgence, her life of self-denial, kindness much too often neglected, tenderness much too seldom repaid, an unsparing love, only enough prized now when it was perhaps too late; these were the images that her grief called up, and stamped with the die of remorse.

She longed for action and for some great redeeming service. Was it really too late? Was that dear heart to die now, to die before she knew the loving repentance, the returning grace of gratitude Was life to be so bitter?

How slow

Dr. Enghel arrived. he seemed as he mounted the stairs. What a pity that he was so short breathed, that he so often paused, and how difficult it was civilly to reply to his 'Forgive me, young lady, but I am tired, out of breath, and fat; a phrase that he repeated at every interval of rest. How Ida wondered to see him so composed. so slow, when she felt that one bound could take her from the lowest to the highest of those many steps. But at last he was in the room; at last he was examining the patient, and with altered looks, anxious, attentive, thoughtful. He was clearly not satisfied, but he said little, except that he would come certainly the next day, that Miss Conway must be kept very quiet, that at the slightest change Dr. Berghen must be summoned.

Ida trembled at those words, and with a white face and faltering accents she entreated Dr. Enghel to stay with them himself. I beg, I beg,' she said in German; and the supplication of her eyes, of her sweet tones, of her attitude, was too much for the warm-hearted doctor. He gave way under it, and after some little pretence at resis tance, consented to remain all night.

'Yes, yes, my child; be at rest -never fear. You may make sure of me.'

Emily looked on, and in the midst of her uneasiness she smiled -smiled at that unconscious persuasive charm in Ida which ope

rated so easily upon all who came in contact with her. The good doctor now, under her directions, sat down to write home that he was detained, and a messenger was despatched to Badheim with his note. It was not thought necessary to summon Sir Archibald.

The doctor's presence was in every way useful; not only because it inspired confidence, but because the attentions that were due to him, the little cares for his comfort and the proper civilities, served in a manner to distract the mind from its anxiety; but as evening came on, the pressure of that anxiety increased, for the patient was worse. The doctor's tone became grave, his accustomed facetiousness was forgotten, and his eyes moistened with compassion when he looked on Ida. When night came, Emily, always considerate, begged Dr. Enghel, who had already in the morning complained of fatigue, to go to bed, and to leave to Ida and herself the task of watching, ready to rouse him should any new symptom appear. He was willing enough to consent to this arrangement; but before retiring to rest he took Emily Warburton aside, as if to make some confidence to her. Ida came between them.

'Oh, Doctor, tell me,' said she. 'It is I who must do all for my own auntie: trust me, and I will do all.'

"Thou, poor child! and so thou shalt,' said Dr. Enghel. And he then told her that he expected a crisis early the next morning; it might be at five or six o'clock. If at that time a slight moisture should appear on the skin, he must be called up to administer a draught, and he should do it hopefully; if, on the other hand, no moisture should appear, and if the pulse should beat harder and the breath come heavier, why then he might be called too; but-he saw Ida's face, and dared not finish his sentence. He walked to the window, and looked out; he took out his large red pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he came back to Ida, and said,

'My child, I shall not go to bed;

VOL. LXIII. NO. CCCLXXVI.

481

no, I shall watch with you-I shall not leave you this night.

Ida put her hand in his, trying to thank him; and they entered Miss Conway's room together, there to wait through the night for the expected signal of hope or death. That long night (it seemed infinitely long from the quantity of sensations crowding into it); that dim night (only one feeble light was burning in the room); that silent night (the only sound was the moaning of the sufferer, or the heavy breath from the good doctor when, overwearied, he fell asleep); that solemn, sacred night (sacred as the priestly shrine which accepts the sinner's disclosure, and shrouds it in mercy); how many thoughts it gathered in, poured forth from Ida's trembling soul like propitiatory vows-like sacrifice; how many hot, secret, repentant tears were dropped into that wide vessel of darkness, and how many labouring hearts at the same hour were filling up that great chalice with offerings like hers! This is the wealth of night; these are the mysterious treasures that she hides in her ample bosom-the penitent promise, the longing prayer, the grievous cries of a concealed re

morse.

The hours went on, and the morning's light broke in through the thick curtains of the window, tinged with their yellow hue. The night-taper flickered and died. The doctor slept, but not Ida. Not once had her eyes been veiled in rest; and she crept now to the bedside, and intently watchedwatched for the change-watched for long, and she saw none. She heard the regular ticking of the great clock on the staircase counting out the tedious minutes with her. She heard the impetuous stroke of her own heart's pulse, afraid of its hope-sick with its fear. She saw the object of her devotion stretched out there before her, unknowing of her presence, unknowing of her great love. The patient was in that trance of fever, that dull coma which is the unkind mockery of sleep, and her breathing was marked by uncon

K K

scious moans; but presently the moans diminished, and in the utmost trepidation Ida listened for the coming breath as it came slower, quieter. She stooped close down, she kissed the hot brow, she held in hers the passive hand, and she surely felt-yes, it was no idle fiction of hope she felt-the growing moisture steal over the soft palm. She must wake the doctor; she went to him and whispered in German

'Oh, thou dear, dear DoctorDoctor Enghel! Doctor Enghel !'

He woke immediately, and his senses travelling back at once to the spot where he took leave of them, he replied,

'My child, is it for the draught?' 'I think so. Come and see; oh, Doctor, come!'

She led him to the bedside. He looked, he touched the hand, and he smiled; he took the phial from Ida's hand, poured its contents into a wine-glass, and administered the potion to his patient. Then he turned to Ida, and gave her a look which meant congratulation, which meant a release from the worst apprehension.

Hope comes after fear sometimes with a shock that looks like a sudden sickness; and Ida stood there pale, fixed and speechless,

though she saw and fully understood the face of comfort; but in a little while the gentler emotions found their way, and she sank upon her knees, screening her face with her hands, that the Doctor might not see how she communed with her God, nor the tears that streamed down in her passionate thanksgiving. Nevertheless the physician, good man, knew it all well, and had his own excellent and kindly sentiments of gratitude and sympathy strengthened in this case by the warm personal interest which he felt for Ida. Now that the crisis was past for her aunt, his concern became active for her. He sat and contemplated her quietly till she rose from her knees, and resumed her seat at the foot of the bed, and then he approached her and said in low, distinct tones

See

'Your aunt is sleeping, and you too must sleep. Obey me, my child, and go away to bed. now, I shall as usual set you the right good example, and retire myself. Eugénie will stay here, and in the morning-Miss Ida, in the morning-we shall all rise for our day's work fresh and happy.'

I will obey you,' answered Ida; 'you deserve to be obeyed-indeed you do, you good, excellent doctor!'

1861.]

NE of the most remarkable of

ONE

recent phenomena has been the liberty of thought which the Church of England, ever since the close of the stormy period which succeeded the repeal of the Test Act and the passing of the Catholic Emancipation Bill, has permitted both to her ministers and to her members. There never probably was an ecclesiastical body which, retaining as much spiritual vitality and administering as much spiritual comfort, tolerated such wide differences of opinion on the great theological problems debated by the age. This honourable characteristic broadly distinguishes the National Church from the great majority of dissenting sects. It is difficult for any one who has not interested himself in Dissenting controversies, or at least read Dissenting newspapers, to understand the severity of the moral tutelage to which the orthodox Nonconformist surrenders himself. The laity are so preached at by the preachers, and the preachers so watched by the laity, that continuance in the communion, without the most absolute submission to the current doctrines, would be little less than prolonged torture. It is this stringent superintendence which, quite as much as the social position of the Church of England, explains the constant migration of the more refined and educated Dissenters into the Establishment. The dissident sects do not fall off absolutely in numbers, but they are exclusively recruited from below. It is the constant complaint of their organs that the more opulent among them are always on the point of deserting them. They are, in fact, prisoners escaping from religious servitude into a freer air.

This toleration within the Church of England, which for twenty years seemed to be assured, has been suddenly threatened in the last few months by the panic which followed the appearance of the now famous volume called Essays and Reviews. We do not propose to discuss the theology of the book for a moment; but the liberty of

opinion which seems to be endangered is so infinitely important that no excuse is needed for attempting to discover what are the foundations on which it ultimately rests, and how far they are strong enough to resist such pressure as is now applied to them, and may be applied again in similar eventualities.

We must begin by repudiating the ground assumed by those who assert that toleration within the Church is not really in peril, because the Essayists are only clamoured against as clergymen. It is to be feared that this argument proceeds from persons who in their hearts despise the panic, but wish to have a pretext for joining in it. If laymen had written the book, they urge, we should have nothing to say against it, but it is scandalous that it should be published by clergymen. It ought to be carefully remarked that, so long as the law of the Church of England remains unaltered, the Essayists have a complete case against those who make their clerical character the gravamen of the charge against them. They might reply, if they chose, that they are clergymen because they cannot help it. The ingenious writer who observes that Mr. Goodwin is a layman, and that Mr. Jowett and Dr. Williams might recover their liberty in a moment if they chose, simply states-doubtless without knowing it-what is not true. Holy orders are still indelible, chiefly owing to the obstinate resistance offered to a change in the law by the very bishops who are at a loss to understand' the moral condition of men who retain the quality of clergymen while publishing Essays and Reviews. A man who cannot get rid of his orders is fully justified in retaining his preferment, whatever be his opinions. The right to share in the temporalities of the Establishment is only a partial compensation for the heavy disabilities which the indelibility of orders carries with it-disabilities which consist not only in annoyances to feeling, but in an absolute disqualification for

several of the callings which English gentlemen naturally follow. A clergyman cannot, for example, be called to the Bar. We see no escape from the conclusion that, even if the Essayists were conscious of disagreeing with the doctrine of the Church, they would at present be justified not only in performing the secular or semi-secular functions which some of them discharge, but in undertaking the pastoral care of parishes and congregations, so long as they felt themselves morally equal to the administration of spiritual comfort and advice.

But the Essayists, it is notorious, have no wish to abdicate their position in the Church. They claim liberty for themselves, as clergymen. The laity, we think, are deeply interested in seconding their claim. Very much of that which is most valuable and characteristic in national sentiment may be traced to the circumstance that English clergymen are in all essential respects laymen; and in fact, so far as doctrinal standards are concerned, the theory of the National Church makes no distinction between clergy and laity, except in the frequency and publicity of the adhesion required from the former. But, whatever be the theoretical distinction, nothing can exceed the practical importance of refusing to erect a barrier between the nation and its spiritual monitors. Everybody must see that the practical amount of liberty of thought in the community depends on the liberality of the clergy. They include a remarkable proportion of the educated and thinking class. Their opinions are those which pass almost unaltered into the minds of the young and of the other sex; while even full-grown lay Englishmen are mostly too busy in the pursuit of wealth or political distinction to pay much attention to the interests of speculative inquiry. Like the English soldier, the English public expects to have its spiritual food cooked in the barrackkettle, and breaks down miserably ⚫ when called upon to prepare its own theology for its own use. If

the laity could really be induced to separate their own case from that of the clergy, and to join in tying up clergymen to a narrow system of dogmatic belief, they would be doing their best to assure and perpetuate their own mental servitude.

The adversaries of a heretical work written by clergymen are able to bring three instrumentalities to bear against its authors. They can set the law in motion to punish them; they can get them condemned by corporate or synodical authority; and they can refute them. It is worth while considering how far these agencies can be employed against the Essays and Reviews, and what are likely to be the effects of employing them. First, then, as to the law. Up to the moment at which we write, it seems to be conceded universally that the law cannot touch the Essayists: they have committed no ecclesiastical offence. Those who allow this do not seem fully alive to the seriousness of their admission. What is there which binds an English clergyman to hold more than the law presumes him to hold? What moral obligation to use the words of one of the Essayists-is created by subscription to the Articles, above and beyond the legal duty? Any one who will go a little deeply into the matter must see that immense difficulty attends the whole subject of written doctrinal standards. Except by divine commission, how can one age pretend to bind another to propositions on matters of belief? Modes of thought alter, language loses its meaning, new aspects emerge even of positions which are not themselves substantially changed. Amid the multitude of grave perplexities which press upon the member of a religious society in which such an attempt has actually been made, what guidance can possibly be followed but that of the law? Once go beyond it, and almost insoluble problems present themselves to the unassisted judgment. Those who pretend that the Essayists have protected themselves from legal interference by 'caution' and 'cloudi