received from being occupied in his service; and, long after every feeling of tenderness for me had departed, there was hardly a day in which he did not intrust me with some commissionsome music to be transcribed, some drawing to be copied, some extract to be made, or some trinket to be purchased for his sisters. Once, at a ball, the tears started to my eyes on witnessing his attentions to another. Charles perceived my agitation: vanity is as keen of sight as love or jealousy. He left his partner, and came to the chair beside me; and there was a smile of encouragement, a softness of voice, a gentleness of manner, as he sat conversing with me, which discovered the compassionate motive of the action. If, as his excursive fancy fixed itself on some new rival with a longer and a steadier interest, I evinced my apprehension of it, and ventured a remark upon his fickle admiration, he would make light of my suspicion, and leave me with the mournful alleviation of believing that, though I was myself forsaken, another was not loved. But this faint sensibility for my sufferings, this dying echo of his former tenderness, was but of brief duration. Before I had been out two seasons, every trace of peculiar kindness in his manner had gradually worn away, and was succeeded by a heartless familiarity, which had all the intimacy, without any of the affection, of relationship. He became habituated to the presence of my sorrow. He could see the troubled beating of my heart, and feel no sympathy with my afflictions. If I spoke to him of his inconstancy, he heard me without emotion, and answered me with some irrelevant remark. The springs of pity had become exhausted by the duration of my strong and my increasing claims upon them. As it often is with the victim of some mortal and lingering malady, that she is at first attended by all the vigilance of the excited affections, and then less and less anxiously watched, and then becomes neglected for every trivial care or pleasure, till at length the solicitude of her friends and relatives appears to be wearied out, and all apprehension lost in the protraction of her danger-so was it with me. I bore about with me the humiliating consciousness of my unrequited love was capable of--no other feeling than that aching oppression of the heart, which results from the disappointment of our strongest affections. But my sorrow had become a matter of indifference to him by whom it was inflicted, and had no longer any relief to look for from his commiseration. In the meantime, I also had gained a wonderful ascendancy over the exAs Charles, without any consideration ternal indications of my suffering. for my presence, began to talk, as he often would, of his admiration of others, I gradually became inured to the anguish which such themes occasioned, and, without being less alive to the pain, acquired a perfect power of concealing it. I could hear him expatiate on the objects of his versatile admiration, and could even deliberately discuss with him their beauties or their accomplishments. I once saw the miniature of one he loved fall accidentally from his pocket-book; and such a thotained, that I praised the likeness, and rough mastery over myself had I atgave him back the picture. Human nature has a miserable facility in adapting itself to circumstances. It will exist in the dark and airless obstruction of the prison-house. It may be susby degrees be brought to endure any, tained by poisoned aliment. Life may the most aggravated accumulation of afflictions. But, oh! it had indeed been mercy if so severe a discipline had been spared me, and I had fallen in the bloom of my youth, and love, and happiness, as an early tenant of the grave, which I now so long to Occupy. I have forgotten to mention that Lord Botley proposed for me. My father, my brother, my own pride, all urged me to accept him. But I happily escaped the snare into which so very, very many women fall. I declined marrying a man whom I did not love, for the sake of shewing a man whom I do love that I could marry somebody. Thus my youth escaped me. 11 W mkn kwam lava back undergone A grace within his heart hath reigned Which nothing else can bring. Thank God for all that I have gained From that high suffering!" And such may be the case with men. They may derive a grace from the "high suffering” of love, and may have cause to be grateful to Heaven for its infliction. With them, love only takes its place among the other passions which are stirring in their breasts; and it may serve to soften the austerity, to refine the grossness, to stimulate the indolence, to ennoble the selfishness, of their nature. For them the "high suffering" of love may be rich in all the most salutary influences which the soul derives from the discipline of sorrow. But with women the very reverse of this is the case. Love, with its cares and duties, is the only earthly purpose of their existence; and the high suffering of love," the epithet should be changed when applied to them," the deep suffering of love," resulting from its wrongs and its disappointments, tears away from them the only hope of a happiness suited to their nature; their only security of that support in the troubles, of that guidance in the difficulties, and of that defence in the oppressions, of the world, which are rendered indispensable by the weak and dependent constitution of their being. It leaves them in life, without any useful or important business to pursue-with energies wasted, and affections that only exist to torture their possessor. And thus the "high suffering of love" brings no grace, and teaches no good lesson, to them. So, at least, has it been with me; and, unless my observation has deceived me, with innumerable others. My temper has become irritable from the constant oppression of my mind; my voice querulous, from the wearing and incessant anxiety of my heart. All the ordinary amusements, and the little trivial concerns, on which my acquaintance occupy themselves, are to me not merely uninteresting, but annoying and vexatious. There is hardly a word addressed to me, which does not fall upon my ear as an impertinent interruption to the stillness in which all deep feelings delight in investing themselves, and to the abstraction of one overpowering thought. My father. I efforts I have made to conceal my affection from the discovery of the world. He always speaks of me as poor Julia; and always addresses me with a softness of voice which bespeaks commiseration. The other day, on hearing it reported that Charles was going to be married, my father said, "I pity the poor lady; for if she love her husband, she will be doomed to pine away in the bitter consciousness of his indifference. No woman will ever fix him. His affections are restless and desultory. His heart and eye have acquired habits of change. He could not be constant. Besides, from the peculiar popularity of his manners, he is always so secure of obtaining a large portion of the current kindness of society, that he will feel no gratitude for the deep, sincere, and more enduring affection of a wife, because he has never been taught to know the value, by experiencing the want of it. The man who encounters no frowns abroad, will generally be found to entertain a very light appreciation of the smiles that welcome him to his home." When my father said this, I felt conscious that he anticipated the pain which the news of Charles's marriage would have on me, and that his words were meant for my comfort. Yes, I still retain my place in his affections! But all other hearts are estranged from me. The love of my brother is completely chilled. He has found me silent, and believed me sullen. He has seen a constant cloud upon my brow, which no change of time, or scene, or society, has succeeded in dispersing; and, ignorant that there is any cause for my deep-rooted melancholy, he seems to have cast me off from his regards, as one whose disposition is unblest of nature, and with whom his buoyant and sanguine spirit is incapable of any sympathy or communion. "Never ask Julia's opinion," said he, the other morning, when Miss Drummond was consulting me about some arrangements for the evening: never ask Julia's opinion, for nothing ever pleases her. She only exists for the purpose of finding fault, and creating objections. She seems to go about the world with a pair of yellow spectacles eternally upon her nose, and a bitter taste perpetually in her mouth." Miss Drummond laughed, and I How could I? justify myself. Is not the accusation true? The world condemns me as cold and selfish. Early in the last spring, six or seven friends of my brother's called in Brook Street, to arrange with him about forming a boating-club. I was in the front drawing-room when they were announced; but, little thinking that I should overhear any conversation about myself, I escaped into the next room before they entered. I had not been there three minutes, when, as if looking at my picture, one of them said, "I wonder Miss Howard never married." "Married!" exclaimed a second; "she refuses every body. Her heart's as hard as a stone, and as cold as an icicle. She's a perfect petrifaction." "I should not have thought that," said a third. "I should have supposed, from the expression of her countenance, that some sorrow had severely touched her." At this there was a general laugh of derision; and one of the party said, "Her countenance expresses nothing but ill-temper, discontent, and overweening selfishness." "She is a cantankerous old maid," added another, whom I recognised, by his voice, as a man whose attentions I had put a determined check to not six weeks before" she is a cantankerous old maid, fretting and snarling over the loss of her beauty." "How strange it is," observed one of the party, "that Howard's sister should be so unlike himself!"—Thus thought of, thus spoken of, with an incurable grief at the heart, have I not sufficient cause for melancholy? When I am dead-but I am not likely to die-they will know that I am neither cold nor selfish. I have left all I have to Charles.-Thus the fairest portion of my life has been consumed in unprofitable care. The nightshade has wound itself about the roses of my youth, and tainted all their sweetness. What has been the monotonous history of all my days and months for the past eleven years? When we are in the country, and Charles is not resident in the same neighbourhood, my heart is afflicted by the pain of his absence, and by a world of vague and ever-varying jealousies, which spring up to torture me, from my knowledge of his fickleness. When we are in London, and he is also there, he always calls every day upon my brother, and I sit and count the hours till he arrives. Sometimes he only rides up to the door, and summons Edward to the Park; and they depart together without his entering the house. Then I catch a glimpse of him, for a moment, from the window, and am cast back to await the morrow in a state of slow and wearying expectation. And thus my early years have been consumed. which to others is most bright and The period cheerful, has to me been altogether dark and joyless. I only live to long for the moments which bring Charles into my society; and, when he leaves it, to wish away the long and dreary interval that must elapse between his departure and his return. I only live to exchange the aching pain of separation for the keen perception of his indifference-to trample beneath my feet all the flowers of existence-to tear its blossoms open-to cast their leaves upon the winds and to see extended on either side, through the long perspective of the past and of the future, one unvaried scene of utter, hopeless, and miserable gloom. My life has, indeed, been "a blank," as to its external circumstances, but a most troubled history as to the inward workings of the soul. And of how many a woman -of how many a single woman, who, like myself, had her affections sought and gained by one who cared little to retain them,—ay, and of how many a married woman, who pines in the withering sense of the indifference of the husband of her choice and love, may the secret story be perused in the few pages which record the sorrows of the blighted youth of Julia Howard? THE CHURCH AND THE CHARTISTS. WE are no alarmists,-we were never afraid that the constitution would be overturned by the Radicals, or the Church by the Dissenters; but while, on the one hand, we never joined the chorus of croakers, we never thought, on the other hand, that the existing evils might safely be left to themselves. If you had a catarrh, or a boil, which, though threatening no permanent danger, was yet productive of great present inconvenience, you would be justly dissatisfied if the physician under whose care you were placed neglected the relief of the local symptoms; and that, forsooth, because you were in no danger of losing your life. Now this is exactly the condition of the country: there is an eruption-merely a cutaneous eruption-attacking no vital part, but yet, like the North-British violin, causing great annoyance and irritation. The Church, then, being our spiritual physician, we ask, What has the Church been about? We are now to answer this question. The object of a church establishment is to encourage and foster "holiness and pureness of living;" the object of a legal establishment is to prevent and punish crime. This is not the place to enter into a discussion of the question, how much more efficient the Church might be made; we have to examine how far it has made use of its present power: and we think we shall be able to shew that the clergy of our apostolic church have strenuously exerted themselves in stopping the spread of the moral pestilence. Mr. Feargus O'Connor advised the Chartists to go to their parish churches,—not for a continuance, oh, no, that would not have suited his purpose at all-then they would have been shewn how contrary to religion, how prejudicial to their own interests, their practices were, but to go once, to turn out the regular congregation, to annoy the officiating minister, and to evidence their disrespect both for God and man. This sapient advice has been pretty generally followed, and it is probable that there are few Chartists who have not now been once within the walls of a church. The manner in which this feat has been achieved has been for the most part characteristic enough. No one ventured to go alone; ignorant and misguided as they were, they dared not face thus the awful majesty of Religion under her most solemn aspect. They would have been unable to bear the sense of the Divine presence in the house more immediately consecrated to God; and, overcome by the unwonted feelings produced by such a scene, "those who came to scoff might, perhaps, have remained to pray." They came, then, not singly, but in crowds, as little children, who like to be together in the dark; and as the country bumpkin whistles to keep up his spirits when he passes a churchyard, so did these unhappy men smoke pipes and talk aloud to keep up their courage. Under such circumstances, various sermons were addressed to them; and these we purpose to notice, not only as respects the sermons themselves, but as respects the right of the preachers to preach them. It is somewhat remarkable, that none of the new maniacs," have taken upon themselves to advise the people on this important subject. Dr. Pusey spoke out boldly enough once in the pulpit at St. Mary's; but nobody ever feared that Radicalism was making progress in the University of Oxford; and perhaps it is as well that they should say nothing about the matter,- for, with the best intentions, they have marvellously little judgment. Dr. Pusey and his friends are, doubtless, learned men; and if too much learning have made them mad (though ten times the quantity have not had such an effect on Dr. Blomfield or Dr. Kaye, Dr. Turton, Dr. Dealtry, Dr. D'Oyley, or Dr. Whittaker),-if, we say, too much learning have made them mad,-we are not the persons to ridicule their misfortune; certain it is, that none of the sermons addressed to the Chartists have proceeded from the so-called "Oxford divines." With this exception, all the parties into which the Church is unfortunately split have joined in warning their followers of the dangers of disloyalty. Tories, and orthoWhigs, and Whig-Radicals dox and evangelical, and those who are both, and those who are neither one nor the other - Stanley, bishop of Norwich; and Close, of Cheltenham; and Dr. Whittaker, of Blackburn; besides a host of smaller lights, have preached especially to the Chartists and we were rather sur prised to find Stanley coming forward so boldly as he has done. Perhaps his lordship is hardly aware how much credit is due to him; but by the time he has read this paper (and read it of course he will), he will be fully enlightened. We are willing to believe that Dr. Stanley expected, after the power of legislation stupidly called emancipation had been conceded to the Romanists, in consequence of the bullyings and bellowings of O'Connell, &c., that the Papists would remain quiet, and make no attempt to overthrow the Church, whose bulwarks had been thus weakened; that after "reform" had been granted to the vor turbæ, the mob would have made no further use of their sweet voices,-just as a fractious child, to quiet whose roaring you give one apple, never gets up a second roar to obtain another. We are willing to believe that Dr. Stanley expected, even though the temporalities of the Church were given up into the hands of avowed enemies, that she would still have remained intact and inviolate,-like the golden shields of the temple, when King Rehoboam let in the Egyptians. We say we are willing to believe all this, and not only because we would rather consider him inexperienced and shortsighted than deliberately a traitor, but because we really are persuaded that this is the true light in which to regard his conduct. It arose, in a great ineasure, perhaps, from his own frank and unsuspicious temper; he may have supposed that all men were as well disposed as he was himself; and, certainly, since his elevation to the bench, he has given very little occasion "to the enemy to blaspheme." But the Bishop of Norwich has preached a sermon to the Chartists, and a good sermon; and a sermon that has been published, and extensively circulated.* In it he told them that he held very liberal opinions himself (very much so, indeed, my lord, or you would not have subscribed to a volume of Unitarian sermons); but that, notwithstanding these liberal opinions, for which he had met with no small degree of obloquy, he was as far from approving of their riotous conduct and unreasonable demands as any man in the kingdom. This is very right, and very true; but may we ask you one question, my lord bishop? Were you not an active politician yourself, and a partisan of that party which has recourse invariably to agitation? Are you not "verily guilty concerning your brethren,”—ay, almost as much so as Lord John Russell, who one day tells the populace that it is quite right for them to meet together to discuss their grievances,—that he likes to hear of their innocent amusements,that they are a remarkably quiet and well-disposed set of people,-always sing "God save the queen!" after their meetings, and pull off their hats to the rector; and the next day feebly tries to put down, by the butt-end of a proclamation, the very meetings that are so loyal and so laudable? There was a young man at Cambridge, we will not say at what college, who, when being examined at his "little go," was asked, "What is the first proposition that Paley undertakes to prove in his Evidences?" The studious youth remembered that the first words of the book were," I think it unnecessary to prove that mankind stands in need of a revelation ;" and, making a slight mistake, he exclaimed, "Paley says he thinks it is unnecessary to prove that mankind stands in need of a revolu tion." Surely, my lord, you did not read the great philosopher in the same way! Before we touch upon any of the sermons lying before us, we must notice the admirable spirit and temper with which Bishop Stanley behaved towards Archdeacon Bathurst. The latter felt aggrieved, because, having walked in all the ways of his father, the late bishop, his hereditary Whig-Radicalism did not make the see of Norwich an heirloom in the family of Bathurst. He took an early opportunity of interfering, and that, too, in a very ungentlemanlike way, with the episcopal functions of Dr. Stanley; and most mildly and quietly, yet most effectually, did the bishop repress him. On this present occasion, his lordship has flung overboard his consistency, and has done his duty, and done it well, towards the people of his diocess. Let us hear *A Sermon preached in Norwich Cathedral on Sunday, August 18th, 1839. By the Right Reverend the Lord Bishop of Norwich, before an Assemblage of a Body of Mechanics termed Chartists. London, 1839. Printed by permission of his Lord |