They place him where he belongs,
in that "small transfigured band the world cannot tame," - the
world of Cranmer, Jeremy Taylor, Robertson, Arnold, Maurice.
in that "small transfigured band the world cannot tame," - the
world of Cranmer, Jeremy Taylor, Robertson, Arnold, Maurice.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v04 - Bes to Bro
"
"It is not my fault that I cannot eat or rest," he replied.
"I assure you it is through no settled designs. I'll do both as
soon as I possibly can. But you might as well bid a man strug-
gling in the water rest within arm's-length of the shore! I must
reach it first, and then I'll rest. Well, never mind Mr. Green;
as to repenting of my injustices, I've done no injustice, and I
repent of nothing. I'm too happy, and yet I'm not happy
enough. My soul's bliss kills my body, but does not satisfy
itself. "
(
If you
«<
Happy, master? " I cried. Strange happiness!
would hear me without being angry, I might offer some advice
that would make you happier. "
"What is that? " he asked. "Give it. "
"You are aware, Mr. Heathcliff," I said, "that from the time
you were thirteen years old you have lived a selfish, unchristian
life: and probably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all
that period. You must have forgotten the contents of the book,
and you may not have space to search it now. Could it be hurt-
ful to send for some one-
it does not matter which -to explain it, and show you how
very far you have erred from its precepts, and how unfit you
will be for its heaven, unless a change takes place before you
die? "
some minister of any denomination,
-
―
## p. 2413 (#615) ###########################################
BRONTÉ SISTERS
2413
"I'm rather obliged than angry, Nelly," he said, “for you
remind me of the manner that I desire to be buried in. It is
to be carried to the churchyard in the evening. You and Hare-
ton may, if you please, accompany me—and mind, particularly,
to notice that the sexton obeys my directions concerning the two
coffins! No minister need come; nor need anything be said over
me. I tell you, I have nearly attained my heaven; and that of
others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me! "
"And supposing you persevered in your obstinate fast, and
died by that means, and they refused to bury you in the pre-
cincts of the kirk? " I said, shocked at his godless indifference.
"How would you like it? "
"They won't do that," he replied; "if they did, you must
have me removed secretly; and if you neglect it, you shall prove
practically that the dead are not annihilated! "
As soon as he heard the other members of the family stir-
ring, he retired to his den, and I breathed freer. But in the
afternoon, while Joseph and Hareton were at their work, he
came into the kitchen again, and with a wild look bid me come
and sit in the house-he wanted somebody with him.
I declined, telling him plainly that his strange talk and man-
ner frightened me, and I had neither the nerve nor the will to
be his companion alone.
"I believe you think me a fiend! " he said, with his dismal
laugh; "something too horrible to live under a decent roof! "
Then turning to Catherine, who was there, and who drew
behind me at his approach, he added, half sneeringly:-
"Will you come, chuck? I'll not hurt you. No! to you I've
made myself worse than the devil. Well, there is one who won't
shrink from my company! By God! she's relentless. Oh, damn
it! It's unutterably too much for flesh and blood to bear, even
mine. "
He solicited the society of no one more. At dusk he went
into his chamber. Through the whole night, and far into the
morning, we heard him groaning and murmuring to himself.
Hareton was anxious to enter, but I bid him fetch Mr. Kenneth,
and he should go in and see him.
When he came, and I requested admittance and tried to open
the door, I found it locked; and Heathcliff bid us be damned.
He was better, and would be left alone; so the doctor went
away
## p. 2414 (#616) ###########################################
BRONTE SISTERS
2414
The following evening was very wet; indeed, it poured down
till day-dawn; and as I took my morning walk round the house,
I observed the master's window swinging open, and the rain
driving straight in.
"He cannot be in bed," I thought: "those showers would
drench him through! He must be either up or out. But I'll
make no more ado; I'll go boldly, and look! "
―
Having succeeded in obtaining entrance with another key, I
ran to unclose the panels, for the chamber was vacant - quickly
pushing them aside, I peeped in. Mr. Heathcliff was there—
laid on his back. His eyes met mine, so keen and fierce that I
started; and then he seemed to smile.
I could not think him dead-but his face and throat were
washed with rain; the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly
still. The lattice, flapping to and fro, had grazed one hand that
rested on the sill-no blood trickled from the broken skin, and
when I put my fingers to it I could doubt no more - he was
Idead and stark!
I hasped the window; I combed his long, black hair from his
forehead; I tried to close his eyes-to extinguish, if possible,
that frightful, lifelike exultation, before any one else beheld it.
They would not shut-they seemed to sneer at my attempts, and
his parted lips and sharp white teeth sneered too! Taken with
another fit of cowardice, I cried out for Joseph. Joseph shuffled
up and made a noise, but resolutely refused to meddle with him.
"Th' divil's harried off his soul," he cried, "and he muh hev
his carcass intuh t' bargain, for ow't aw care! Ech! what a
wicked un he looks, grinning at death! " and the old sinner
grinned in mockery.
I thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but sud-
denly composing himself, he fell on his knees and raised his
hands, and returned thanks that the lawful master and the
ancient stock were restored to their rights.
I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoid-
ably recurred to former times with a sort of oppressive sadness.
But poor Hareton, the most wronged, was the only one that
really suffered much. He sat by the corpse all night, weeping
in bitter earnest. He pressed its hand, and kissed the sarcastic,
savage face that every one else shrank from contemplating; and
bemoaned him with that strong grief which springs naturally
from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel.
## p. 2415 (#617) ###########################################
BRONTÉ SISTERS
2415
Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the
master died. I concealed the fact of his having swallowed noth-
ing for four days, fearing it might lead to trouble; and then, I
am persuaded, he did not abstain on purpose: it was the conse-
quence of his strange illness, not the cause.
We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighborhood, as
he had wished. Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to
carry the coffin, comprehended the whole attendance.
The six men departed when they had let it down into the-
grave: we stayed to see it covered. Hareton, with a streaming
face, dug green sods and laid them over the brown mold himself.
At present it is as smooth and verdant as its companion mounds
-and I hope its tenant sleeps as soundly. But the country
folks, if you asked them, would swear on their Bibles that he
walks. There are those who speak to having met him near the
church, and on the moor, and even within this house. Idle tales,
you'll say, and so say I. Yet that old man by the kitchen fire
affirms he has seen "two on 'em" looking out of his chamber
window on every rainy night since his death- and an odd thing
happened to me about a month ago.
I was going to the grange one evening-a dark evening
threatening thunder—and, just at the turn of the Heights, I
encountered a little boy with a sheep and two lambs before him.
He was crying terribly, and I supposed the lambs were skittish
and would not be guided.
"What is the matter, my little man? " I asked.
"They's Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t' nab," he
blubbered, "un' aw darnut pass 'em. "
I saw nothing, but neither the sheep nor he would go on, so
I bid him take the road lower down. He probably raised the
phantoms from thinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the
nonsense he had heard his parents and companions repeat; yet
still I don't like being out in the dark now, and I don't like
being left by myself in this grim house. I cannot help it; I
shall be glad when they leave it and shift to the Grange!
"They are going to the Grange, then? " I said.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Dean, <<
and that will be on New Year's day. "
"And who will live here then? "
as soon as they are married;
## p. 2416 (#618) ###########################################
2416
BRONTÉ SISTERS
"Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and perhaps a lad
to keep him company. They will live in the kitchen, and the
rest will be shut up. "
"For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it," I ob-
served.
"No, Mr. Lockwood," said Nelly, shaking her head. "I
believe the dead are at peace, but it is not right to speak of
them with levity. "
At that moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were
returning.
"They are afraid of nothing," I grumbled, watching their
approach through the window. "Together they would brave
Satan and all his legions. "
As they stepped upon the door-stones, and halted to take a
last look at the moon, or more correctly at each other, by her
light, I felt irresistibly impelled to escape them again; and press-
ing a remembrance into the hands of Mrs. Dean, and disregard-
ing her expostulations at my rudeness, I vanished through the
kitchen, as they opened the house-door; and so should have con-
firmed Joseph in his opinion of his fellow-servant's gay indiscre-
tions, had he not fortunately recognized me for a respectable
character by the sweet ring of a sovereign at his feet.
My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction
of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had
made
progress even in seven months- many a window showed
black gaps deprived of glass; and slates jutted off, here and there,
beyond the right line of the roof, to be gradually worked off in
coming autumn storms.
I sought, and soon discovered, the three head-stones on the
slope next the moor the middle one, gray, and half buried in
the heath Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and
moss creeping up its foot-Heathcliff's still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the
moths fluttering among the heath and harebells; listened to the
soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any
one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that
quiet earth.
―
—
―――
## p. 2416 (#619) ###########################################
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## p. 2417 (#623) ###########################################
2417
PHILLIPS BROOKS
(1835-1893)
HILLIPS BROOKS was born in Boston, Massachusetts, December
13th, 1835, and died there January 23d, 1893. He inherited
Sugan the best traditions of New England history, being on the
paternal side the direct descendant of John Cotton, and his mother's
name, Phillips, standing for high learning and distinction in the Con-
gregational church. Born at a time when the orthodox faith was
fighting its bitterest battle with Unitarianism, his parents accepted
the dogmas of the new theology, and had him baptized by a Unita-
rian clergyman. But while refusing certain dogmas of the ortho-
dox church, they were the more thrown back for spiritual support
upon the internal evidences of evangelical Christianity. "Holding
still," says the Rev. Arthur Brooks, "in a greater or less degree, and
with more or less precision, to the old statements, they counted the
great fact that these statements enshrined more precious truth than
any other. " Transition to the Episcopal church was easy; the mother
became an Episcopalian, and Phillips Brooks received all his early
training in that communion. But heredity had its influence, and in
after-life the great Bishop said that the Episcopal church could reap
the fruits of the long and bitter controversy which divided the New
England church, only as it discerned the spiritual worth of Puritanism,
and the value of its contributions to the history of religious thought
and character.
Such were the early surroundings of the man, and the subsequent
influences of his life tended to foster this liberal spirit. For such a
purpose, Boston itself was a good place to live in: it was too large
to be wholly provincial, and it was not so large that the individual
was lost; and at that time it was moreover the literary centre of
America. When Phillips Brooks entered Harvard, he came into an
atmosphere of intense intellectual activity. James Walker was the
president of the college, and Lowell, Holmes, Agassiz, and Longfel
low were among the professors. He graduated with honor in 1855,
and soon after entered the Episcopal theological seminary at Alex-
andria, Virginia.
The transition from Harvard to this college was an abrupt one.
The standards of the North and South were radically different. The
theology of the Church in Virginia, while tolerant to that of other
denominations, was uncompromisingly hostile to what it regarded as
heterodox.
VI-152
## p. 2418 (#624) ###########################################
2418
PHILLIPS BROOKS
When the War was declared he threw himself passionately into
the cause of the Union. Yet his affection for his Southern class-
mates, men from whom he so widely differed, broadened that charity
that was one of his finest characteristics, a charity that respected
conviction wherever found.
No man, in truth, ever did so much to remove prejudice against
a Church that had never been popular in New England. To the old
Puritan dislike of Episcopacy and distrust of the English Church as
that of the oppressors of the colony, was added a sense of resent-
ment toward its sacerdotal claims and its assumption of ecclesiastical
supremacy. But he nevertheless protested against the claim by his
own communion to the title of "The American Church," he preached
occasionally in other pulpits, he even had among his audiences cler-
gymen of other denominations, and he was able to reconcile men of
different creeds into concord on what is essential in all. The breadth
and depth of his teaching attracted so large a following that he
increased the strength of the Episcopal Church in America far more
than he could have done by carrying on an active propaganda in
its behalf. Under his pastorate Trinity Church, Boston, became the
centre of some of the most vigorous Christian activity in America.
His first charge was the Church of the Advent, in Philadelphia; in
two years he became rector of Holy Trinity Church in the same city.
In 1869 he was called to Trinity Church, Boston, of which he was
rector until his election as bishop of Massachusetts in 1891.
It is impossible to give an idea of Phillips Brooks without a word
about his personality, which was almost contradictory. His com-
manding figure, his wit, the charm of his conversation, and a certain
boyish gayety and naturalness, drew people to him as to a powerful
magnet. He was one of the best known men in America; people
pointed him out to strangers in his own city as they pointed out the
Common and the Bunker Hill monument. When he went to Eng-
land, where he preached before the Queen, men and women of all
classes greeted him as a friend. They thronged the churches where
he preached, not only to hear him but to see him. Many stories are
told of him; some true, some more or less apocryphal, all proving the
affectionate sympathy existing between him and his kind. It was
said of him that as soon as he entered a pulpit he was absolutely
impersonal. There was no trace of individual experience or theo-
logical conflict by which he might be labeled. He was simply a
messenger of the truth as he held it, a mouthpiece of the gospel as
he believed it had been delivered to him.
Although in his seminary days his sermons were described as
vague and unpractical, Phillips Brooks was as great a preacher when
under thirty years of age as he was at any later time. His early
## p. 2419 (#625) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2419
sermons, delivered to his first charge in Philadelphia, displayed the
same individuality, the same force and completeness and clearness of
construction, the same deep, strong undertone of religious thought,
as his great discourses preached in Westminster Abbey six months
before his death. His sentences are sonorous; his style was charac-
terized by a noble simplicity, impressive, but without a touch showing
that dramatic effect was strained for.
He passionately loved nature in all her aspects, and traveled widely
in search of the picturesque; but he used his experience with reserve,
and his illustrations are used to explain human life. His power of
painting a picture in a few bold strokes appears strikingly in the
great sermon on the Lesson of the Life of Saul,' where he contrasts
early promise and final failure; and in that other not less remarkable
presentation of the vision of Saint Peter. His treatment of Bible
narratives is not a translation into the modern manner, nor is it an
adaptation, but a poetical rendering, in which the flavor of the
original is not lost though the lesson is made contemporary. And
while he did not transcribe nature upon his pages, his sermons are
not lacking in decoration. He used figures of speech and drew freely
on history and art for illustrations, but not so much to elucidate his
subject as to ornament it. His essays on social and literary subjects
are written with the aim of directness of statement, pure and simple;
but the stuff of which his sermons are woven is of royal purple.
The conviction that religious sentiment should penetrate the whole
life showed itself in Phillips Brooks's relation to literature. "Truth
bathed in light and uttered in love makes the new unit of power,"
he says in his essay on literature. It was his task to mediate
between literature and theology, and restore theology to the place
it lost through the abstractions of the schoolmen. What he would
have done if he had devoted himself to literature alone, we can only
conjecture by the excellence of his style in essays and sermons.
They show his poetical temperament; and his little lyric 'O Little
Town of Bethlehem' will be sung as long as Christmas is celebrated.
His essays show more clearly even than his sermons his opinions on
society, literature, and religion.
They place him where he belongs,
in that "small transfigured band the world cannot tame," - the
world of Cranmer, Jeremy Taylor, Robertson, Arnold, Maurice. His
paper on Dean Stanley discloses his theological views as openly as
do his addresses on 'Heresies and Orthodoxy. '
As might be expected of one who, in the word's best sense, was
so thoroughly a man, he had great influence with young men and
was one of the most popular of Harvard preachers. It was his cus-
tom for thirty alternate years to go abroad in the summer, and there,
as in America, he was regarded as a great pulpit orator. He took a
## p. 2420 (#626) ###########################################
2420
PHILLIPS BROOKS
large view of social questions and was in sympathy with all great
popular movements. His advancement to the episcopate was warmly
welcomed by all parties, except one branch of his own church with
which his principles were at variance, and every denomination de-
lighted in his elevation as if he were the peculiar property of each.
He published several volumes of sermons. His works include
'Lectures on Preaching' (New York, 1877), 'Sermons' (1878–81),
'Bohlen Lectures' (1879), 'Baptism and Confirmation' (1880), 'Ser-
mons Preached in English Churches' (1883), The Oldest Schools in
America' (Boston, 1885), Twenty Sermons' (New York, 1886), Toler-
ance (1887), The Light of the World, and Other Sermons' (1890),
and Essays and Addresses' (1894). His 'Letters of Travel' show
him to be an accurate observer, with a large fund of spontaneous
humor. No letters to children are so delightful as those in this
volume.
O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM
LITTLE town of Bethlehem,
O
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee to-night.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth!
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.
For Christ is born of Mary,
And gathered all above;
While mortals sleep the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.
## p. 2421 (#627) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2421
Where children pure and happy
Pray to the blessèd Child,
Where Misery cries out to thee,
Son of the Mother mild;
Where Charity stands watching,
And Faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes; the glory breaks,
And Christmas comes once more.
O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray!
Cast out our sin and enter in;
Be born in us to-day.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
PERSONAL CHARACTER
From Essays and Addresses >
Α
S ONE looks around the world, and as one looks around our
own land to-day, he sees that the one thing we need in
high places the thing whose absence, among those who
hold the reins of highest power, is making us all anxious with
regard to the progress of the country-is personal character.
The trouble is not what we hold to be mistaken ideas with re-
gard to policies of government, but it is the absence of lofty and
unselfish character. It is the absence of the complete consecra-
tion of a man's self to the public good; it is the willingness of
men to bring their personal and private spites into spheres whose
elevation ought to shame such things into absolute death; the
tendencies of men, even of men whom the nation has put in
very high places indeed, to count those high places their privi-
leges, and to try to draw from them, not help for humanity
and the community over which they rule, but their own mean
personal private advantage.
If there is any power that can elevate human character: if
there is any power which, without inspiring men with a super-
natural knowledge with regard to policies of government; with-
out making men solve all at once, intuitively, the intricacies of
## p. 2422 (#628) ###########################################
2422
PHILLIPS BROOKS
problems of legislation with which they are called upon to deal;
without making men see instantly to the very heart of every
matter; if there is any power which could permeate to the very
bottom of our community, which would make men unselfish and
true- why, the errors of men, the mistakes men might make in
their judgment, would not be an obstacle in the way of the
progress of this great nation in the work which God has given
her to do. They would make jolts, but nothing more. Or in
the course which God has appointed her to run she would go to
her true results. There is no power that man has ever seen that
can abide; there is no power of which man has ever dreamed
that can regenerate human character except religion; and till the
Christian religion, which is the religion of this land — till the
Christian religion shall have so far regenerated human character
in this land that multitudes of men shall act under its high
impulses and principles, so that the men who are not inspired
with them shall be shamed at least into an outward conformity
with them, there is no security for the great final continuance
of the nation.
-
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
THE COURAGE OF OPINIONS
From Essays and Addresses >
W*
E HAVE spoken of physical courage, or the courage of
nerves; of moral courage, or the courage of principles.
Besides these there is intellectual courage, or the courage
of opinions. Let me say a few words upon that, for surely there
is nothing which we more need to understand.
The ways in which people form their opinions are most re-
markable. Every man, when he begins his reasonable life, finds
certain general opinions current in the world. He is shaped
by these opinions in one way or another, either directly or by
reaction. If he is soft and plastic, like the majority of people,
he takes the opinions that are about him for his own. If he is
self-asserting and defiant, he takes the opposite of these opinions
and gives to them his vehement adherence. We know the two
kinds well, and as we ordinarily see them, the fault which is
at the root of both is intellectual cowardice. One man clings
servilely to the old ready-made opinions which he finds, because
## p. 2423 (#629) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2423
he is afraid of being called rash and radical; another rejects the
traditions of his people from fear of being thought fearful, and
timid, and a slave. The results are very different: one is the
tame conservative and the other is the fiery iconoclast; but I
beg you to see that the cause in both cases is the same. Both
are cowards. Both are equally removed from that brave seeking
of the truth which is not set upon either winning or avoiding
any name, which will take no opinion for the sake of con-
formity and reject no opinion for the sake of originality; which
is free, therefore-free to gather its own convictions, a slave
neither to any compulsion nor to any antagonism.
Tell me,
have you never seen two teachers, one of them slavishly adopt-
ing old methods because he feared to be called "imitator," the
other crudely devising new plans because he was afraid of seem-
ing conservative, both of them really cowards, neither of them
really thinking out his work?
The great vice of our people in their relation to the politics
of the land is cowardice. It is not lack of intelligence: our
people know the meaning of political conditions with wonderful
sagacity. It is not low morality: the great mass of our people
apply high standards to the acts of public men. But it is
cowardice. It is the disposition of one part of our people to
fall in with current ways of working, to run with the mass; and
of another part to rush headlong into this or that new scheme
or policy of opposition, merely to escape the stigma of conserv-
atism.
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
·
LITERATURE AND LIFE
From Essays and Addresses ›
L'
IFE comes before literature, as the material always comes be-
fore the work. The hills are full of marble before the
world blooms with statues. The forests are full of trees
before the sea is thick with ships. So the world abounds in life
before men begin to reason and describe and analyze and sing,
and literature is born. The fact and the action must come first. .
This is true in every kind of literature. The mind and its work-
ings are before the metaphysician. Beauty and romance antedate
the poet.
The nations rise and fall before the historian tells
their story. Nature's profusion exists before the first scientific
## p. 2424 (#630) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2424
book is written. Even the facts of mathematics must be true
before the first diagram is drawn for their demonstration.
To own and recognize this priority of life is the first need of
literature. Literature which does not utter a life already ex-
istent, more fundamental than itself, is shallow and unreal.
a schoolmate who at the age of twenty published a volume of
poems called 'Life-Memories. ' The book died before it was
born. There were no real memories, because there had been no
life. So every science which does not utter investigated fact,
every history which does not tell of experience, every poetry
which is not based upon the truth of things, has no real life. It
does not perish; it is never born. Therefore men and nations
must live before they can make literature. Boys and girls do not
write books. Oregon and Van Diemen's Land produce no litera-
ture: they are too busy living. The first attempts at literature of
any country, as of our own, are apt to be unreal and imitative
and transitory, because life has not yet accumulated and presented
itself in forms which recommend themselves to literature. The
wars must come, the clamorous problems must arise, the new
types of character must be evolved, the picturesque social compli-
cation must develop, a life must come, and then will be the
true time for a literature.
Literature grows feeble and con-
ceited unless it ever recognizes the priority and superiority of life,
and stands in genuine awe before the greatness of the men and
of the ages which have simply lived.
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
## p. 2425 (#631) ###########################################
2425
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
(1771-1810)
OT only was Brockden Brown the first American man-of-letters
proper, one writing for a living before we had any real
literature of our own,- but his work possessed a genuine
power and originality which gives it some claim to remembrance
for its own sake. And it is fair always to remember that a given
product from a pioneer indicates a far greater endowment than the
same from one of a group in a more developed age. The forerunner
lacks not one thing only, but many things, which help his successors.
He lacks the mental friction from, the emu-
lation of, the competition with, other writ-
ers; he lacks the stimulus and comfort of
sympathetic companionship; he lacks an
audience to spur him on, and a market to
work for; lacks labor-saving conventions,
training, and an environment that heartens
him instead of merely tolerating him. Like
Robinson Crusoe, he must make his tools
before he can use them. A meagre result
may therefore be a proof of great abilities.
CHARLES B. BROWN
The United States in 1800 was mentally
and morally a colony of Great Britain still.
A few hundred thousand white families
scattered over about as many square miles of territory, much of it
refractory wilderness with more refractory inhabitants; with no cities
of any size, and no communication save by wretched roads or by sail-
ing vessels; no rich old universities for centres of culture, and no
rich leisured society to enjoy it; the energies of the people perforce
absorbed in subduing material obstacles, or solidifying a political
experiment disbelieved in by the very men who organized it;-
neither time nor materials existed then for an independent literary
life, which is the growth of security and comfort and leisure if it
embraces a whole society, or of endowed college foundations and an
aristocracy if it is only of the few. Hence American society took
its literary meals at the common table of the English-speaking race,
with little or no effort at a separate establishment. There was
much writing, but mostly polemic or journalistic. When real litera-
ture was attempted, it consisted in general of imitations of British
—
## p. 2426 (#632) ###########################################
2426
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
essays, or fiction, or poetry; and in the last two cases not even imi-
tations of the best models in either. The essays were modeled on
Addison; the poetry on the heavy imitators of Pope's heroics; the
fiction either on the effusive sentimentalists who followed Richard-
son, or on the pseudo-Orientalists like Walpole and Lewis, or on the
pseudo-mediævalists like Mrs. Roche and Mrs. Radcliffe. This sort
of work filled the few literary periodicals of the day, but was not
read enough to make such publications profitable even then, and is
pretty much all unreadable now.
Charles Brockden Brown stands in marked contrast to these sec-
ond-hand weaklings, not only by his work but still more by his
method and temper. In actual achievement he did not quite fulfill
the promise of his early books, and cannot be set high among his
craft. He was an inferior artist; and though he achieved naturalism
of matter, he clung to the theatrical artificiality of style which was
in vogue.
But if he had broken away from all traditions, he could
have gained no hearing whatever; he died young-twenty years
more might have left him a much greater figure; and he wrought in
disheartening loneliness of spirit. His accomplishment was that of a
pioneer. He was the first American author to see that the true field
for his fellows was America and not Europe. He realized, as the
genius of Châteaubriand realized at almost the same moment, the
artistic richness of the material which lay to hand in the silent forest
vastnesses, with their unfamiliar life of man and beast, and their
possibilities of mystery enough to satisfy the most craving. He
was not the equal of the author of The Natchez' and 'Atala';
but he had a fresh and daring mind. He turned away from both the
emotional orgasms and the stage claptrap of his time, to break ground
for all future American novelists. He antedated Cooper in the field
of Indian life and character; and he entered the regions of mystic
supernaturalism and the disordered human brain in advance of Haw-
thorne and Poe.
That his choice of material was neither chance nor blind instinct,
but deliberate judgment and insight, is shown by the preface to
'Edgar Huntly,' in which he sets forth his views:
――
"America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has
seldom furnished themes to the moral-pointer. That new springs of action and
new motives of curiosity should operate, that the field of investigation opened
to us by our own country should differ essentially from those which exist in
Europe, may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy
and instruction to the heart that are peculiar to ourselves are equally numer-
ous and inexhaustible. It is the purpose of this work to profit by some of
these sources, to exhibit a series of adventures growing out of the conditions
of our country, and connected with one of the most common and wonderful
## p. 2427 (#633) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2427
diseases of the human frame. Puerile superstition and exploded manners,
Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end.
The incidents of Indian hostility and the perils of the Western wilderness are
far more suitable, and for a native of America to overlook these would admit
of no apology. These therefore are in part the ingredients of this tale. »
Brown's was an uneventful career. He was much given to solitary
rambles and musings, varied by social intercourse with a few con-
genial friends and the companionship of his affectionate family, and
later, many hours spent at his writing-desk or in an editorial chair.
He was born January 17th, 1771, in Philadelphia, of good Quaker
stock. A delicate boyhood, keeping him away from the more active
life of youths of his own age, fostered a love for solitude and a taste
for reading. He received a good classical education; but poor health
prevented him from pursuing his studies at college. At his family's
wish he entered a law office instead; but the literary instinct was
strong within him. Literature at this time was scarcely considered a
profession. Magazine circulations were too limited for publishers to
pay for contributions, and all an author usually got or expected
to get was some copies to distribute among his friends. To please
his prudent home circle, Brown dallied for a while with the law; but
a visit to New York, where he was cordially received by the mem-
bers of the "Friendly Club," opened up avenues of literary work to
him, and he removed to New York in 1796 to devote himself to it.
The first important work he produced was 'Wieland: or the Trans-
formation' (1798). It shows at the outset Brown's characteristic
traits-independence of British materials and methods. It is in sub-
stance a powerful tale of ventriloquism operating on an unbalanced
and superstitious mind. Its psychology is acute and searching; the
characterization realistic and effective. His second book, Ormond:
or the Secret Witness' (1799), does not reach the level of 'Wieland. '
It is more conventional, and not entirely independent of foreign.
models, especially Godwin, whom Brown greatly admired. A rapid
writer, he soon had the MS. of his next novel in the hands of the
publisher. The first part of Arthur Mervyn: or Memoirs of the
Year 1793' came out in 1799, and the second part in 1800. It is
the best known of his six novels. Though the scene is laid in Phila-
delphia, Brown embodied in it his experience of the yellow fever which
raged in New York in 1799. The passage describing this epidemic.
can stand beside Defoe's or Poe's or Manzoni's similar descriptions,
for power in setting forth the horrors of the plague.
In the same year with the first volume of Arthur Mervyn' ap-
peared Edgar Huntly: or Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. ' Here he
deals with the wild life of nature, the rugged solitudes, and the red-
skins, the field in which he was followed by Cooper. A thrilling
## p. 2428 (#634) ###########################################
2428
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
scene in which a panther is chief actor was long familiar to Amer-
ican children in their school reading-books.
In 1801 came out his last two novels, Clara Howard: In a Series
of Letters,' and 'Jane Talbot. ' They are a departure from his pre-
vious work: instead of dealing with uncanny subjects they treat of
quiet domestic and social life. They show also a great advance on
his previous books in constructive art. In 1799 Brown became editor
of the Monthly Magazine and American Review, and contributed
largely to it.
In the autumn of 1801 he returned to Philadelphia, to assume
the editorship of Conrad's Literary Magazine and American Review.
The duties of this office suspended his own creative work, and he
did not live to take up again the novelist's stylus. In 1806 he be-
came editor of the Annual Register. His genuine literary force is
best proved by the fact that whatever periodical he took in charge,
he raised its standard of quality and made it a success for the time.
He died in February, 1810. The work to which he had given the
greater part of his time and strength, especially toward the end of
his life, was in its nature not only transitory, but not of a sort to
keep his name alive. The magazines were children of a day, and
the editor's repute as such could hardly survive them long. The
fame which belongs to Charles Brockden Brown, grudgingly accorded
by a country that can ill afford to neglect one of its earliest, most
devoted, and most original workers, rests on his novels. Judged by
standards of the present day, these are far from faultless. The
facts are not very coherent, the diction is artificial in the fashion of
the day. But when all is said, Brown was a rare story-teller; he
interested his readers by the novelty of his material, and he was
quite objective in its treatment, never obtruding his own personality.
'Wieland, Edgar Huntly,' and 'Arthur Mervyn,' the trilogy of his
best novels, are not to be contemned; and he has the distinction of
being in very truth the pioneer of American letters.
་
WIELAND'S STATEMENT
THE
HEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was now called
upon for his defense. He looked around him for some time
in silence, and with a mild countenance. At length he
spoke:-
It is strange: I am known to my judges and my auditors.
Who is there present a stranger to the character of Wieland?
Who knows him not as a husband, as a father, as a friend? Yet
## p. 2429 (#635) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2429
here am I arraigned as a criminal. I am charged with diabolical
malice; I am accused of the murder of my wife and my children!
It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my
hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am
called to vindicate? and before whom?
You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by
me. What more would you have? Would you extort from me a
statement of my motives? Have you failed to discover them
already? You charge me with malice: but your eyes are not
shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken
you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of
his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his off-
spring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity and the
unchangeableness of his principles are familiar to your apprehen-
sion: yet you persist in this charge! You lead me hither mana-
cled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting
death!
-
Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife - the
little ones that drew their being from me - that creature who,
as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection
than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart.
Think ye
that malice could have urged me to this deed? Hide your auda-
cious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in some
cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your wicked-
ness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts
this detestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag
me to untimely death. I make not an effort to dispel your illus-
ion; I utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly:
but there are probably some in this assembly who have come
from far; for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.
It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme
passion.
"It is not my fault that I cannot eat or rest," he replied.
"I assure you it is through no settled designs. I'll do both as
soon as I possibly can. But you might as well bid a man strug-
gling in the water rest within arm's-length of the shore! I must
reach it first, and then I'll rest. Well, never mind Mr. Green;
as to repenting of my injustices, I've done no injustice, and I
repent of nothing. I'm too happy, and yet I'm not happy
enough. My soul's bliss kills my body, but does not satisfy
itself. "
(
If you
«<
Happy, master? " I cried. Strange happiness!
would hear me without being angry, I might offer some advice
that would make you happier. "
"What is that? " he asked. "Give it. "
"You are aware, Mr. Heathcliff," I said, "that from the time
you were thirteen years old you have lived a selfish, unchristian
life: and probably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all
that period. You must have forgotten the contents of the book,
and you may not have space to search it now. Could it be hurt-
ful to send for some one-
it does not matter which -to explain it, and show you how
very far you have erred from its precepts, and how unfit you
will be for its heaven, unless a change takes place before you
die? "
some minister of any denomination,
-
―
## p. 2413 (#615) ###########################################
BRONTÉ SISTERS
2413
"I'm rather obliged than angry, Nelly," he said, “for you
remind me of the manner that I desire to be buried in. It is
to be carried to the churchyard in the evening. You and Hare-
ton may, if you please, accompany me—and mind, particularly,
to notice that the sexton obeys my directions concerning the two
coffins! No minister need come; nor need anything be said over
me. I tell you, I have nearly attained my heaven; and that of
others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me! "
"And supposing you persevered in your obstinate fast, and
died by that means, and they refused to bury you in the pre-
cincts of the kirk? " I said, shocked at his godless indifference.
"How would you like it? "
"They won't do that," he replied; "if they did, you must
have me removed secretly; and if you neglect it, you shall prove
practically that the dead are not annihilated! "
As soon as he heard the other members of the family stir-
ring, he retired to his den, and I breathed freer. But in the
afternoon, while Joseph and Hareton were at their work, he
came into the kitchen again, and with a wild look bid me come
and sit in the house-he wanted somebody with him.
I declined, telling him plainly that his strange talk and man-
ner frightened me, and I had neither the nerve nor the will to
be his companion alone.
"I believe you think me a fiend! " he said, with his dismal
laugh; "something too horrible to live under a decent roof! "
Then turning to Catherine, who was there, and who drew
behind me at his approach, he added, half sneeringly:-
"Will you come, chuck? I'll not hurt you. No! to you I've
made myself worse than the devil. Well, there is one who won't
shrink from my company! By God! she's relentless. Oh, damn
it! It's unutterably too much for flesh and blood to bear, even
mine. "
He solicited the society of no one more. At dusk he went
into his chamber. Through the whole night, and far into the
morning, we heard him groaning and murmuring to himself.
Hareton was anxious to enter, but I bid him fetch Mr. Kenneth,
and he should go in and see him.
When he came, and I requested admittance and tried to open
the door, I found it locked; and Heathcliff bid us be damned.
He was better, and would be left alone; so the doctor went
away
## p. 2414 (#616) ###########################################
BRONTE SISTERS
2414
The following evening was very wet; indeed, it poured down
till day-dawn; and as I took my morning walk round the house,
I observed the master's window swinging open, and the rain
driving straight in.
"He cannot be in bed," I thought: "those showers would
drench him through! He must be either up or out. But I'll
make no more ado; I'll go boldly, and look! "
―
Having succeeded in obtaining entrance with another key, I
ran to unclose the panels, for the chamber was vacant - quickly
pushing them aside, I peeped in. Mr. Heathcliff was there—
laid on his back. His eyes met mine, so keen and fierce that I
started; and then he seemed to smile.
I could not think him dead-but his face and throat were
washed with rain; the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly
still. The lattice, flapping to and fro, had grazed one hand that
rested on the sill-no blood trickled from the broken skin, and
when I put my fingers to it I could doubt no more - he was
Idead and stark!
I hasped the window; I combed his long, black hair from his
forehead; I tried to close his eyes-to extinguish, if possible,
that frightful, lifelike exultation, before any one else beheld it.
They would not shut-they seemed to sneer at my attempts, and
his parted lips and sharp white teeth sneered too! Taken with
another fit of cowardice, I cried out for Joseph. Joseph shuffled
up and made a noise, but resolutely refused to meddle with him.
"Th' divil's harried off his soul," he cried, "and he muh hev
his carcass intuh t' bargain, for ow't aw care! Ech! what a
wicked un he looks, grinning at death! " and the old sinner
grinned in mockery.
I thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but sud-
denly composing himself, he fell on his knees and raised his
hands, and returned thanks that the lawful master and the
ancient stock were restored to their rights.
I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoid-
ably recurred to former times with a sort of oppressive sadness.
But poor Hareton, the most wronged, was the only one that
really suffered much. He sat by the corpse all night, weeping
in bitter earnest. He pressed its hand, and kissed the sarcastic,
savage face that every one else shrank from contemplating; and
bemoaned him with that strong grief which springs naturally
from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel.
## p. 2415 (#617) ###########################################
BRONTÉ SISTERS
2415
Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the
master died. I concealed the fact of his having swallowed noth-
ing for four days, fearing it might lead to trouble; and then, I
am persuaded, he did not abstain on purpose: it was the conse-
quence of his strange illness, not the cause.
We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighborhood, as
he had wished. Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to
carry the coffin, comprehended the whole attendance.
The six men departed when they had let it down into the-
grave: we stayed to see it covered. Hareton, with a streaming
face, dug green sods and laid them over the brown mold himself.
At present it is as smooth and verdant as its companion mounds
-and I hope its tenant sleeps as soundly. But the country
folks, if you asked them, would swear on their Bibles that he
walks. There are those who speak to having met him near the
church, and on the moor, and even within this house. Idle tales,
you'll say, and so say I. Yet that old man by the kitchen fire
affirms he has seen "two on 'em" looking out of his chamber
window on every rainy night since his death- and an odd thing
happened to me about a month ago.
I was going to the grange one evening-a dark evening
threatening thunder—and, just at the turn of the Heights, I
encountered a little boy with a sheep and two lambs before him.
He was crying terribly, and I supposed the lambs were skittish
and would not be guided.
"What is the matter, my little man? " I asked.
"They's Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t' nab," he
blubbered, "un' aw darnut pass 'em. "
I saw nothing, but neither the sheep nor he would go on, so
I bid him take the road lower down. He probably raised the
phantoms from thinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the
nonsense he had heard his parents and companions repeat; yet
still I don't like being out in the dark now, and I don't like
being left by myself in this grim house. I cannot help it; I
shall be glad when they leave it and shift to the Grange!
"They are going to the Grange, then? " I said.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Dean, <<
and that will be on New Year's day. "
"And who will live here then? "
as soon as they are married;
## p. 2416 (#618) ###########################################
2416
BRONTÉ SISTERS
"Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and perhaps a lad
to keep him company. They will live in the kitchen, and the
rest will be shut up. "
"For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it," I ob-
served.
"No, Mr. Lockwood," said Nelly, shaking her head. "I
believe the dead are at peace, but it is not right to speak of
them with levity. "
At that moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were
returning.
"They are afraid of nothing," I grumbled, watching their
approach through the window. "Together they would brave
Satan and all his legions. "
As they stepped upon the door-stones, and halted to take a
last look at the moon, or more correctly at each other, by her
light, I felt irresistibly impelled to escape them again; and press-
ing a remembrance into the hands of Mrs. Dean, and disregard-
ing her expostulations at my rudeness, I vanished through the
kitchen, as they opened the house-door; and so should have con-
firmed Joseph in his opinion of his fellow-servant's gay indiscre-
tions, had he not fortunately recognized me for a respectable
character by the sweet ring of a sovereign at his feet.
My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction
of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had
made
progress even in seven months- many a window showed
black gaps deprived of glass; and slates jutted off, here and there,
beyond the right line of the roof, to be gradually worked off in
coming autumn storms.
I sought, and soon discovered, the three head-stones on the
slope next the moor the middle one, gray, and half buried in
the heath Edgar Linton's only harmonized by the turf and
moss creeping up its foot-Heathcliff's still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the
moths fluttering among the heath and harebells; listened to the
soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any
one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that
quiet earth.
―
—
―――
## p. 2416 (#619) ###########################################
## p. 2416 (#620) ###########################################
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. .
## p. 2417 (#623) ###########################################
2417
PHILLIPS BROOKS
(1835-1893)
HILLIPS BROOKS was born in Boston, Massachusetts, December
13th, 1835, and died there January 23d, 1893. He inherited
Sugan the best traditions of New England history, being on the
paternal side the direct descendant of John Cotton, and his mother's
name, Phillips, standing for high learning and distinction in the Con-
gregational church. Born at a time when the orthodox faith was
fighting its bitterest battle with Unitarianism, his parents accepted
the dogmas of the new theology, and had him baptized by a Unita-
rian clergyman. But while refusing certain dogmas of the ortho-
dox church, they were the more thrown back for spiritual support
upon the internal evidences of evangelical Christianity. "Holding
still," says the Rev. Arthur Brooks, "in a greater or less degree, and
with more or less precision, to the old statements, they counted the
great fact that these statements enshrined more precious truth than
any other. " Transition to the Episcopal church was easy; the mother
became an Episcopalian, and Phillips Brooks received all his early
training in that communion. But heredity had its influence, and in
after-life the great Bishop said that the Episcopal church could reap
the fruits of the long and bitter controversy which divided the New
England church, only as it discerned the spiritual worth of Puritanism,
and the value of its contributions to the history of religious thought
and character.
Such were the early surroundings of the man, and the subsequent
influences of his life tended to foster this liberal spirit. For such a
purpose, Boston itself was a good place to live in: it was too large
to be wholly provincial, and it was not so large that the individual
was lost; and at that time it was moreover the literary centre of
America. When Phillips Brooks entered Harvard, he came into an
atmosphere of intense intellectual activity. James Walker was the
president of the college, and Lowell, Holmes, Agassiz, and Longfel
low were among the professors. He graduated with honor in 1855,
and soon after entered the Episcopal theological seminary at Alex-
andria, Virginia.
The transition from Harvard to this college was an abrupt one.
The standards of the North and South were radically different. The
theology of the Church in Virginia, while tolerant to that of other
denominations, was uncompromisingly hostile to what it regarded as
heterodox.
VI-152
## p. 2418 (#624) ###########################################
2418
PHILLIPS BROOKS
When the War was declared he threw himself passionately into
the cause of the Union. Yet his affection for his Southern class-
mates, men from whom he so widely differed, broadened that charity
that was one of his finest characteristics, a charity that respected
conviction wherever found.
No man, in truth, ever did so much to remove prejudice against
a Church that had never been popular in New England. To the old
Puritan dislike of Episcopacy and distrust of the English Church as
that of the oppressors of the colony, was added a sense of resent-
ment toward its sacerdotal claims and its assumption of ecclesiastical
supremacy. But he nevertheless protested against the claim by his
own communion to the title of "The American Church," he preached
occasionally in other pulpits, he even had among his audiences cler-
gymen of other denominations, and he was able to reconcile men of
different creeds into concord on what is essential in all. The breadth
and depth of his teaching attracted so large a following that he
increased the strength of the Episcopal Church in America far more
than he could have done by carrying on an active propaganda in
its behalf. Under his pastorate Trinity Church, Boston, became the
centre of some of the most vigorous Christian activity in America.
His first charge was the Church of the Advent, in Philadelphia; in
two years he became rector of Holy Trinity Church in the same city.
In 1869 he was called to Trinity Church, Boston, of which he was
rector until his election as bishop of Massachusetts in 1891.
It is impossible to give an idea of Phillips Brooks without a word
about his personality, which was almost contradictory. His com-
manding figure, his wit, the charm of his conversation, and a certain
boyish gayety and naturalness, drew people to him as to a powerful
magnet. He was one of the best known men in America; people
pointed him out to strangers in his own city as they pointed out the
Common and the Bunker Hill monument. When he went to Eng-
land, where he preached before the Queen, men and women of all
classes greeted him as a friend. They thronged the churches where
he preached, not only to hear him but to see him. Many stories are
told of him; some true, some more or less apocryphal, all proving the
affectionate sympathy existing between him and his kind. It was
said of him that as soon as he entered a pulpit he was absolutely
impersonal. There was no trace of individual experience or theo-
logical conflict by which he might be labeled. He was simply a
messenger of the truth as he held it, a mouthpiece of the gospel as
he believed it had been delivered to him.
Although in his seminary days his sermons were described as
vague and unpractical, Phillips Brooks was as great a preacher when
under thirty years of age as he was at any later time. His early
## p. 2419 (#625) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2419
sermons, delivered to his first charge in Philadelphia, displayed the
same individuality, the same force and completeness and clearness of
construction, the same deep, strong undertone of religious thought,
as his great discourses preached in Westminster Abbey six months
before his death. His sentences are sonorous; his style was charac-
terized by a noble simplicity, impressive, but without a touch showing
that dramatic effect was strained for.
He passionately loved nature in all her aspects, and traveled widely
in search of the picturesque; but he used his experience with reserve,
and his illustrations are used to explain human life. His power of
painting a picture in a few bold strokes appears strikingly in the
great sermon on the Lesson of the Life of Saul,' where he contrasts
early promise and final failure; and in that other not less remarkable
presentation of the vision of Saint Peter. His treatment of Bible
narratives is not a translation into the modern manner, nor is it an
adaptation, but a poetical rendering, in which the flavor of the
original is not lost though the lesson is made contemporary. And
while he did not transcribe nature upon his pages, his sermons are
not lacking in decoration. He used figures of speech and drew freely
on history and art for illustrations, but not so much to elucidate his
subject as to ornament it. His essays on social and literary subjects
are written with the aim of directness of statement, pure and simple;
but the stuff of which his sermons are woven is of royal purple.
The conviction that religious sentiment should penetrate the whole
life showed itself in Phillips Brooks's relation to literature. "Truth
bathed in light and uttered in love makes the new unit of power,"
he says in his essay on literature. It was his task to mediate
between literature and theology, and restore theology to the place
it lost through the abstractions of the schoolmen. What he would
have done if he had devoted himself to literature alone, we can only
conjecture by the excellence of his style in essays and sermons.
They show his poetical temperament; and his little lyric 'O Little
Town of Bethlehem' will be sung as long as Christmas is celebrated.
His essays show more clearly even than his sermons his opinions on
society, literature, and religion.
They place him where he belongs,
in that "small transfigured band the world cannot tame," - the
world of Cranmer, Jeremy Taylor, Robertson, Arnold, Maurice. His
paper on Dean Stanley discloses his theological views as openly as
do his addresses on 'Heresies and Orthodoxy. '
As might be expected of one who, in the word's best sense, was
so thoroughly a man, he had great influence with young men and
was one of the most popular of Harvard preachers. It was his cus-
tom for thirty alternate years to go abroad in the summer, and there,
as in America, he was regarded as a great pulpit orator. He took a
## p. 2420 (#626) ###########################################
2420
PHILLIPS BROOKS
large view of social questions and was in sympathy with all great
popular movements. His advancement to the episcopate was warmly
welcomed by all parties, except one branch of his own church with
which his principles were at variance, and every denomination de-
lighted in his elevation as if he were the peculiar property of each.
He published several volumes of sermons. His works include
'Lectures on Preaching' (New York, 1877), 'Sermons' (1878–81),
'Bohlen Lectures' (1879), 'Baptism and Confirmation' (1880), 'Ser-
mons Preached in English Churches' (1883), The Oldest Schools in
America' (Boston, 1885), Twenty Sermons' (New York, 1886), Toler-
ance (1887), The Light of the World, and Other Sermons' (1890),
and Essays and Addresses' (1894). His 'Letters of Travel' show
him to be an accurate observer, with a large fund of spontaneous
humor. No letters to children are so delightful as those in this
volume.
O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM
LITTLE town of Bethlehem,
O
How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee to-night.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth!
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.
For Christ is born of Mary,
And gathered all above;
While mortals sleep the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love.
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.
## p. 2421 (#627) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2421
Where children pure and happy
Pray to the blessèd Child,
Where Misery cries out to thee,
Son of the Mother mild;
Where Charity stands watching,
And Faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes; the glory breaks,
And Christmas comes once more.
O holy Child of Bethlehem,
Descend to us, we pray!
Cast out our sin and enter in;
Be born in us to-day.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
PERSONAL CHARACTER
From Essays and Addresses >
Α
S ONE looks around the world, and as one looks around our
own land to-day, he sees that the one thing we need in
high places the thing whose absence, among those who
hold the reins of highest power, is making us all anxious with
regard to the progress of the country-is personal character.
The trouble is not what we hold to be mistaken ideas with re-
gard to policies of government, but it is the absence of lofty and
unselfish character. It is the absence of the complete consecra-
tion of a man's self to the public good; it is the willingness of
men to bring their personal and private spites into spheres whose
elevation ought to shame such things into absolute death; the
tendencies of men, even of men whom the nation has put in
very high places indeed, to count those high places their privi-
leges, and to try to draw from them, not help for humanity
and the community over which they rule, but their own mean
personal private advantage.
If there is any power that can elevate human character: if
there is any power which, without inspiring men with a super-
natural knowledge with regard to policies of government; with-
out making men solve all at once, intuitively, the intricacies of
## p. 2422 (#628) ###########################################
2422
PHILLIPS BROOKS
problems of legislation with which they are called upon to deal;
without making men see instantly to the very heart of every
matter; if there is any power which could permeate to the very
bottom of our community, which would make men unselfish and
true- why, the errors of men, the mistakes men might make in
their judgment, would not be an obstacle in the way of the
progress of this great nation in the work which God has given
her to do. They would make jolts, but nothing more. Or in
the course which God has appointed her to run she would go to
her true results. There is no power that man has ever seen that
can abide; there is no power of which man has ever dreamed
that can regenerate human character except religion; and till the
Christian religion, which is the religion of this land — till the
Christian religion shall have so far regenerated human character
in this land that multitudes of men shall act under its high
impulses and principles, so that the men who are not inspired
with them shall be shamed at least into an outward conformity
with them, there is no security for the great final continuance
of the nation.
-
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
THE COURAGE OF OPINIONS
From Essays and Addresses >
W*
E HAVE spoken of physical courage, or the courage of
nerves; of moral courage, or the courage of principles.
Besides these there is intellectual courage, or the courage
of opinions. Let me say a few words upon that, for surely there
is nothing which we more need to understand.
The ways in which people form their opinions are most re-
markable. Every man, when he begins his reasonable life, finds
certain general opinions current in the world. He is shaped
by these opinions in one way or another, either directly or by
reaction. If he is soft and plastic, like the majority of people,
he takes the opinions that are about him for his own. If he is
self-asserting and defiant, he takes the opposite of these opinions
and gives to them his vehement adherence. We know the two
kinds well, and as we ordinarily see them, the fault which is
at the root of both is intellectual cowardice. One man clings
servilely to the old ready-made opinions which he finds, because
## p. 2423 (#629) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2423
he is afraid of being called rash and radical; another rejects the
traditions of his people from fear of being thought fearful, and
timid, and a slave. The results are very different: one is the
tame conservative and the other is the fiery iconoclast; but I
beg you to see that the cause in both cases is the same. Both
are cowards. Both are equally removed from that brave seeking
of the truth which is not set upon either winning or avoiding
any name, which will take no opinion for the sake of con-
formity and reject no opinion for the sake of originality; which
is free, therefore-free to gather its own convictions, a slave
neither to any compulsion nor to any antagonism.
Tell me,
have you never seen two teachers, one of them slavishly adopt-
ing old methods because he feared to be called "imitator," the
other crudely devising new plans because he was afraid of seem-
ing conservative, both of them really cowards, neither of them
really thinking out his work?
The great vice of our people in their relation to the politics
of the land is cowardice. It is not lack of intelligence: our
people know the meaning of political conditions with wonderful
sagacity. It is not low morality: the great mass of our people
apply high standards to the acts of public men. But it is
cowardice. It is the disposition of one part of our people to
fall in with current ways of working, to run with the mass; and
of another part to rush headlong into this or that new scheme
or policy of opposition, merely to escape the stigma of conserv-
atism.
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
·
LITERATURE AND LIFE
From Essays and Addresses ›
L'
IFE comes before literature, as the material always comes be-
fore the work. The hills are full of marble before the
world blooms with statues. The forests are full of trees
before the sea is thick with ships. So the world abounds in life
before men begin to reason and describe and analyze and sing,
and literature is born. The fact and the action must come first. .
This is true in every kind of literature. The mind and its work-
ings are before the metaphysician. Beauty and romance antedate
the poet.
The nations rise and fall before the historian tells
their story. Nature's profusion exists before the first scientific
## p. 2424 (#630) ###########################################
PHILLIPS BROOKS
2424
book is written. Even the facts of mathematics must be true
before the first diagram is drawn for their demonstration.
To own and recognize this priority of life is the first need of
literature. Literature which does not utter a life already ex-
istent, more fundamental than itself, is shallow and unreal.
a schoolmate who at the age of twenty published a volume of
poems called 'Life-Memories. ' The book died before it was
born. There were no real memories, because there had been no
life. So every science which does not utter investigated fact,
every history which does not tell of experience, every poetry
which is not based upon the truth of things, has no real life. It
does not perish; it is never born. Therefore men and nations
must live before they can make literature. Boys and girls do not
write books. Oregon and Van Diemen's Land produce no litera-
ture: they are too busy living. The first attempts at literature of
any country, as of our own, are apt to be unreal and imitative
and transitory, because life has not yet accumulated and presented
itself in forms which recommend themselves to literature. The
wars must come, the clamorous problems must arise, the new
types of character must be evolved, the picturesque social compli-
cation must develop, a life must come, and then will be the
true time for a literature.
Literature grows feeble and con-
ceited unless it ever recognizes the priority and superiority of life,
and stands in genuine awe before the greatness of the men and
of the ages which have simply lived.
Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York.
## p. 2425 (#631) ###########################################
2425
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
(1771-1810)
OT only was Brockden Brown the first American man-of-letters
proper, one writing for a living before we had any real
literature of our own,- but his work possessed a genuine
power and originality which gives it some claim to remembrance
for its own sake. And it is fair always to remember that a given
product from a pioneer indicates a far greater endowment than the
same from one of a group in a more developed age. The forerunner
lacks not one thing only, but many things, which help his successors.
He lacks the mental friction from, the emu-
lation of, the competition with, other writ-
ers; he lacks the stimulus and comfort of
sympathetic companionship; he lacks an
audience to spur him on, and a market to
work for; lacks labor-saving conventions,
training, and an environment that heartens
him instead of merely tolerating him. Like
Robinson Crusoe, he must make his tools
before he can use them. A meagre result
may therefore be a proof of great abilities.
CHARLES B. BROWN
The United States in 1800 was mentally
and morally a colony of Great Britain still.
A few hundred thousand white families
scattered over about as many square miles of territory, much of it
refractory wilderness with more refractory inhabitants; with no cities
of any size, and no communication save by wretched roads or by sail-
ing vessels; no rich old universities for centres of culture, and no
rich leisured society to enjoy it; the energies of the people perforce
absorbed in subduing material obstacles, or solidifying a political
experiment disbelieved in by the very men who organized it;-
neither time nor materials existed then for an independent literary
life, which is the growth of security and comfort and leisure if it
embraces a whole society, or of endowed college foundations and an
aristocracy if it is only of the few. Hence American society took
its literary meals at the common table of the English-speaking race,
with little or no effort at a separate establishment. There was
much writing, but mostly polemic or journalistic. When real litera-
ture was attempted, it consisted in general of imitations of British
—
## p. 2426 (#632) ###########################################
2426
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
essays, or fiction, or poetry; and in the last two cases not even imi-
tations of the best models in either. The essays were modeled on
Addison; the poetry on the heavy imitators of Pope's heroics; the
fiction either on the effusive sentimentalists who followed Richard-
son, or on the pseudo-Orientalists like Walpole and Lewis, or on the
pseudo-mediævalists like Mrs. Roche and Mrs. Radcliffe. This sort
of work filled the few literary periodicals of the day, but was not
read enough to make such publications profitable even then, and is
pretty much all unreadable now.
Charles Brockden Brown stands in marked contrast to these sec-
ond-hand weaklings, not only by his work but still more by his
method and temper. In actual achievement he did not quite fulfill
the promise of his early books, and cannot be set high among his
craft. He was an inferior artist; and though he achieved naturalism
of matter, he clung to the theatrical artificiality of style which was
in vogue.
But if he had broken away from all traditions, he could
have gained no hearing whatever; he died young-twenty years
more might have left him a much greater figure; and he wrought in
disheartening loneliness of spirit. His accomplishment was that of a
pioneer. He was the first American author to see that the true field
for his fellows was America and not Europe. He realized, as the
genius of Châteaubriand realized at almost the same moment, the
artistic richness of the material which lay to hand in the silent forest
vastnesses, with their unfamiliar life of man and beast, and their
possibilities of mystery enough to satisfy the most craving. He
was not the equal of the author of The Natchez' and 'Atala';
but he had a fresh and daring mind. He turned away from both the
emotional orgasms and the stage claptrap of his time, to break ground
for all future American novelists. He antedated Cooper in the field
of Indian life and character; and he entered the regions of mystic
supernaturalism and the disordered human brain in advance of Haw-
thorne and Poe.
That his choice of material was neither chance nor blind instinct,
but deliberate judgment and insight, is shown by the preface to
'Edgar Huntly,' in which he sets forth his views:
――
"America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has
seldom furnished themes to the moral-pointer. That new springs of action and
new motives of curiosity should operate, that the field of investigation opened
to us by our own country should differ essentially from those which exist in
Europe, may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy
and instruction to the heart that are peculiar to ourselves are equally numer-
ous and inexhaustible. It is the purpose of this work to profit by some of
these sources, to exhibit a series of adventures growing out of the conditions
of our country, and connected with one of the most common and wonderful
## p. 2427 (#633) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2427
diseases of the human frame. Puerile superstition and exploded manners,
Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end.
The incidents of Indian hostility and the perils of the Western wilderness are
far more suitable, and for a native of America to overlook these would admit
of no apology. These therefore are in part the ingredients of this tale. »
Brown's was an uneventful career. He was much given to solitary
rambles and musings, varied by social intercourse with a few con-
genial friends and the companionship of his affectionate family, and
later, many hours spent at his writing-desk or in an editorial chair.
He was born January 17th, 1771, in Philadelphia, of good Quaker
stock. A delicate boyhood, keeping him away from the more active
life of youths of his own age, fostered a love for solitude and a taste
for reading. He received a good classical education; but poor health
prevented him from pursuing his studies at college. At his family's
wish he entered a law office instead; but the literary instinct was
strong within him. Literature at this time was scarcely considered a
profession. Magazine circulations were too limited for publishers to
pay for contributions, and all an author usually got or expected
to get was some copies to distribute among his friends. To please
his prudent home circle, Brown dallied for a while with the law; but
a visit to New York, where he was cordially received by the mem-
bers of the "Friendly Club," opened up avenues of literary work to
him, and he removed to New York in 1796 to devote himself to it.
The first important work he produced was 'Wieland: or the Trans-
formation' (1798). It shows at the outset Brown's characteristic
traits-independence of British materials and methods. It is in sub-
stance a powerful tale of ventriloquism operating on an unbalanced
and superstitious mind. Its psychology is acute and searching; the
characterization realistic and effective. His second book, Ormond:
or the Secret Witness' (1799), does not reach the level of 'Wieland. '
It is more conventional, and not entirely independent of foreign.
models, especially Godwin, whom Brown greatly admired. A rapid
writer, he soon had the MS. of his next novel in the hands of the
publisher. The first part of Arthur Mervyn: or Memoirs of the
Year 1793' came out in 1799, and the second part in 1800. It is
the best known of his six novels. Though the scene is laid in Phila-
delphia, Brown embodied in it his experience of the yellow fever which
raged in New York in 1799. The passage describing this epidemic.
can stand beside Defoe's or Poe's or Manzoni's similar descriptions,
for power in setting forth the horrors of the plague.
In the same year with the first volume of Arthur Mervyn' ap-
peared Edgar Huntly: or Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. ' Here he
deals with the wild life of nature, the rugged solitudes, and the red-
skins, the field in which he was followed by Cooper. A thrilling
## p. 2428 (#634) ###########################################
2428
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
scene in which a panther is chief actor was long familiar to Amer-
ican children in their school reading-books.
In 1801 came out his last two novels, Clara Howard: In a Series
of Letters,' and 'Jane Talbot. ' They are a departure from his pre-
vious work: instead of dealing with uncanny subjects they treat of
quiet domestic and social life. They show also a great advance on
his previous books in constructive art. In 1799 Brown became editor
of the Monthly Magazine and American Review, and contributed
largely to it.
In the autumn of 1801 he returned to Philadelphia, to assume
the editorship of Conrad's Literary Magazine and American Review.
The duties of this office suspended his own creative work, and he
did not live to take up again the novelist's stylus. In 1806 he be-
came editor of the Annual Register. His genuine literary force is
best proved by the fact that whatever periodical he took in charge,
he raised its standard of quality and made it a success for the time.
He died in February, 1810. The work to which he had given the
greater part of his time and strength, especially toward the end of
his life, was in its nature not only transitory, but not of a sort to
keep his name alive. The magazines were children of a day, and
the editor's repute as such could hardly survive them long. The
fame which belongs to Charles Brockden Brown, grudgingly accorded
by a country that can ill afford to neglect one of its earliest, most
devoted, and most original workers, rests on his novels. Judged by
standards of the present day, these are far from faultless. The
facts are not very coherent, the diction is artificial in the fashion of
the day. But when all is said, Brown was a rare story-teller; he
interested his readers by the novelty of his material, and he was
quite objective in its treatment, never obtruding his own personality.
'Wieland, Edgar Huntly,' and 'Arthur Mervyn,' the trilogy of his
best novels, are not to be contemned; and he has the distinction of
being in very truth the pioneer of American letters.
་
WIELAND'S STATEMENT
THE
HEODORE WIELAND, the prisoner at the bar, was now called
upon for his defense. He looked around him for some time
in silence, and with a mild countenance. At length he
spoke:-
It is strange: I am known to my judges and my auditors.
Who is there present a stranger to the character of Wieland?
Who knows him not as a husband, as a father, as a friend? Yet
## p. 2429 (#635) ###########################################
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
2429
here am I arraigned as a criminal. I am charged with diabolical
malice; I am accused of the murder of my wife and my children!
It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my
hand. The task of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am
called to vindicate? and before whom?
You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by
me. What more would you have? Would you extort from me a
statement of my motives? Have you failed to discover them
already? You charge me with malice: but your eyes are not
shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has not forsaken
you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits of
his life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his off-
spring is known to you; the soundness of his integrity and the
unchangeableness of his principles are familiar to your apprehen-
sion: yet you persist in this charge! You lead me hither mana-
cled as a felon; you deem me worthy of a vile and tormenting
death!
-
Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife - the
little ones that drew their being from me - that creature who,
as she surpassed them in excellence, claimed a larger affection
than those whom natural affinities bound to my heart.
Think ye
that malice could have urged me to this deed? Hide your auda-
cious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in some
cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore your wicked-
ness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it.
Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts
this detestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag
me to untimely death. I make not an effort to dispel your illus-
ion; I utter not a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly:
but there are probably some in this assembly who have come
from far; for their sakes, whose distance has disabled them from
knowing me, I will tell what I have done, and why.
It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme
passion.
