not necessary for its development. The yawning chasm which opened dismally between the two, he bridged over successfully, so that men might pass and repass from the one to the other without renouncing the peculiar truth in either. If it be asked where is the school which Schleiermacher founded?-the reply is twofold. In the ordinary use of the term, we answer, nowhere. Schleiermacher never aimed at forming a sect, narrow and exclusive; he ever repudiated such an effort of his power. He strove to bind up in a common union the advocates of a liberal theology and science. To split still wider the too-much riven church, he depreIcated with intense fervour. In the universal use of the word, we reply, everywhere; inasmuch as, from his "first appearance as a professor and preacher, he gathered about him, and attached to him a multitude of enthusiastic hearers and admirers, who, roused and animated by him, have wrought and are working in his spirit," he could but be regarded as the centre of a great working power that still is exerting a vast influence in Germany and elsewhere. Few among those who have become serviceable or auxiliary to the new movement in theology and the church, but owe their chief stimulus to the lectures or the writings of Schleiermacher. Most of the more recent theologians have become his pupils, among whom are found the distinguished theologians, Neander, Julius Müller, Tholuck, Nitzsch, Bleek Lücke, Dorner, and Twesten. last-named is Schleiermacher's successor in the divinity chair at Berlin, and advocates a theology in the main identical with that of his predecessor. The stimulus which Schleiermacher gave is consciously or unconsciously implied in the case of all. Thus he has formed a school, by stimulating rather than by prescribing, diffusing and emancipating, more than by contracting, excluding, and restraining. The Occupying, as Schleiermacher did, a middle-point, it would naturally ensue that many who began with him would diverge with tendencies more or less different from him. Thus it is that many have used him as a conductor to more evangelical views of religion; while others have gone from him to more rationalist doctrines. The celebrated Dr. Strauss is an example of the latter. Schleiermacher taught him to look at some of the New Testament narratives in a mythical sense. He, advancing in that direction, has applied the mythical interpretation to the whole of the gospel narrative. Schleiermacher's mind was too welltrained to freedom to repress any, even the most hostile, divergence from his own system and mode, and hence he says, "Let every one rejoice in that he has excited life, for by this he approves himself to be an instrument of the Divine Spirit; but let none suppose that it lies within his power to determine the form which this life shall assume." However much Schleiermacher might be looked on as an Iconoclast—a breaker-up of old forms, boundary lines, and institutions; yet he never broke anything down for the mere sake of mischief. Some men love to knock down a building for the purpose of taking a calm survey of the ruins, with their hands in their breeches' pockets. Not so with Schleiermacher: if ever he came athwart anything decrepit and useless, before he knocked it down, he cast about him to see if he had anything more efficient to replace it by; then, indeed, he felt no hesitation to aim a lusty blow. Speaking of the personality of Schleiermacher, Dr. Lücke says, that, in approaching him for the first time, he found in him a friendly sincerity, rather than a cordial warmth. It was only by degrees that the shy and timid reverence with which I had approached him, gave place to another feeling; nay, it was at first only increased by the admiration which the immediate presence of his powerful soul, manifesting itself in his glance and in his speech, excited within me. This soon disappeared, and gave place to an increasingly cordial and confidential respect. Any one who mustered courage to seek him was very soon cordially met by him. "His love was no effeminate tenderness, accompanied by ever open, caressing speech; but an earnest, compact fire, which not merely passed through the stranger mind with a magnetic softness of attraction, but also convulsed it like an electric shock, yet even thus always possessed for such as abound in vital energy a refreshing charm." Schleiermacher himself says in his Monologues: "I am sure of those who are really disposed to love me my interior nature; and firmly does my soul entwine itself about them, nor will it ever forsake them. Never have I as yet lost any that ever became dear to me in love." Love ever reigned supreme over the deepest ground of his heart, from the very first; and the keenness of his intellect, the stinging wit, the sharpness of speech with which he fought and wounded, were never able to overcome the love which was at the foundation of his heart. This always made him a lively and cheerful companion, and among his friends no one was ever repelled from him by an austere, pompous gravity, borrowed from his literature or his professor's chair. Schleiermacher's exterior personality was diminutive and humpbacked, with a great head and large, bright, flashing eyes, indicative of the vast soul which dwelt in his deformed body. He had but a limited capital of physical strength; but his supreme will made it do services before which the strongest of men would have quailed. He made it suffice for all the labours and toil with which his active life abounded. In the pedestrian tours in which professors and students of German universities consume their long vacation he was always the first to start off in the morning and the last to retire at night. After having been in company till very late at night, the most mirthful and vivacious of the whole assembly, he has often lectured or preached the next morning with unimpaired freshness and vivacity as early as six o'clock. Often, too, did he preach or lecture when enduring the most excruciating pain from spasms, of which none but himself were conscious. The bodily organization of Schleiermacher served the purpose of a good workshop for his spirit till the year 1834; then comes the end. Death came upon Schleiermacher to ennoble and glorify his life. His widow has kept a beautiful record of his last moments upon earth. During his final illness the temper of his mind was marked by serene and gentle tranquillity. One day, when he awoke from a slumber into which he had been thrown by means of opium, he called his beloved consort to his side, and said, "I am, to be sure, properly speaking, in a state which fluctuates between consciousness and the absence of consciousness, but inwardly I am spending most delightful moments; I am constrained to be constantly in the midst of the profoundest speculations, which, however, are here identical with the most heart-felt religious experiences!" The last days of his life were pervaded and irradiated by the presence of religion. Even his dreams were reflexes of his religious life and activity. "I have had such a beautiful dream,” he said on one occasion, "and it has left with me a peculiar and salutary frame of mind. I was in a large assembly, there were many persons, familiar and unfamiliar, all looking at me, and wishing to hear from me something of a religious character; it was in the nature of an instruction, and I gave it with so much pleasure!" Affectionately mindful of children and friends, and in proportion as he drew nearer to the important moment, more profoundly immersed in love, as the inmost spring of his being, he said,— "To the children I leave the saying of St. John-'Love one another!" And I charge thee," said he to his consort, "to salute my friends, and to tell them how heartily I loved them." The 12th February, 1834, was the last of Schleiermacher's days on earth. On the morning of this day, his suffering visibly increased: he complained of a violent sensation of burning, inwardly, and the first and last cry of pain escaped his lips,-"Alas, Lord, my pain is great!" In a deeply affecting manner, he then said to his children," You should now all of you go from the room, and leave me alone: I would fain spare you the woeful spectacle." The perfect lineaments of death presented themselves; his eye appeared to have grown dim,-his death-struggle to have been accomplished. At this moment he laid his two forefingers upon his left eye, as he often did when reflecting deeply, and began to speak: "We have the reconciliation-death of Jesus Christ, his body and his blood." While thus engaged, he had raised himself up, his features began to grow animated, his voice became clear and strong, and he said with priestly solemnity," Are ye one with me in this faith?" to which his friends replied with a loud "Yea." "Then let us celebrate the Lord's supper! But there can be no talk of the officiant. Quick, quick! let no one stumble at matters of form!" After that which was necessary for the purpose had been fetched (his friends having waited with him during the interval in solemn silence), he began with increasingly radiant features, and eyes to which there had returned a wonderful, indescribable brightness, nay, a sublime glow of affection, with which he looked upon those around him, to utter a few words of prayer and introduction to the sacred service. After this, addressing, in full and aloud, to each individual, and last of all to himself, the words of the institution, he first gave the bread and the wine to the others who were present, then partook of them himself, and said, "Upon these words of scripture I abide; they are the foundation of my faith." After he had pronounced the benediction, his eye first turned once more towards his consort with an expression of perfect love, and then he looked at each individual with affecting and fervent cordiality, uttering these words,-"Thus are we, and abide, in this love and fellowship, one!" He laid himself back on his pillow. The radiance still rested upon his features. After some minutes he said, "Now I can hold out here no longer." And again,-"Give me another position." He was laid upon his side; he breathed a few times; life came to a stand. The children had entered the room in the meantime, and surrounded the bed, kneeling. His eyes gradually closed. The intelligence of Schleiermacher's death created deep sorrow and consternation through the whole kingdom. Every one mourned over the irreparable loss the fatherland had sustained. Schleiermacher's funeral very much resembled an ovation granted to his remains. The university, the clergy, professors, students; friends, admirers, opponents, strangers; the whole court; the entire city in which he lived, came out, and in the most sumptuous and reverential manner celebrated his funeral rites. His remains rest in the cemetery, at some little distance from the city on its southern side. A simple monument, with a bust in white marble, of exquisite workmanship, has been erected over his grave. However deep might be the grief which was universally felt at the death of Schleiermacher, an antidote was found to that emotion in the words which he himself had spoken at a "festival of the dead," shortly before his own death:-"Therefore, as often as we derive from the life and activity of any individual the feeling that he is, in a greater or smaller degree, an especial instrument of God and of his Spirit, it is very possible that when the period of his activity comes to an end, a feeling of anxiety may arise in our hearts; but this anxiety is not the product of faith. Faith ought to know that the Lord, when he recalls one, also calls and appoints another; and he will never be at a loss for instruments to accomplish that which, in his Son and through him, is already accomplished everlastingly, and in the progress of time shall be ever more and more accomplished, through the increasingly equable co-operation of human energies, enlightened and directed by God." LORD LANGDALE.* A BIOGRAPHER, as described by Mr Macaulay, is "a literary vassal, bound by the immemorial law of his tenure, to render homage, aids, reliefs, and all other customary serves to his lord." But a biographer, according to modern practice, is a literary plasterer and bricklayer, working with a hod on his shoulder and a trowel in his hand, most industriously engaged in the disposal of bricks and mortar. Nothing, it will be admitted, is easier than to pile up in a waggon a whole warehouse of papers, and to shoot the contents bodily into Mr. Bentley's printingrooms; but the labour is surely that of a carter, not of a litterateur. It is not very difficult, we know, to arrange a deceased gentleman's correspondence in the order of time, but a countinghouse clerk is not a biographer when he has performed the mere mechanical service. Since the immortal Bozzy slept-having achieved biographical fame that Plutarch might have envied men's lives for the most part have been written in water, and that of the muddiest. We have gone on from bad This admirable article on the Biography of Lord Langdale is reprinted from The Times, Aug. 14th, 1852. to worse. At this moment the biographical art is extinct in England; it has gone out with pugilism and the drama. We need not be ashamed of our historians, for Macaulay, Grote, Hallam, and Mahon, are among us. Scott is dead, but we will not blush for the novelists while Dickens and Thackeray are here, and the author of Coningsby is Chancellor of the Exchequer and leader of the House of Commons. Poetry is not lost; for Tennyson still lives. Science is upheld in the three kingdoms by the most illustrious representatives; but where are your biographers? Southey died the other day, and we knew not how many monthly volumes appeared to give account of his most interesting life; yet no one denies that the memoir of the virtuous laureate has still to be written. Wordsworth soon followed his friend, and a literary chronicle of his career was put forth which we are bound to pronounce discreditable to all parties concerned in the publication. The survivors of great men are, in fact, not to be trusted with the records of the dead; they attend to their own personal needs rather than to the public requirements, absurdly magnifying points respecting which the world at large is utterly careless, and jealously withholding information which, if a memoir is to be written at all, it is of the very first consequence to supply. We do not pine for every epistle-good or bad, dull or clever, frivolous or important that a hero has written, neither do we call for every memorandum that may be found after death in his drawers; but, when heroism is vindicated, we demand all the evidence essential to uphold the vindication. The exact measurement of a departed worthy is not a matter on which we are over-solicitous; but we do claim all the particulars-and genius knows how to give them, briefly as well as vigorously-without which it is impossible to know wherein consists the excellence or what constitutes the worth. Dryden tells us that," as the sunbeams, united in a burning-glass to a point, have greater force than when they are darted from a plane superficies, so the virtues and actions of one man, drawn together into a single story, strike upon our minds a stronger and more lively impression than the scattered tions of many men and many ac tions." There is no disputing the fact, Mr. Thomas Duffus Hardy must go down in the old category. We have no doubt that gentleman is a most efficient public servant; but he has no better pretensions to the biographical chair than we have to the Mastership of the Rolls. He too is a carrier not an artist. Attached to the Record-office, he has carefully labelled all the letters, reports, and other documents belonging to the late Lord Langdale, upon which he could lay his hands, and given an account of his treasures with all the scrupulous conscientiousness becoming his office. Light and shade, studied effect, the subordination of parts to a whole, are matters for painters, not for keepers of records, and, therefore, Mr. Hardy, with great dignity, eschews them. To Wordsworth's potter A primrose by a river's brim To Mr. Hardy, a letter is a letter, let it be long or short, heavy or sparkling, to the point, or foreign to the purpose. It is enough for him that Lord Langdale's correspondents have saved his epistles from the fire, that is the best argument with the Record-officer for preserving them for ever. There are letters printed in these volumes respecting which we should be much puzzled, but for this official explanation. Writing to his father, in his twentieth year, Lord Langdale, then Mr. Bickersteth, says, "I am sorry to hear that the gout still keeps lingering about you. I hope, however, that it keeps moving off by degrees, and that it will soon be quite gone. From your silence I conclude that my mother continues quite well. At what time do you think you shall set off for town? Your last letter was written on Mary Anne's birthday. Tell my little girl I do not forget her: I wish her many, many happy years. Mrs. Lawson was very unwell at the time she set out from Edinburgh. I hope she was not worse from her journey, and that she is now recovered. I have not heard a word of Dr. Garret, except what you told me in your last. I will be obliged to you to tell me how he goes on if you hear soon." It is just as easy to decide upon what grounds this interesting letter-and there are twenty to match-is submitted to the reader's admiration as it is to discover the claims of the organ-boy who kills you with his discord, and then asks remuneration for his crime. When those interesting sentences were printed, what peculiar feature in Lord Langdale's character did his biographer wish to illustrate? As a specimen of style the record is worse than valueless. Filial affection is certainly manifested by the query touching his father's gout, but that virtue might have been taken for granted, if no better evidence were at hand to prove its existence. Friendship shines in the references to Mrs. Lawson and Dr. Garret, but if every good man's inquiry after his neighbour's health is to be handed down to posterity, twenty British Museums will soon not hold a quarter of our printed books. Lord Langdale did not distinguish himself in the House of Lords. On the contrary, he sadly disappointed expectation, and as a politician, was a cypher; yet nearly every speech uttered by Lord Langdale in that illustrious assembly is reprinted by Mr. Hardy. Lord Langdale, when a youth, made a walking tour in Cumberland, and visited the lakes. He kept a commonplace diary of a commonplace walk, and Mr. Hardy, of course, publishes it verbatim. Lord Langdale was one of a commission appointed to inquire into the management of the British Museum. Suggestions relative to a report were drawn up by his Lordship, and every syllable is reproduced here to give bulk to the book and to complete the reader's weariness. There never was so scrupulous a keeper of records and so dull a biographer. It has been said of Montaigne that when he strikes a little out of the common road his readers are sure to be the better for his wandering. "The best quarry lies not always in the open field, and it is worth while to follow a good huntsman over a few hedges and ditches to be well rewarded with sport in the end." Mr. Hardy is eternally striking out of the common road, but his digressions are even more tedious than his main discourse. Mr. Bickersteth performed a slight service for Sir Francis Burdett; the mention of the fact dooms us to a Parliamentary history of the period, and to a memoir of the eccentric baronet. Lord Langdale was a friend of Mr. Bell, the Chancery barrister, and an admirer of the labours of Jeremy Bentham, and |