| | | The reader will conjecture, from the list of books placed at | our heading, what subject the next few pages will offer to | his attention. Our notice of it shall be as short as possible, | for more than one reason. In the first place, the acts of ~~ | if we may use the expression without offence to the | Superior of the Sisterhood at Devonport ~~ a young lady, | are not usual material for the pages of a Review. We | criticise the lady as authoress when she comes out as such: | we have seldom to do with her as actor. Any comment, | therefore, upon her in that capacity is made at a great | disadvantage. It is made at the expense of those natural | feelings which, under ordinary circumstances, erect a | barrier between her and the public: and the writer of the | comment feels the effect of an unfavourable position, and | anticipates his | | reader's observation of it. There are other reasons why | such a task is not an agreeable one. | | We submit cheerfully, then, to a disadvantageous position. | At the same time we must add, in justice to ourselves, that | we could not have avoided it. What all the world talks | about, a review is expected to notice. If no notice appears, | the charge is made of negligence or cowardice. Whatever | responsibility, therefore, there may be in bringing the acts | of a zealous and noble-minded lady under public | comment, belongs to the world at large, and not to | ourselves. We can give no move publicity to the subject | than it already possesses. | | But after apologizing for commenting upon Miss Sellon's | proceedings at all, we have next to apologize for the | circumstance, that that comment will not be one of | unmixed approval. We deeply regret this, more especially | as we cannot but fear, that some, for whose opinion we | entertain a high respect, will consider such absence of | entire and simple approval, as very misplaced in this | quarter, and will make the remark, if not to others, at least | to themselves, that we had better have said nothing, than | said what did not amount to that. | | To begin, then, with some remarks addressed to persons | who have these feelings, ~~ remarks on the general | subject of criticism; for the objection they entertain falls | under this general head. | | A strong objection, then, is sometimes felt to criticism in | one particular case, by persons who adopt a high and | refined, though, perhaps, in over-tender and sensitive | standard of humility. The case supposed is that in which a | person of extraordinary Christian attainments and gifts, | great self-denial and great spirituality of mind, is the | subject of criticism. Such persons happily there are, in all | ages of the world, and sometimes their schemes and | labours bring them prominently before the public eye. In | such cases, that is to say, where positive action is before | us in the shape of objects pursued and undertakings | carried on, there is necessarily room for criticism. But | unhappily, the great body of those who have to form the | judgment in such a case, are not of this extraordinary | Christian stamp. Numbers of them may be good | conscientious persons, doing their duty in that station of | life in which Providence has placed them; but the many | are necessarily ordinary. There is, therefore, in the present | case, the ordinary Christian sitting as judge, while the | extraordinary one appears before him to undergo | judgment. Such a state of things, say these persons, is an | anomalous and improper one; and they recommend in | such a case the suspension of the operation of the critical | faculty. It is not, they argue, for commonplace Christians | to be forming a judgment upon those who are infinitely | their superiors in self-denial, loftiness, and spirituality | | of life. They cannot comprehend their motives, or | appreciate their aims. They judge them by some mixed, | half Christian, half worldly, standard which they have | adopted for themselves, and forget that that very standard | incapacitates them for such a task. It is for such to put | their minds into an attitude of respect simply. They cannot | assume the critical office without offending against the | first law of humility. | | It must be admitted that this is, within certain limits, a | very natural and just line of thought; nor is there, perhaps, | any Clergyman of a parish, schoolmaster, or parent, who | has not to fall back upon it as a basis of discipline, and a | check to presumption and impertinence. But the absolute | rule, that no inferior is ever to judge the conduct of a | superior, is such an exaggeration of the natural law, as | cannot, either in the department of reason or of practice, | support the test of sober examination. | | For let the persons who urge such a rule only consider | what it involves in every judgment whatever made by one | man upon another. We presume that they allow, in the | first instance, that the power of forming a judgment upon | man's character and conduct, was not implanted in us for | no object whatever, but was intended for use. But what is | the preliminary position which this rule makes essential | for the performance of any act of judgment upon another, | the inseparable condition of any use whatever of the | faculty? It obliges him to say that he thinks himself | morally and spiritually better than the person who is the | subject of judgment. Now it is, in the first place, | questionable, if we insist upon strict right, whether any | one man has a right to say absolutely that he is better than | any other: for, however reasonable a conjecture he may | form, he cannot know it as a fact; and till he knows it as a | fact, he had better abstain from asserting it. And in that | case the present rule would act immediately as a universal | prohibitor and suppressor of the act of judgment in man. | But allowing for the right of formal self-preference in | particular instances of comparison, in which an enormous | and extreme moral disparity was apparent, ~~ a very wide | field would still be left in which the judgment would | remain prohibited from exertion. For certainly no man has | a right positively to assert himself to be better than | another, except it is a very clear case ~~ so clear as that | there could be no disagreement about it among. impartial | judges of any class. Apparent difference of degree in | goodness, where both belonged to the general class of | good characters, even considerable difference, would be | far from a sure basis for such a decision. And therefore | the whole class of good men of all kinds, all well-disposed | and respectable society, would be disqualified on this rule | for forming any judgment upon conduct and character | | within their sphere. But lastly, even could we imagine the | right to exist, and to a large extent, still the exertion of it is | so invidious and so opposed to delicacy, modesty, and | taste, that no right-minded person can bring himself to it. | A higher law than that of justice interferes to prevent him. | So here is a rule, according to which the only passage to | the exercise of a certain faculty is made one which no | well-disposed mind can take; a rule by which an act of | judgment is thrown back upon a basis of presumption, no | other being equal to supporting it. | | But to the inconsistency of such a rule in reason, we must | add some most injurious effects in practice. First, the | effect is most injurious as regards the persons themselves | whom it thus lifts above all the reach of criticism. There | cannot be a more dangerous temptation, even to the | highest and most spiritual minds, than the offer of such an | unguarded and unchecked deference ~~ a deference | which tells them that with respect to them the reason has | given up its natural functions; that they have nothing to do | but to follow out their own ideas as they please, and that | they are sure to be right. It was never intended that man | should enjoy such a position as this. There is no despotism | in morals. Everyone , | however high be his character and | rank spiritual, should be considered under the jurisdiction | of the moral and religious part of the community, so far as | that they may call him to account for what he does, and | examine and decide upon it, whether it is right or wrong. | If persons are encouraged to regard the community as | beneath them, they are put in a false position; and so far | as their own minds accept this position, they receive moral | harm. The general sense of mankind is the proper | constitutional check upon the caprices and impetuosity of | the individual; and if he throws it off, he deprives himself | of a providential discipline. Moreover, such an elevation | of the individual is very injurious as an example. It | awakens the vanity of many a religious beginner. He | aspires to a position which he sees placed before him as | the reward of zeal and activity, and he is no sooner an | aspirant than he forestalls the goal, and enjoys all the | sentiment of such a position long before he has done | anything to gain it. So true is it, that where persons are not | content with a virtue as nature has made it, they first spoil, | and finally destroy it. The rule which we have been | considering begins with an undue claim upon humility, | and ends in the greatest encouragement to pride. There is | first an exaggeration, and then a fall. The reason is | deprived of its functions in order to deepen humility, and | the result is a great snare to that very virtue, in the creation | of a post too high for man, ~~ as great a scandal and an | offence as one man can put in another's path. It may be | said, indeed, that | <155> | the mass are the gainers, though at the expense of those | whom it elevates; for that the humility of the mass is not | impaired by the arrogant use made of it | by the few. But no-one | can seriously imagine that one party can be benefited | by what is an undue scandal to the other. We are all one | body, and what injures one is sooner or later injurious to | the rest. If a certain form of the virtue of humility is found | not to work well in the body, but to produce mischief | upon strictly natural principles, then that form, we may | depend upon it, is not the true and proper form of that | virtue, but is an artificial form of it, invented by man, and | therefore not a sound and proper humility even in those | who exhibit it. | | But it is of comparatively slight consequence, except to | themselves, that some individuals should either in whole | or in part lose the grace of humility. It is of great | consequence, indeed, to all, that the moral sense of | mankind should be preserved in integrity. But this rule, | could we imagine it really in operation, would ultimately | deprave and corrupt the moral sense of mankind. An act | of judgment upon any proceeding of another is nothing | but an exertion of the moral sense. Whenever an action | takes place, it either agrees or disagrees with our idea of | what is right. The perception of this agreement or | disagreement by a person is his judgment. Whether he | expresses it or not, if he definitely perceives it, he judges: | the right of expression following upon the first principles | of reason. This being the case, it is evident that if men | cease to exert such judgment as we are speaking of, they | cease to exert, their moral sense. On coming across such | and such phenomena of conduct which come before it, | this faculty gives way and does not perform its functions: | it is suppressed in deference to the same faculty in some | other person. Now, remember, that in the present instance | the party suppressing its moral sense is the community, | the one whose sense is deferred to, the individual. The | general result follows, that the moral sense of mankind at | large is accommodated to that of individuals; made to | coincide with the individual's in its whole scope and | direction. But are individuals safe standards? Is it right to | entrust to their keeping and control the moral sense of | mankind? Certainly not: not even the noblest, wisest, and | best are to be so far trusted. The individual's sense is | partial and distorted; the body's alone is large and | proportioned. The individual is soon exhausted, soon | absorbed: the very attention to one duty often withdraws | him from another, and in withdrawing him from it | practically, lessens even his perception of it. He is entirely | occupied in some limited field of labour, and thinks that | the whole world; his narrowness makes him eager, his | eagerness makes him | | narrow. Does he set his mind on some work? All other | considerations must give way. The idea of relative | importance, of comparison of interests, of balance and | adjustment, goes. He runs into obliquities and | extravagances. All this is necessary, because the | individual is the individual, and not the body, ~~ a | fractional, a small being. Commit the control and | moulding then of the moral sense of mankind to | individuals, and what must ensue? The moral sense of | mankind will become partial and distorted. A change will | take place like the great diluvial revolutions which | geologists describe. Some whole tracts of duty will | disappear, enormous new ones will be cast up. Some | important moral rules will be forgotten entirely, others will | domineer; and a capricious and artificial idea of right or | wrong will supersede the natural one. | | Indeed we have here the true direct answer to the rule, that | no inferior in character must judge a superior. It is quite | true, that no superior ought to be judged by an inferior on | those points on which he is the superior, and has the better | and truer perceptions of the two. But it does not follow | that a person, who is superior, on the whole, in his | perceptions of duty to another, is superior on every point. | A person of inferior perceptions to him generally may | have a superior perception, to his, of | someone or other | particular duty. The very possession of a more intense and | earnest mind, will cause a too small estimate of some | duties, as it will a too large one of others. And where an | estimate is wrong, it may be corrected by another mind | whose estimate is better. | | There is another consideration. We have been supposing | here all along that the extraordinary Christian, the one | who makes some remarkable sacrifices of a tangible and | distinct kind, and adopts a peculiar plan of life, | is superior to an ordinary Christian, | meaning by that term, one who mixes with the main body, | and has no external peculiarity. But it is obvious, that such | an assumption as this must be largely modified, if it is to | be made consistent with truth. This is so old a topic, that | we need only touch on it. It is obvious to | anyone , who is | an observer of character at all, that many persons who | adopt no peculiar external plan of life, are better persons | than some who do. The circumstance of making distinct | tangible sacrifices, is no absolute test of superiority. The | Christian character may be more deeply seated in one who | has not made this class of sacrifices, than in one who has. | And if the body of ordinary Christians contains, as it | unquestionably does, such characters as these, we ought to | be careful how we depreciate the judgment of that body. | | If this whole line of remark on the situation of individuals, | | and their amenableness to criticism, be true, we will add | that they are not inopportune in the peculiar circumstances | of the Church to which we belong. There have been | always parties in the Christian Church, for there have | always been differences of opinion within the Church. But | our branch of the Church has been especially divided into | parties, and the tone and feeling of these have of late years | become more intense. We use the word "parties," applying | it alike to both the great divisions of the English Church; | not that we think both alike in point of truth, but because | we are going to speak now of a property which belongs to | all parties, right and wrong ones, alike. It is the nature of | all parties to be adulatory. They praise their prominent and | serviceable adherents, without limit or qualification. And | they do this upon a principle not unreasonable or unjust, | We will illustrate the case by one, not wholly similar, but | somewhat analogous. Everybody knows the unqualified | tone which prevails at public meetings, especially at | public dinners, with regard to individuals. That a man has | lived so many years in a town or county respectably, and | has been an attentive magistrate, a courteous mayor, an | active churchwarden, or a vigilant poor-law guardian, is | sufficient to procure him a tribute of commendation which | would not have disappointed the appetite of a Roman | Emperor or an Eastern Caliph. Every motive which has | distinguished heroes, from the earliest dawn of history, is | attributed to him in perfect purity. He has been inspired | with the love of his fellow-citizens, and been absorbed in | their interests. For their sake he has braved the greatest | dangers, and surmounted the most overwhelming | difficulties His sacrifices are supposed to be incalculable; | but what is that to one to whom private interest has been | always an idea unknown? Such is the warm estimate of | character which speakers adopt on such occasions, and the | benevolence of praise grows with its exertion, and | demands fresh and fresh objects. Perfect virtue before | long owns for her sons the proprietors of the chief seats in | the neighbourhood, and the leading inhabitants of the | borough. In due course she has made a considerable | inroad on the principal streets. Now a spectator of such a | scene, who only looked upon the surface, would beyond a | doubt set it down as ridiculous. But ~~ we pardon a | mistake which is so easily made ~~ it is not. Let us not | treat such a subject superficially The basis on which these | demonstrations take place is this, that that is the | place for praising people. True, it is | said, all these persons may have their faults, and they may | be noticed in their proper place: but this is not the | place for noticing them. We are met | here to commend one another. | That is our object. The theory of such demonstrations thus | at once confines them to | | praise, to the entire omission of whatever may jar with | that object. But praise which is without balance is obliged | in consistency to be high. Its subject is by the hypothesis | faultless, and it must equal its subject. | | Now party praise proceeds upon a rationale not unlike | this. Just as the public meeting is not the | place to notice the faults of its | principal attendants, so a party, if we may be allowed the | expression, is not the person to | notice errors in its eminent and conspicuous members. | There may be two sides in the case, but it is only our | function, says the party, to notice one. If there is anything | Wrong about our friends and supporters, let the opposition | find it out, but it is not our especial duty to be calling | attention to it. We have the duty of helping and | encouraging them; so if they write anything we praise it; if | they do anything, it is correct in our eyes. There is some | reason in this ground. Parties are collections of persons | who agree in certain main objects, which the wish to | forward. To forward such objects it is necessary to | encourage individual activity and zeal. But encouragement | implies a hearty and warm tone in the encouraging tongue | and pen. The criticizer is in the position, at the outset, of a | friend. He is preengaged on the favourable side, as friends | and relations are to one another. It would be out of place | for him to be "damning with faint praise " | and studious | balance every effort that zeal on his own side made. | | But while the ground which a party takes on this subject is | not itself unreasonable, it is to be feared it has its | disadvantageous effects; and that such a position, however | necessary for it, and on the whole working well, is | procured at some expense. It is quite true that really | sensible minds will understand this position, and will | value the praise they get accordingly. | They will know that it is praise upon an hypothesis of | partiality. They will take such a proper business-like view of | it, as results from perceiving the natural laws of party | action, and the original exigencies of party which create | those laws. But, unfortunately, it is not every clever, or | every zealous, or every sincere mind, that is sensible. | Moreover, it is not everyone who | is sensible with regard to others, who is sensible with | regard to himself. It is to be feared that unqualified praise | does operate disadvantageously upon some, who receive | the tribute, and forget the understanding on which it is | paid; are satisfied with the effect, and make no curious | inquiries into the cause and foundation. There are many | excellent persons who are tolerably indifferent as to what | is underneath, in such a case, provided there is merit in | the superstructure. To such the liberal offerings of party | sympathy are somewhat of a snare, too | | soothing to the spirits, too grateful to the sense; they | domesticate certain infirmities of the character, and drag | upon the ascent in the path of Christian humility. | | We may observe, by the way, that this | rationale of party praise accounts for a fact which | would otherwise be very inexplicable, viz., the coolness | with which the desertion of an eminent champion is | sometimes taken by the main body. After the favouring | voice of several years has given an individual a position, | he goes, and the body would seem to be in a great | difficulty. But it proceeds almost unconscious of its loss. | The reason is, that the great man was its own creation. It | made him, by its own act of setting him and keeping him | up. The party itself, therefore, is the substance of the man. | He cannot deprive it then of his substance, whatever he | does, for that does not belong to him; but only of the | residuum, which is left over | and above the substance, that is to say, his own particular | person. There are various degrees of the real and artificial | in most reputations, and according as the one ingredient or | the other predominates, the loss of the man is felt. | | We may consider, then, that we have shown that, upon | broad and general grounds, individuals are always | amenable to criticism, and that the particular | circumstances of our own Church and day, make it | expedient to exert, occasionally, this right over them, the | tendency of even honest and necessary party action being | to over-estimate them and elevate them unduly. | | No greater tribute can be paid to the character and services | of Miss Sellon, than that we should think this long | apology necessary before venturing to make the least | independent criticism upon her proceedings. She may be | assured that after all we feel ourselves not a little | audacious; nevertheless having summoned spirit for the | occasion, we shall speak with that freedom which is | necessary for proper clearness and serviceableness. | | We shall not go into details. The pamphlets before us are | full of minute charges, affecting Miss Sellon's prudence, | temper, and orthodoxy. She has refuted some of these | particulars. We are willing to believe that she might refute | more if she thought it requisite; and perhaps we could | wish that she did think it requisite, for society has a claim | upon her for every explanation which she can afford for | its satisfaction. | | But amidst much that is trivial and idle, these pamphlets | reveal one point about Miss Sellon's institution, which we | cannot pass over. The "Rule of Obedience," as enforced | there, would seem to involve a very large and serious | change upon the original purpose of the Sisterhood. We | give it as | | laid down in the rules of the Society ~~ we say | rules, for though Miss Sellon denies | their formal and established character, Calling them | | it appears, at any rate, that | they exist in writing, and facts which come out show that she | practically adopts them. The rule on the subject of "holy | obedience" runs thus: | | | Now when the Sisterhood at Devonport was first | established, it was established upon a very simple and | natural basis ~~ a basis, viz., of Christian charity and | self-denial, as these virtues are ordinarily understood. | There was a large poor population, destitute of spiritual | instruction and care, and appealing to the pity of Christian | society. To supply this want a Sisterhood was formed, to | reside upon the spot, and engage personally in the work of | visiting and educating; besides administering the alms | entrusted to them. There was nothing in such an institution, | either as regarded the labours of the Sisterhood, or | the objects to which they were applied, but what | harmonized with natural feelings. All men are agreed that | it is advantageous that the poor should be visited, the | ignorant instructed; and all are agreed that it is a good and | charitable thing to visit and | | instruct. Thus, though the particular form which the | institution took was new and not common, the idea of | duty to which the institution appealed was a common one, | the idea which the Christian world at large has. | | But this rule of obedience appeals to a very different | standard from the common or recognised one. Here we | feel at once that we are leaving the large and open field of | Christian morals, and entering a much more confined, | esoteric, and conventional one. The duty of obedience, | stating it generally, is undoubtedly a natural and | common-sense Christian duty, and one of the most | important of existing duties. There can be no difference | among Christians here. But on examining what the | obedience, thus required by common Christian consent | and feeling, is, we find that it is in every ease limited by | some natural consideration of use and purpose. Subjects | are bound to obey the laws of the State under which they | live; but it is because such obedience is necessary for the | welfare of society. Soldiers are bound to obey the | commands of the general; but it is because such obedience | is necessary for the success of military undertakings. | Servants are bound to obey their masters; but it is because | such obedience is necessary for the order and management | of a household. And generally all persons are bound to | submit to those masters and directors to whom either | Providence or voluntary engagement has attached them, | on those points on which their authority applies; but it is | only on those points, and not upon others, that obedience | is incumbent on them. Here, then, is a natural limit of use | and purpose, up to which obedience is obligatory, and | beyond which it is not. The subjects of a State are not | under any obligation to agree with or approve of its laws | because they are bound to obey them. The same remark | applies to the case of soldiers and servants. Even the | parental authority, the most searching that nature presents, | does not extend to a dominion over mind and conscience. | | This, in a word, is the distinction between human | authority and Divine. Divine authority extends to the | conscience, ~~ human authority only to the acts of men. | When it is proved that such and such a command has been | given by God, it is the duty of every human being not only | to obey it in act, but to conform his own moral sense to it, | ~~ to think within himself that to be right and that to be | wrong which Revelation announces respectively to be so. | But human authority has no claim to the submission of the | moral sense, but only of the outward conduct: because | every man receives his moral sense immediately from | God, and that which comes immediately from God cannot | acknowledge any creature as absolute master. It is quite | true that obedience, in these human relations, ought to | | Miss Sellon. | be as much as possible a cheerful and willing one. A | person in a subject position ought always, if he | can, to think his superior in the right, | and ought to start with every bias in his favour. His | obedience ought even to extend to the mind and | conscience, so far as he ought reasonably to suppose his | superior's mind and conscience to be better than his own | on the matter in question. But whether he ought to | suppose that or not, depends upon various circumstances | of knowledge, opportunity, and relative position, and not | upon any absolute law. A child ought to think its parent | always right, for its intellect and conscience are in a very | rudimental state, and therefore ought in all cases ~~ for | we will not contemplate at present any exception ~~ to | accommodate themselves to those of the parent. But as the | child grows up, this duty is modified. A common soldier | ought to take it for granted that his general is in the right | in commanding any particular line of operation; or rather, | he ought to pretend to no judgment at all in the matter. On | the other hand, a superior officer, who is equally bound | with the common soldier to pay the obedience of act, has | much greater liberty of internal judgment, ~~ a liberty | which he not only may, but ought to use; otherwise he | may be spoiling his own military eye, and depriving his | country of future services. Anyone | who reflects will see | that this pliable rule with regard to individual judgment | secures all the humility and temper in its exercise which | morality requires, providing as it does that every man | should give way on those points on which his sense and | knowledge are inferior. If people saw their own | deficiencies properly, and drew this practical inference | from them, nothing more would be wanted, but humility | would be at once in operation on the amplest scale. | | The duty of obedience, then, as owed from one man to | another, is, as understood by the common sense and | conscience of mankind, a limited thing. It rests for its | foundation on the absolute need of such a rule of action | for carrying on the system of things in which we are, and | conducting any business whatever in which human | interests are concerned, religious, political, or social. And | when it has answered these purposes, it ceases to be | obligatory and essential. The rule prescribes that | everything shall be done which | competent and authorized persons ill the several | departments of human life appoint. But, after securing full | and proper action, it does not pry into the interior of the | man, and command the motions of his mind and moral | sense. | | Now let us examine the Rule of Holy Obedience as put | forth in Miss Sellon's code. No sensible person would | grudge the Superior of such an institution as hers the | amplest powers which are wanted for its efficient | management. No sensible person, therefore, would grudge | her very large rights over the obedience | | of the inferior Sisters. But does the "Rule of Holy | Obedience" limit itself to this practical object, and | content itself with this useful jurisdiction? | | it says, | No sister, then, must ever express any | opinion as to the Superior's acts and proceedings; and no | sister must even entertain and harbour any opinion, if it is | unfavourable. The rule stretches the duty of obedience | beyond the sphere of action into | that of word, and even into that of inward and secret | thought. Now, the prohibition of outward expression of | opinion, had the rule been limited to that, might perhaps | have been defended on a practical ground; for it might be | said that such expression tends to spread dissatisfaction | among the members of a society, and so to enfeeble even | necessary external obedience. To carry | such a consideration as this, indeed, so far as to forbid | absolutely all expression of opinion whatever, would | appear to us a great overstretching of it; and a rule which | took a middle line, and forbad formal, vehement, or | promiscuous discussion, while it left a sister at liberty to | make privately to another, as conversation might lead her, | any remark that might occur to her on the Superior's | proceedings, would not seem more than a due concession | to the natural wants and claims of the human mind. | Religious and educated ladies might be trusted to draw the | distinction between a word of comment and an act of | insubordination. An unqualified rule against "discussion," | if by discussion is meant any intercourse of opinion | whatever, does appear to us | a gratuitous burden. Still there is some room for a | practical ground of defence with regard to it. But how can | it be said that it is necessary for the management of the | institution, that no sister should think, | with respect to any proceeding, differently from the | Superior? Yet this is what the Rule says ~~ | | That is to | say, the mind is to banish its own idea, and receive that of | the Superior, in every instance in which there is any | difference between the two. The very | inner sense and judgment must be reduced to an | agreement with those of another person. There can hardly | be a pretence, to say that an institution which has the | simple practical object of visiting the poor, teaching | children in schools, and distributing | | food and clothing in a destitute district, can positively not | be carried on without this most extraordinary | transmutation of one person's mind into another's. Cannot | any person of ordinary capacity and good feeling be made | to perceive that his judgment may differ from a superior's, | but that he must do what the superior tells him? Is not this | the commonest and most acknowledged distinction which | society holds? But if it is a plain distinction at all, it | excludes the necessity of any such obedience as Miss | Sellon's rule describes, so far as the legitimate objects of | her institution are concerned. | | Here then we see insisted on an obedience which is not | the plain and commonly understood duty, but a peculiar | and esoteric one; an obedience which is released from the | tie of a practical end and purpose. It may be thought by | some that the duty gains in dignity and depth by such a | release. We do not think so. It becomes unmeasured | indeed, and expands indefinitely, when released from this | tie: but measure is no degradation, if there is a good and | sufficient reason for it, if it is the nature of the duty to be | measured; while, on the other hand, the separation of a | duty from the great objects and uses for which it exists, | makes it insipid and meaningless. Removed from a solid | basis, it hangs suspended in the air, an idle absurd thing, | without place in nature. Utility is that which really | ennobles it; that which makes the rational being not | ashamed, but proud, of being obedient. Man works, and is | proud of working, because the divine decree has gone | forth which makes labour necessary for the welfare of | mankind. So he obeys, and is proud of obeying, because | obedience is necessary for the same end. He knows there | must be order, system, subordination; otherwise no work | under the heavens can go on, and the world must come to | a stand-still. He consents then with satisfaction to making | himself so useful, so serviceable: he is, though but one, | yet one of the countless props on which the world, under | Providence, rests. But to an obedience independent of | object and use, to an individual as such, where is the call? | A man meets you in the streets, and says, Obey me, ~~ | you will find obedience salutary; it is good to abandon | your own will. What do you say to such a request? you | say naturally, Obedience is good, but why should I obey | you? why should I accommodate | my mind to yours, any more than you yours to mine? It is | thus that the severed and isolated duty is cast off, like | dross from the great system of human life; no pathway of | reason conducts to it. How can I be satisfied with obeying | you, because you are yourself in the year 1852? What | jurisdiction does that circumstance create? And just as | obedience to an individual as such is absurd, so obedience | to an individual who possesses over you legitimate | | authority for a practical object, is absurd so far as it is | claimed beyond that object. Miss Sellon differs from a | man who meets you in the streets in this, ~~ that she starts | with a real claim. But so far as she exceeds that claim, so | far she is exactly in the position of the man who meets | you in the streets. The Superior of the sisterhood at | Davenport can only claim obedience so far as concerns the | welfare of her institution; if she claims any more than this, | she claims it as Miss Sellon. But why should Miss Sellon | be obeyed, more than any other intelligent and religious | young lady in Her Majesty's dominions? | | We cannot, indeed, but pause an instant to observe what | appears to us an inconvenient consequence of such a rule. | If obedience performs so absorbing a part, in the | formation of the Christian character in a sisterhood, it | seems a pity that the Superior should be deprived of so | essential an advantage. Who has so much claim to the | beneficial influence of the institution as a school of | spiritual education, as she who contributes most to it, the | head herself? But upon this rule she is excluded from the | benefit. Obedience indeed pervades the establishment | from one end to the other, but most unfortunately she | receives it, and does not pay it. She is condemned to the | unprofitable side of the action, while all the rest are | flourishing upon the fertility and the fatness of the side | opposite; she famishes in the midst of plenty, and is | mocked by a luxuriance all around her, which she cannot | touch. We could indeed admire the generosity of the | sacrifice, but justice is too alive to its severity. It is too | romantic, too sharp a self-denial to order, under such | circumstances, instead of obey, control instead of submit, | dictate to others instead of being dictated to, and insist on | your neighbour succumbing to your mould, instead of | claiming your right of admission to his. Not that Miss | Sellon is not equal even to such a trial, but it should not be | required of her. For it must be remembered that the | exchange is not simply of a privileged state for one | without such privilege, but of a privileged state for one | that has directly the contrary properties. For there is no | argument upon which obedience is proved to be salutary, | by which a situation of command is not at the same time | proved to be dangerous. Were the obedience we speak of | indeed only one ingredient among others in the formation | of a spiritual character, its loss might be supplied by some | other trial; though in that case there would be no necessity | to make this duty so dominant and absorbing. But if it is | endowed with these exclusive powers, and made the one | channel to perfection, then its loss must be irremediable. | | The remark then that we made to begin with, that whereas | Miss Sellon's institution, at its first establishment, | appealed to | | the large and commonly recognised standard of Christian | duty, it has now formed an alliance with another and | conventional standard, has, we fear, been verified. We | cannot but regard this "rule of holy obedience," as a | foreign element introduced into the ethics of the | institution, gratuitous, esoteric, and artificial; and consider | that so far as the institution has adopted it, so far it has | diverged from its original purpose. Nobody wanted Miss | Sellon to become the head of a new school of spiritual | education, and embody a new theory of Christian ethics. | She was wanted for the practical purpose of teaching, | visiting, and administering charity in a destitute | population, and for the superintendence of the labours of | others like herself for that purpose. It was thought that the | members of the sisterhood were under her for that | purpose, and not for the purpose of being themselves | operated on, and used as the material for exemplifying an | idea. They were considered her coadjutors, not her subject | matter. And doubtless they are her coadjutors now; but it | is difficult not to see that the other aspect of them is at | least as favourite a one in the mind of their Superior. | | We may add to the unsoundness of such a standard of | obedience in itself, some bad effects which will follow | from it, affecting the institution itself and the cause of | such institutions in general. While Miss Sellon has | gathered around her, and will gather, some earnest and | valuable minds, who happen to be cast in a mould | congenial to such a yoke, she will exclude many others | of a stronger and firmer mould, who cannot and ought not | to submit to it. She has narrowed her ground. Nor can we | forget the fact, however particular circumstances may | modify our inference from it, that already, in two different | instances, sisters have left her establishment, scandalized | at it, and declaring themselves unable to bear its peculiar | rules longer. These facts, after giving all due weight to the | explanation which has been given of them, leave on an | impartial mind the impression that the bow has been bent | too tight. Moreover, the cause of sisterhoods in general | has suffered from this new development of this one; for | the impression has been left upon the public mind, that | such institutions are necessarily connected with an | artificial religious standard, and that they do not rest upon | any large ground of Christian principle. | | And as we cannot approve of this change itself, so neither | can we approve of the mode in which this and other | changes were introduced, and cannot but consider that | some grave claims were unattended to in the process. | | The institution at Devonport commenced with a body of | rules. There was a rule, for example, to guard the liberty | of the sisters, giving | | There was a rule to guard the | property of the sisters: | | | But the Institution at Devonport had not only rules, but a | Visitor. The Bishop of the diocese consented, at the | request of the Superior to undertake that office. It was | thus a complete institution in its formation; with a set of | rules, and an official interpreter of those rules, in case any | question or doubt arose. | | Under these circumstances one step would seem to have | been right and necessary before introducing any changes | in the basis of the institution, or departing from the natural | construction of the existing rules. The Superior had no | right to do this without first consulting the Visitor. But | this, we regret to say, Miss Sellon did, and that largely. | We refer to the letter of the Visitor himself on the subject: | ~~ | | | | | We are obliged, then, to observe that Miss Sellon departed | largely from the natural construction of the rules of the | sisterhood, and introduced important changes upon her | own idea, without once consulting the official authority | appointed for such questions. And we cannot but remark | on the occasion, how easily too high an estimate of a | particular duty combines, in the very same minds, with a | much too low one, according as circumstances affect | them. There was no engagement of obedience which Miss | Sellon's coadjutors had made to her, which Miss Sellon | herself had not made to her Visitor, quite as strongly and | definitely, with respect to the points to which his | authority applied. Yet while she enlarges the standard of | obedience in the case of the sisters, till it absorbs their | whole reason and judgment, she diminishes it as from | herself to the Visitor, until it becomes no obedience at all. | She can see the duty much too readily when it comes in | the shape of a mysterious and unlimited prostration; she | cannot see it at all when it comes in the shape of a plain | and positive engagement. And we are compelled also to | make another remark, which we do with much pain and | reluctance; and that is, that persons are too apt to see the | duty of obedience with different eyes, according as they | owe it to others, or as others owe it to them. | | We have given our judgment, formed with all the | consideration we have been able to bestow, on the main | features of Miss Sellon's proceedings, and the principles | she has adopted for the | | management of her sisterhood. And now the reader may | ask, what practical conclusion is to be drawn? Are those | who have hitherto supported the institution to continue to | support it, or not? ~~ those, we mean, who have supported | it hitherto upon the understanding that the principles upon | which it was managed were such as the ordinary | Churchman acknowledges, but who now discover that | that standard has been departed from. | | Now, with regard to this question, we must at the outset | admit, that the institution does in one respect stand on a | different ground from that on which it stood before the | recent events, and that that difference of ground does | affect the appeal to the members of our Church, as far as | it goes. As an institution proceeding upon a set of rules, of | which a Bishop of the Church was the official interpreter | and guardian, it gave a pledge to members of the Church | that it would adhere to a certain standard. That pledge it | does not now give. It has no longer an official connexion, | and stands on an independent ground. Moreover, it has | actually diverged from the recognised standard. But these | admissions made, leave, we think, still a large and ample | ground on which the institution may appeal to public | support. On the practical question of support, it is not | whether any divergence at all | from an approved standard, but how | much, has taken place, that is to be decided. | | We could wish this distinction were more commonly | attended to than it is. It is, indeed, a most important one, | one essential to every mind that is bent upon acting fairly | by all persons and all objects and causes that it has to deal | with. And yet how much it is lost sight of; how do | multitudes of men, as a matter | of course, upon the first sight of | anyone exceptionable | element in an undertaking, however many others there | may be good, start back; the immediate impulse being that | they will have nothing to do with it. How do others, who | have sufficient good sense to distinguish between what is | obviously trivial and what is of importance, yet suppose, | as a matter of course, that any | importance whatever is enough to make a ground of | separation. In matters social or political the | unreasonableness of such a rule is soon seen, and men | agree to differ even on points of acknowledged | importance, to forward some common object. But in | religion it is otherwise; any importance at all is | immediately considered to be fundamental. | | The rule which general sense and fairness seem to | establish in cases of individual exertion, where it serves | important objects, and is made at great cost and sacrifice | to the person, is this; that in proportion to the sacrifice he | makes and the talents he contributes to an undertaking, he | ought to be allowed to have his own way in the | management of it. We say this, leaving to be understood | the proper exceptions to such a rule, and proper | | limitations of its meaning. No amount of sacrifice or | ability on the part of an individual in conducting an | undertaking, is any reason why we should allow anything | which we think essentially wrong. Again, no amount of | sacrifice or ability give him the right to demand our | approval even of what we allow. But | reserving our approval, and excepting essential points, a | large field is still left of allowance in things not essential. | Let us not | grudge him his own way to a large amount within these | limits. If he has any peculiarities, let him indulge them; if | he has favourite ideas, let him bring them out. Expect him | to give the undertaking the mould, in some measure, of his | own mind. If he is not allowed a fair amount of his own | way, the result is, | that be throws up the matter altogether, and that society is | deprived of his services. The very charm, to a large extent, | of the work to him, ~~ that which keeps him close to it | and enables him to undergo so much toil in the | prosecution of it, ~~ is the employment it affords to his | own individual biasses, tastes, and ideas. He likes to feel | the individual element within him energizing; that he | himself ~~ as distinguished from all other mortals | that, ever have been, are, or will be ~~ is doing something. | He enjoys the sensation of a productive, as distinguished | from an inert individuality, one which impresses itself on | the world without, and makes some portion ia least of | nature ~~ however limited, obedient to it. | | When, three or four years ago, a large, enthusiastic, and | then unsuppressed party in France were agitating for the | regeneration of the social system upon principles of pure | equality and benevolence; when the Socialists were | contending for a new commercial basis, viz. that all | should contribute labour and skill to one large object, the | good of the community; the individual being content to | receive as the reward of his exertions, however great, his | own share, however small, of the general product, they | were met in the National Assembly by in argument. The | man of the most acute, practical intellect in that assembly, | and its ablest and most commanding speaker, who did not | disdain, moreover, on the occasion, to borrow from the | pages of a writer even | more philosophic and acute than himself, ~~ M. Thiers, | repeating Hume, said this simply ~~ (if we give the kernel | of the argument it will be enough.) He said ~~ If you want | to have certain effects produced in the world, you must | have a motive which is | strong enough to produce them. | Society wants to have produced for it, the effects, ~~ | trade, manufacture, art, skill, labour, capital ~~ the whole | commercial system. The only motive which is strong | enough to produce these effects, is the motive of private | interest. Give the individual a private interest in the result | of his labours, allow him to look forward to the possession | of an estate, the founding of a family, and he will work as | hard as you like. | | And the result will extend from himself to society at large. | The public will ultimately profit by that which private | interest set going. Discoveries will be made, skill | improved, system extended, and a whole commercial | world arise upon this principle. But this is the only | principle which is strong enough to produce these effects. | Introduce in its stead a general benevolence, and the | whole fabric will fall from simple want of support. The | latter is too weak a motive to work upon. | | The great ancient moral philosopher applied the same | principle to a much more delicate and sensitive subject. | We have not his great work by our side at present, and | must use the recollections of many years ago, under the | correction, if they or their application be erroneous, of the | friendly reader who knows better. Aristotle treats the | subject of morals in an order, as it may be called, first | abstract and next concrete. First the important questions | are settled, that virtue is necessary for happiness, and that | such and such habits are virtues. An elaborate catalogue | of these noble habits is given, and each is described with | great accuracy and completeness. But at this stage of the | treatise, ~~ that is to say, every part of an exalted moral | character having been successfully drawn, ~~ the mind, of | the great pagan appears to be impressed with some | apprehension respecting its embodiment. He appears to | see some great difficulties in the way of the actual man | exhibiting these perfections, at any rate on a triumphant | scale. And yet his philosophy would demand that there | should be such persons in the world, and that they should | be more than one or two: for his idea of existence was | confined to this world, and therefore he would naturally | expect that this world should be able to produce in a good | and sufficient number of instances, the perfect character; | otherwise, we have ideas which are not realized | effectually, and nature is guilty of a fiction. In this | difficulty he has recourse to the same eminently | serviceable principle to which Hume and M. Thiers | appeal. The virtues of the good | man, are allowed to grow up | ~~ "about himself." | The permission is a significant one, too significant. | However, once given, the convenience of it is felt. Virtue | becomes a more practicable thing, the path to perfection | much more commodious. The "good man" is made the | member of a state, a leading member. In this capacity he | does noble services to his country, fellow-citizens, and | friends: he exhibits, in doing them, wisdom, magnanimity, | benevolence, courage, etcetera | But all this moral formation | goes on | "about himself;" | his position is greatly improved by | means of it, and virtue is the highest, the purest, and the | noblest engine, but still the engine of promotion. Under | such fostering influences, she has a splendid growth; she | makes powerful strides in the individual, the whole | community | | outside looking on; till at last, commanding universal | respect, he grows into a model, and the highest | combination of position, reputation, and ethics stands | before us. The character is not unlike that of the modern | statesman of the higher class: one, who is attentive to the | improvement of public morals, and adopts a conscientious | and honourable standard of public service. Such a man | exhibits high public virtues, and a moral formation may be | said to go on in his case, | about self. The | stimulus of an honourable ambition, the idea of the career | which he has to fulfil, sustains his ethical aims, tastes, and | labours. | | It is thus that Aristotle produces an embodiment of the | virtues. He saw that a strong motive was wanted to put in | effective action the moral powers of man, and he supplies | one. The motive is one indeed which has a more suitable | application in the commercial world than in the moral, and | produces the physical good of the community more | faithfully than the virtue of the individual. But either | application will do for the purpose of illustration. | | That which the motive of private interest, then, effects in | the material system of society, religious bias and | peculiarity effect in the world of religion. There is a | department of large and general religious truth which all | in the same Church acknowledge; and there is a | department of peculiar and controversial truth, which | some think to be truth, and others not. The tendency of | human nature is to take much more interest in the latter | than in the former department of truth. Large and general | truth has no charm for many minds. But set them upon | some idea which they are conscious is rather peculiar to | themselves, and which appeals to the resources of their | own private and particular treasury of thought, and they | are all alive: they want to communicate it to others; they | become teachers. If they are preachers, they will begin | sometimes with common and acknowledged truths, but | the discourse soon falls into the private channel. This is | the stimulus which makes them interested, zealous, and | active, about religious truth at all. If they are practical | workers in the Church, they try to impress the peculiar, | the favourite sentiment upon their work. That is their | stimulus to production. Do not most of us know men with | whom the alternative would simply be between a working | peculiarity and a total inertness, who if they were not | arbitrary would be weak, and who make a bargain with | religion at the outset, to colour her, or take no trouble | about her? And yet the services of such minds are not to | be lost to religion. It is better that they should teach a | coloured truth, provided no vital part is affected, rather | than not teach at all; and that they should do a mixed work | rather than none. Indeed, we are here concerned | | with a mysterious question relating to the human mind, | which we shall not try to solve. For in the present narrow | condition of our faculties, cannot we conceive it to be a | sort of impossibility with many that they should embrace | truth, other than in this way; inasmuch as if they admit it | into their minds | at all, it cannot be by any other opening than such as their | minds have? May not the very instrument for attaining all | the compass of thought possible for them, be this very | individuality, which operates as a quickening principle, | sharpening the sense while it confines it, and causing | whatever appreciation even of truth, general and large, | such minds can attain to? | | If this is the case, then, it is to the advantage of the | Church that it should acknowledge and avail itself of this | principle, allowing for the bad results which may follow, | together with the good ones, in its working. The work of | religion in the world is conducted by individuals; the | consequence is a mixture. But those who know the laws | upon which the human mind acts, will expect no less. And | they will expect it most in the case of those very persons | who are most anxious to do good, for in the zealous and | the energetic the individual element is most strong. | Undertakings large and important for the benefit of | society are not begun without some great impulse; but a | strong impulse is more difficult to regulate than a weak | one, and must often go further than the mark. The rule, | then, that we laid down applies: if those who have all the | trouble and pains of sustaining an undertaking, do impart | to it some peculiarity from their own minds, let us not be | surprised, or complain too bitterly. Go through the wide | world, and you will see pervading every department a rule | ~~ the rule of | Search east and west, | north and south, look high and look low; in society, trade, | politics, it is the same law, and you cannot escape it. | Those who give will take, those who expend their own | strength will indulge their own bias, and those who do the | work will claim | their own way of doing it. Do not demand, then, that a | work shall comply with your own standard before you | support it. You will never see such a work, and will have | to wait till doomsday. There will be always something to | object to, some divergence from your own idea. Some | persons do, indeed, go on to the last day of their lives, | wondering why others do not see as they do; the fact never | ceases to surprise them, and after the experience of the | whole day long retains the first freshness of the early | dawn. They go on to the last, having their model, to which | everything whatever done must come up, at the cost of | absolute offence, if it does not. But of such it is only | necessary to say, that it is marvellous how they do not see | those laws of human action which obtrude themselves | upon their observation every day. There is certainly a | primary difference between | | minds, that some do, and others do not, see the world | which they are in. | | The question then. is, whether Miss Sellon's institution has | diverged from the standard, which the body of our Church | people recognise, more than is | fairly tolerable, and may be allowed, though not | approved? And to that we answer decidedly, No! We | regret, and have given our reasons why, the turn which | she has of late given to her institution, her extravagant | demand upon the obedience of her sisterhood, and other | changes. Such a demand is itself improper, and cannot | work well either for her own sisterhood, or the cause of | sisterhoods generally. Still we see nothing in it but what | comes within the pale of Christian liberty. If any society | of young ladies choose voluntarily to put themselves under | Miss Sellon's guidance, and accept her judgment on all | points, so long as she does not tell them to do what is | wrong, we do not see why they should be interfered with. | They have a right to do what they will with their own, and | if they deliver up their own judgment to another, it is yet | their own judgment, and not | anybody's else, that they | give up. And if such submission leads them to spend their | lives in visiting the poor, and instructing children in | schools, it is not a result which either the Church or the | community can complain of. | | It has been the fault of the English Church that it has been | over jealous of its own standard, and looked with too | much suspicion on zeal and energy wherever they have at | all deviated from it. This is an old topic. There is the case | of Wesley and the Methodists in the last century. This | jealousy does, indeed, lie very deep in the main body of | our People. They will allow no interval between the | substantial squire's, the reputable tradesman's model, and | fatuity. And yet there is a cry on all sides for workers. We | hear how much is wanted to be done, how the people are | perishing for want of knowledge, and vice reigning in our | crowded cities. But the worker comes, and because he | does not do his work exactly in the way we want, he is | dismissed. But if we wait for the convenient and | accommodating workman, who will take all the trouble | and have none of the choice, we shall wait long enough. | Here is a case in point ~~ the very case before us. Here is | all institution which has been at work about three years, | and in that short time it has managed to diverge | considerably from the original idea oil which it was | raised. Shall we suppress this institution then that | diverges, and have another which does not? So be it; and | let us suppose another institution raised: and in three more | years it will diverge like its predecessor. We do not say | this always must be the case; but in a greater or less | degree it is to be expected. And so we shall go on for ever | inviting labour and dismissing it, | | raising fabrics and destroying them. The correct, the | model institution, which is to work faultlessly will never | come. How idle is such a course; how unworthy of serious | minds, who want good to be done, know there must be | workmen to do it, and know the laws of work! See the | necessities of the case then, and submit to them. Keep | your workman, with his peculiarities, and use his large | zeal, his unwearied activity, his noble devotion and | self-denial. In a word, be liberal. Let the Church of England be | a Church and not a sect; an empire, not a club. It is the | characteristic of empire to be onmigenous; to include as | many forms and species, as many laws, customs, nations, | and languages, as possible. An empire cannot be stiff; it is | contrary to the law of its existence to be so. Until our | people learn this liberality and largeness of heart, until the | despotism of one model is put down, the Church cannot | make use of her resources, but there will be a perpetual | waste going on. It is a thing, never to be lost sight of, that | the despotism of this model ought one day to be deposed. | Let no opportunity be lost of showing people how much | they lose by their mistake. Let them be at any rate told that | it is a, mistake. It is something for them to hear such a | thing said. Repetition impresses the imagination even | where the reason is preoccupied, and a process which has | domesticated countless absurdities may promote, perhaps, | one truth. Such | resistance may be thought the height of absurdity, but the | fact is, at any rate, seen that it is made. The Church of | England never has yet learned, indeed, this lesson of true | liberality, but there is no reason why, she should not. | There is no impossibility ill the case ~~ none, at any rate, | of which we are | informed, from natural sources. | | We have endeavoured to exhibit in this article the | combination of a right with a duty, or rather of one duty | with another; and we will repeat it at the close, as our | advice to any person who may think us in the position to | give advice, with respect to the proper posture of mind to | assume towards the case of Miss Sellon, and all other such | cases. First, use your judgment independently on the right | and wrong of any proceedings which come before you, be, | the agents who they may. Whether particular defects of | knowledge or understanding may make you an exception | to it, you must, of course decide; but this is the general | rule. Secondly, when you have made your judgment on | the act, do not let it separate you from the agent, or his | work and, object as a whole. Exercise the strength of your | judgment., control its pedantry and arbitrariness. Be | independent in opinion, social in action. Give your support | to undertakings which on the whole do good, and do not | think too much of a few irregularities or obliquities | attaching to them.