t such as it is, and taking
all its history into account, I believe that of all the Christian
churches, it is that in which the spiritual regime is best
reconciled with the political, and the rights of divine tradition
with those of human liberty.... I shall probably send you in the
course of this year some meditations on the essence and history of
the Christian religion. Europe is in an anti-Christian crisis; and
having come near the term of life, I have it much at heart to mark
my place in this struggle.
(M173) For some reason Henry Taylor encloses him (April 5, 1837) "a letter
written by Southey the other day to _a wild girl_ who sent him some
rhapsodies of her writing, and told him she should be in an agony till she
should receive his opinion of them." This recalls a curious literary
incident, for the "wild girl" was Charlotte Bronte, and Southey warned her
that "literature cannot be the business of a woman's life and ought not to
be," and yet his letter was both sensible and kind, though as time showed
it was a bad shot.(330) Thackeray has been asked to breakfast but "I only
got your note at 2 o'clock this afternoon, when the tea would have been
quite cold; and next Thursday am engaged to lecture at Exeter, so that I
can't hope to breakfast with you. I shall be absent from town some three
weeks, and hope Mrs. Gladstone will permit me to come to see her on my
return." Froude, who was often at his breakfasts, gives him a book (year
doubtful): "I took the liberty of sending it you merely as an expression
of the respect and admiration that I have felt towards you for many
years,"--sentiments that hardly stood the wear and tear of time and
circumstance.
In 1850 what Macaulay styles a most absurd committee was appointed to
devise inscriptions for medals to be given to the exhibitors at the great
world-show of next year. Its members were, besides Macaulay himself and
Gladstone, Milman, Liddell, Lyttelton, Charles Merivale. Milman bethought
him of looking into Claudian, and sent to Mr. Gladstone three or four
alternative lines fished out from the last of the poets of Roman paganism.
Macaulay had another idea;--
MY DEAR GLADSTONE,--I am afraid that we must wait till Thursday. I
do not much, like taking words from a passage certainly obscure
and probably corrupt. Could we not do better ourselves? I have
made no Latin verses these many years. But I will venture. I send
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