The Life of Sir James Fitzjames Stephen, Bart., K.C.S.I Part 2

My father, however, was a man of exquisitely sensitive nature--a man, as my mother warned his children, 'without a skin,' and he felt very keenly the attacks of which he could take no notice. In early days this had shown itself by a shyness 'remarkable,' says Taylor, beyond all 'shyness that you could imagine in anyone whose soul had not been pre-existent in a wild duck.'[43] His extreme sensibility showed itself too in other ways. He was the least sanguine of mankind. He had, as he said in a letter, 'a morbidly vivid perception of possible evils and remote dangers.' A sensitive nature dreads nothing so much as a shock, and instinctively prepares for it by always antic.i.p.ating the worst. He always expected, if I may say so, to be disappointed in his expectations. The tendency showed itself in a general conviction that whatever was his own must therefore be bad. He could not bear to have a looking-gla.s.s in his room lest he should be reminded of his own appearance. 'I hate mirrors vitrical and human,' he says, when wondering how he might appear to others. He could not bear that his birthday should be even noticed, though he did not, like Swift, commemorate it by a remorseful ceremonial. He shrank from every kind of self-a.s.sertion; and in matters outside his own province often showed to men of abilities very inferior to his own a deference which to those who did not know him might pa.s.s for affectation. The life of a recluse had strong attractions for him. He was profoundly convinced that the happiest of all lives was that of a clergyman, who could devote himself to study and to the quiet duties of his profession. Circ.u.mstances had forced a different career upon him. He had as a very young man taken up a profession which is not generally supposed to be propitious to retiring modesty; and was ever afterwards plunged into active business, which brought him into rough contact with politicians and men of business of all cla.s.ses. The result was that he formed a manner calculated to s.h.i.+eld himself and keep his interlocutors at a distance. It might be called pompous, and was at any rate formal and elaborate. The natural man lurked behind a barrier of ceremony, and he rarely showed himself unless in full dress. He could unbend in his family, but in the outer world he put on his defensive armour of stately politeness, which even for congenial minds made familiarity difficult if it effectually repelled impertinence. But beneath this sensitive nature lay an energetic and even impetuous character, and an intellect singularly clear, subtle, and decisive. His reasons were apt to be complicated, but he came to very definite results, and was both rapid and resolute in action. He had 'a strong will,' says Taylor, 'and great tenacity of opinion. When he made a mistake, which was very seldom considering the prodigious quant.i.ty of business he despatched, his subordinates could rarely venture to point it out; he gave them so much trouble before he could be evicted from his error.' In private life, as Taylor adds, his friends feared to suggest any criticisms; not because he resented advice but because he suffered so much from blame.

Another peculiarity was oddly blended with this. Among his topics of self-humiliation, sufficiently frequent, one was his excess of 'loquacity.' A very shy man, it is often remarked, may shrink from talking, but when he begins to talk he talks enormously. My father, at any rate, had a natural gift for conversation. He could pour out a stream of talk such as, to the best of my knowledge, I have never heard equalled. The gift was perhaps stimulated by accidents. The weakness of his eyes had forced him to depend very much upon dictation. I remember vividly the sound of his tread as he tramped up and down his room, dictating to my mother or sister, who took down his words in shorthand and found it hard to keep pace with him. Even his ordinary conversation might have been put into print with scarcely a correction, and was as polished and grammatically perfect as his finished writing. The flow of talk was no doubt at times excessive. Taylor tells of an indignant gentleman who came to his room after attempting to make some communication to the Under-Secretary. Mr. Stephen, he said, had at once begun to speak, and after discoursing for half an hour without a moment's pause, courteously bowed the gentleman out, thanking him for the valuable information which still remained unuttered. Sir James Stephen, said Lord Monteagle to Carlyle, 'shuts his eyes on you and talks as if he were dictating a colonial despatch.'[44] This refers to a nervous trick of shyness. When talking, his eyelids often had a tremulous motion which concealed the eyes themselves, and gave to at least one stranger the impression that he was being addressed by a blind man.

The talk, however, was always pointed and very frequently as brilliant as it was copious. With all the monotony of utterance, says Taylor, 'there was such a variety and richness of thought and language, and often so much wit and humour, that one could not help being interested and attentive.' On matters of business, he adds, 'the talk could not be of the same quality and was of the same continuity.' He gives one specimen of the 'richness of conversational diction' which I may quote.

My father mentioned to Taylor an illness from which the son of Lord Derby was suffering. He explained his knowledge by saying that Lord Derby had spoken of the case to him in a tone for which he was unprepared. 'In all the time when I saw him daily I cannot recollect that he ever said one word to me about anything but business; and _when the stupendous glacier, which had towered over my head for so many years, came to dissolve and descend upon me in parental dew, you may imagine, &c., &c._[45] My brother gives an account to which I can fully subscribe, so far as my knowledge goes. Our father's printed books, he says, show his mind 'in full dress, as under restraint and subject to the effect of habitual self-distrust. They give no idea of the vigour and pungency and freedom with which he could speak or let himself loose or think aloud as he did to me. Macaulay was infinitely more eloquent, and his memory was a thing by itself. Carlyle was striking and picturesque, and, after a fas.h.i.+on, forcible to the last degree. John Austin discoursed with the greatest dignity and impressiveness. But my father's richness of mind and union of wisdom, good sense, keenness and ingenuity, put him, in my opinion, quite on the same sort of level as these distinguished men; and gave me a feeling about him which attuned itself with and ran into the conviction that he was also one of the very kindest, most honourable, and best men I ever knew in my whole life.'

From my recollection, which is less perfect than was my brother's, I should add that one thing which especially remains with me was the stamp of fine literary quality which marked all my father's conversation. His talk, however copious, was never commonplace; and, boy as I was when I listened, I was constantly impressed by the singular skill with which his clear-cut phrases and lively ill.u.s.trations put even familiar topics into an apparently new and effective light.

The comparison made by my brother between my father's talk and his writings may be just, though I do not altogether agree with it. The 'Essays in Ecclesiastical Biography,' by which he is best known, were written during the official career which I have described.

The composition was to him a relaxation, and they were written early in the morning or late at night, or in the intervals of his brief holidays.

I will not express any critical judgment of their qualities; but this I will say: putting aside Macaulay's 'Essays,' which possess merits of an entirely different order, I do not think that any of the collected essays republished from the 'Edinburgh Review' indicate a natural gift for style equal to my father's. Judging from these, which are merely the overflowing of a mind employed upon other most absorbing duties, I think that my father, had he devoted his talents to literature, would have gained a far higher place than has been reached by any of his family.[46]

My father gave in his Essays a sufficient indication of his religious creed. That creed, while it corresponded to his very deepest emotions, took a peculiar and characteristic form. His essay upon the 'Clapham Sect'[47] shows how deeply he had imbibed its teaching, while it yet shows a noticeable divergence. All his youthful sympathies and aims had identified him with the early evangelicals. As a lad he had known Granville Sharp, the patriarch of the anti-slavery movement; and till middle life he was as intimate as the difference of ages permitted with Wilberforce and with Thomas Gisborne, the most refined if not most effective preacher of the party. He revered many of the party from the bottom of his heart. His loving remembrance of his intercourse with them is shown in every line of his description, and to the end of his life he retained his loyalty to the men, and, as he at least thought, to their creed. The later generation, which called itself evangelical, repudiated his claim. He was attacked in their chief organ. When some remonstrance was made by his brother-in-law, Henry Venn, he wrote to the paper (I quote from memory), 'I can only regret that any friend of mine should have stooped to vindicate me from any censure of yours'; and declined further controversy.

The occasion of this was an attack which had been made upon him at Cambridge, where certain learned dons discovered on his appointment to the professors.h.i.+p of history that he was a 'Cerinthian.' I do not pretend to guess at their meaning. Anyhow he had avowed, in an 'epilogue' to his Essays, certain doubts as to the meaning of eternal d.a.m.nation--a doctrine which at that time enjoyed considerable popularity. The explanation was in part simple. 'It is laid to my charge,' he said, 'that I am a Lat.i.tudinarian. I have never met with a single man who, like myself, had pa.s.sed a long series of years in a free intercourse with every cla.s.s of society who was not more or less what is called a Lat.i.tudinarian.' In fact, he had discovered that Clapham was not the world, and that the conditions of salvation could hardly include residence on the sacred common. This conviction, however, took a peculiar form in his mind. His Essays show how widely he had sympathised with many forms of the religious sentiment. He wrote with enthusiasm of the great leaders of the Roman Catholic Church; of Hildebrand and St.

Francis, and even of Ignatius Loyola; and yet his enthusiasm does not blind him to the merits of Martin Luther, or Baxter, or Wesley, or Wilberforce. There were only two exceptions to his otherwise universal sympathy. He always speaks of the rationalists in the ordinary tone of dislike; and he looks coldly upon one school of orthodoxy. 'Sir James Stephen,' as was said by someone, 'is tolerant towards every Church except the Church of England.' This epigram indicated a fact. Although he himself strenuously repudiated any charge of disloyalty to the Church whose ordinances he scrupulously observed, he was entirely out of sympathy with the specially Anglican movement of later years. This was no doubt due in great part to the intensely strong sympathies of his youth. When the Oxford movement began he was already in middle life and thoroughly steeped in the doctrines which they attacked. He resembled them, indeed, in his warm appreciation of the great men of Catholicism.

But the old churchmen appealed both to his instincts as a statesman and to his strong love of the romantic. The Church of the middle ages had wielded a vast power; men like Loyola and Xavier had been great spiritual heroes. But what was to be said for the Church of England since the Reformation? Henry Martyn, he says, in the 'Clapham Sect,' is 'the one heroic name which adorns her annals since the days of Elizabeth. Her apostolic men either quitted or were cast out of her communion. Her _Acta Sanctorum_ may be read from end to end with a dry eye and an unquickened pulse.' He had perhaps heard too many sermons.

'Dear Mother Church,' he says after one such experience, 'thy spokesmen are not selected so as to create any danger that we should be dazzled by human eloquence or entangled by human wisdom.' The Church of England, as he says elsewhere ('Baxter'), afforded a refuge for three centuries to the great, the learned, and the worldly wise, but was long before it took to the n.o.bler end of raising the poor, and then, as he would have added, under the influence of the Clapham Sect. The Church presented itself to him mainly as the religious department of the State, in which more care was taken to suppress eccentricity than to arouse enthusiasm; it was eminently respectable, but at the very antipodes of the heroic.

Could he then lean to Rome? He could not do so without d.a.m.ning the men he most loved, even could his keen and in some ways sceptical intellect have consented to commit suicide. Or to the Romanising party in the Church? The movement sprang from the cloister, and he had breathed the bracing air of secular life. He was far too clear-headed not to see whither they were tending. To him they appeared to be simply feeble imitations of the real thing, dabbling with dangerous arguments, and trying to revive beliefs long sentenced to extinction.

And yet, with his strong religious beliefs, he could not turn towards the freethinkers. He perceived indeed with perfect clearness that the Christian belief was being tried by new tests severer than the old, and that schools of thought were arising with which the orthodox would have to reckon. Occasional intimations to this effect dropped from him in his conversations with my brother and others. But, on the whole, the simple fact was that he never ventured to go deeply into the fundamental questions. His official duties left him little time for abstract thought; and his surpa.s.singly ingenious and versatile mind employed itself rather in framing excuses for not answering than in finding thorough answers to possible doubts. He adopted a version of the doctrine _crede ut intelligas_, and denounced the mere reasoning machines like David Hume who appealed unequivocally to reason. But what the faculty was which was to guide or to overrule reason in the search for truth was a question to which I do not think that he could give any distinct answer. He was too much a lover of clearness to be attracted by the mysticism of Coleridge, and yet he shrank from the results of seeing too clearly.

I have insisted upon this partly because my father's att.i.tude greatly affected my brother, as will be presently seen. My brother was not a man to shrink from any conclusions, and he rather resented the humility which led my father, in the absence of other popes, to attach an excessive importance to the opinions of Henry and John Venn--men who, as Fitzjames observes, were, in matters of speculative inquiry, not worthy to tie his shoes. Meanwhile, as his health became weaker in later years, my father seemed to grow more weary of the secular world, and to lean more for consolation under anxiety to his religious beliefs. Whatever doubts or tendencies to doubt might affect his intellect, they never weakened his loyalty to his creed. He spoke of Christ, when such references were desirable, in a tone of the deepest reverence blended with personal affection, which, as I find, greatly impressed my brother.

Often, in his letters and his talk, he would dwell upon the charm of a pious life, free from secular care and devoted to the cultivation of religious ideals in ourselves and our neighbours. On very rare occasions he would express his real feelings to companions who had mistaken his habitual reserve for indifference. We had an old ivory carving, left to him in token of grat.i.tude by a gentleman whom he had on some such occasion solemnly reproved for profane language, and who had at the moment felt nothing but irritation.

The effect of these tendencies upon our little domestic circle was marked. My father's occupations naturally brought him into contact with many men of official and literary distinction. Some of them became his warm friends. Besides Henry Taylor, of whom I have spoken, Taylor's intimate friends, James Spedding and Aubrey de Vere, were among the intimates of our household; and they and other men, younger than himself, often joined him in his walks or listened to his overflowing talk at home. A next-door neighbour for many years was Na.s.sau Senior, the political economist, and one main author of the Poor Law of 1834.

Senior, a very shrewd man of the world, was indifferent to my father's religious speculations. Yet he and his family were among our closest friends, and in habits of the most familiar intercourse with us. With them was a.s.sociated John Austin, regarded by all the Utilitarians as the profoundest of jurists and famous for his conversational powers; and Mrs. Austin, a literary lady, with her daughter, afterwards Lady Duff Gordon. I think of her (though it makes me feel old when I so think) as Lucy Austin. She was a brilliant girl, reported to keep a rifle and a skull in her bedroom. She once startled the sense of propriety of her elders by performing in our house a charade, in which she represented a dying woman with a 'realism'--to use the modern phrase--worthy of Madame Sarah Bernhardt. Other visitors were occasionally attracted. My father knew John Mill, though never, I fancy, at all intimately. He knew politicians such as Charles Greville, the diarist, who showed his penetration characteristically, as I have been told, by especially admiring my mother as a model of the domestic virtues which he could appreciate from an outside point of view.

We looked, however, at the world from a certain distance, and, as it were, through a veil. My father had little taste for general society. It had once been intimated to him, as he told me, that he might find admission to the meetings of Holland House, where, as Macaulay tells us, you might have the privilege of seeing Mackintosh verify a reference to Thomas Aquinas, and hearing Talleyrand describe his ride over the field of Austerlitz. My father took a different view. He declined to take advantage of this opening into the upper world, because, as he said, I don't know from what experience, the conversation turned chiefly upon petty personal gossip. The feasts of the great were not to his taste. He was ascetic by temperament. He was, he said, one of the few people to whom it was the same thing to eat a dinner and to perform an act of self-denial. In fact, for many years he never ate a dinner, contenting himself with a biscuit and a gla.s.s of sherry as lunch, and an egg at tea, and thereby, as the doctors said, injuring his health. He once smoked a cigar, and found it so delicious that he never smoked again. He indulged in snuff until one day it occurred to him that snuff was superfluous; when the box was solemnly emptied out of the window and never refilled. Long sittings after dinner were an abomination to him, and he spoke with horror of his father's belief in the virtues of port wine. His systematic abstemiousness diminished any temptation to social pleasures of the ordinary kind. His real delight was in quieter meetings with his own family--with Stephens, and Diceys, and Garratts, and above all, I think, with Henry and John Venn. At their houses, or in the country walks where he could unfold his views to young men, whose company he always enjoyed, he could pour out his mind in unceasing discourse, and be sure of a congenial audience.

Our household must thus be regarded as stamped with the true evangelical characteristics--and yet with a difference. The line between saints and sinners or the Church and the world was not so deeply drawn as in some cases. We felt, in a vague way, that we were, somehow, not quite as other people, and yet I do not think that we could be called Pharisees.

My father felt it a point of honour to adhere to the ways of his youth.

Like Jonadab, the son of Rechab, as my brother observes, he would drink no wine for the sake of his father's commandments (which, indeed, is scarcely a felicitous application after what I have just said). He wore the uniform of the old army, though he had ceased to bear unquestioning allegiance. We never went to plays or b.a.l.l.s; but neither were we taught to regard such recreations as proofs of the corruption of man. My father most carefully told us that there was nothing intrinsically wrong in such things, though he felt strongly about certain abuses of them. At most, in his favourite phrase, they were 'not convenient.' We no more condemned people who frequented them than we blamed people in Hindostan for riding elephants. A theatre was as remote from us as an elephant.

And therefore we grew up without acquiring or condemning such tastes.

They had neither the charm of early a.s.sociation nor the attraction of forbidden fruit. To outsiders the household must have been pervaded by an air of gravity, if not of austerity. But we did not feel it, for it became the law of our natures, not a law imposed by external sanctions.

We certainly had a full allowance of sermons and Church services; but we never, I think, felt them to be forced upon us. They were a part, and not an unwelcome part, of the order of nature. In another respect we differed from some families of the same creed. My father's fine taste and his sensitive nature made him tremblingly alive to one risk. He shrank from giving us any inducement to lay bare our own religious emotions. To him and to our mother the needless revelation of the deeper feelings seemed to be a kind of spiritual indelicacy. To encourage children to use the conventional phrases could only stimulate to unreality or actual hypocrisy. He recognised, indeed, the duty of impressing upon us his own convictions, but he spoke only when speaking was a duty. He read prayers daily in his family, and used to expound a few verses of the Bible with characteristic unction. In earlier days I find him accusing himself of a tendency to address 'homiletical epistles' to his nearest connections; but he scrupulously kept such addresses for some adequate occasion in his children's lives. We were, indeed, fully aware, from a very early age, of his feelings, and could not but be continuously conscious that we were under the eye of a father governed by the loftiest and purest motives, and devoting himself without stint to what he regarded as his duty. He was a living 'categorical imperative.' 'Did you ever know your father do a thing because it was pleasant?' was a question put to my brother, when he was a small boy, by his mother. She has apparently recorded it for the sake of the childish answer: 'Yes, once--when he married you.' But we were always conscious of the force of the tacit appeal.

I must not give the impression that he showed himself a stern parent. I remember that when his first grandchild was born, I was struck by the fact that he was the most skilful person in the family at playing with the baby. Once, when some friends upon whom he was calling happened to be just going out, he said, 'Leave me the baby and I shall be quite happy.' Several little fragments of letters with doggerel rhymes and anecdotes suited for children recall his playfulness with infants, and as we grew up, although we learnt to regard him with a certain awe, he conversed with us most freely, and discoursed upon politics, history, and literature, and his personal recollections, as if we had been his equals, though, of course, with a width of knowledge altogether beyond our own. The risk of giving pain to a 'skinless' man was all that could cause any reserve between us; but a downright outspoken boy like my brother soon acquired and enjoyed a position on the most affectionate terms of familiarity. We knew that he loved us; that his character was not only pure but chivalrous; and that intellectually he was a most capable guide into the most delightful pastures.

I will conclude by a word or two upon his physical characteristics. No tolerable likeness has been preserved. My father was rather above middle height, and became stout in later years. Though not handsome, his appearance had a marked dignity. A very lofty brow was surmounted by ma.s.ses of soft fine hair, reddish in youth, which became almost white before he died. The eyes, often concealed by the nervous trick I have mentioned, were rather deeply set and of the purest blue. They could flash into visibility and sparkle with indignation or softer emotion.

The nose was the nose of a scholar, rather ma.s.sive though well cut, and running to a sharp point. He had the long flexible lips of an orator, while the mouth, compressed as if cut with a knife, indicated a nervous reserve. The skull was very large, and the whole face, as I remember him, was ma.s.sive, though in youth he must have been comparatively slender.

His health was interrupted by some severe illnesses, and he suffered much at times from headache. His power of work, however, shows that he was generally in good health; he never had occasion for a dentist. He was a very early riser, scrupulously neat in dress, and even fanatical in the matter of cleanliness. He had beautiful but curiously incompetent hands. He was awkward even at tying his shoes; and though he liked shaving himself because, he said, that it was the only thing he could do with his hands, and he shaved every vestige of beard, he very often inflicted gashes. His handwriting, however, was of the very best. He occasionally rode and could, I believe, swim and row. But he enjoyed no physical exercise except walking, a love of which was hereditary. I do not suppose that he ever had a gun or a fis.h.i.+ng-rod in his hand.

And now, having outlined such a portrait as I can of our home, I begin my brother's life.[48]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: I learn by the courtesy of Mr. James Young Stephen that this James Stephen was son of a previous James Stephen of Ardenbraught, whose brother Thomas was provost of Dundee and died in 1728. James Stephen of Ardenbraught had a younger son John, who was great-grandfather of the present Mr. Oscar Leslie Stephen. Mr. O. L.

Stephen is father of Mr. James Young Stephen, Mr. Oscar Leslie Stephen, junior, and Sir Alexander Condie Stephen, K.C.M.G.]

[Footnote 2: My friend, Professor Bonney, kindly refers me to Conybeare and Philips' _Outlines of Geology of England and Wales_, p. 13, where there is an account of certain beds of lignite, or imperfect coal, in the neighbourhood of Poole. They burn with an odour of bitumen, and, no doubt, misled my great-grandfather. Geology was not even outlined in those days.]

[Footnote 3: 'Parleyings with Certain People'--_Works_ (1889) xvi.

148-160.]

[Footnote 4: See _Dictionary of National Biography_.]

[Footnote 5: Redgrave's _Dictionary of Painters_.]

[Footnote 6: I have copies of two pamphlets in which these proceedings are described:--One is ent.i.tled 'Considerations on Imprisonment for Debt, fully proving that the confining of the bodies of debtors is contrary to Common Law, Magna Charta, Statute Law, Justice, Humanity, and Policy; and that the practice is more cruel and oppressive than is used in the most arbitrary kingdoms in Europe, with an account of various applications, &c.; by James Stephen, 1770.' The other pamphlet, to which is prefixed a letter by W. Jackson, reprints some of Stephen's letters from the New Jail, wants a t.i.tle and is imperfect. See also the _Annual Register_ for 1770 (Chronicle), November 19, for 1771 (Chronicle), January 31.]

[Footnote 7: That mentioned in the previous note. See also the 'Chronicle' of the _Annual Register_ for November 19, 1770, and January 31 and November 2, 1771.]

[Footnote 8: The children were William and James (already mentioned); Sibella, born about 1765, afterwards married to William Maxwell Morison, editor of _Decisions of Court of Session_ (1801-1818); Hannah, born about 1767, afterwards married to William Farish (1759-1837), Jacksonian professor at Cambridge; Elizabeth, born about 1769, afterwards married to her cousin, William Milner, of Comberton, near Cambridge; and John, born about 1771.]

[Footnote 9: The parish register records his burial on September 9, 1779.]

[Footnote 10: See the trial reported by Gurney in 21 _State Trials_, pp.

486-651. It lasted from 8 A.M. on Monday till 5.15 A.M. on Tuesday morning.]

[Footnote 11: See _Slavery Delineated_ (preface to vol. i.), where other revolting details are given.]

[Footnote 12: _Slavery Delineated_, i. 54, 55.]

[Footnote 13: Sir George Stephen's _Life of J. Stephen_, p. 29.]

[Footnote 14: Reprinted in 13 _Hansard's Debates_, App. xxv.-cxxii.]

[Footnote 15: _Hansard's Debates_, June 20, 1814; and _Abbot's Diary_, ii. 503.]

[Footnote 16: It is now occupied by my friend Dr. Robert Liveing.]

[Footnote 17: For the life of my grandfather, I have relied upon his autobiography and upon the following among other works: _Life of the late James Stephen_ by his son, Sir George Stephen, Victoria, 1875 (this little book, written when the author's memory was failing, is full of singular mistakes, a fact which I mention that I may not be supposed to have overlooked the statements in question but which it is needless to prove in detail); _Jottings from Memory_ (two interesting little pamphlets privately printed by Sir Alfred Stephen in 1889 and 1891); and Wilberforce's _Life and Letters_ (containing letters and incidental references). In Colquhoun's _Wilberforce, his Friends and his Times_ (1886), pp. 180-198, is an account of Stephen's relations to Wilberforce, chiefly founded upon this. See also Roberts' _Hannah More_ (several letters); Brougham's _Speeches_ (1838), i. pp. 402-414 (an interesting account partly quoted in Sir J. Stephen's _Clapham Sect_, in _Essays in Ecclesiastical Biography_); Henry Adam's _History of the United States_ (1891), iii. pp. 50-52 and elsewhere; Walpole's _Life of Perceval_.]

[Footnote 18: He served also in 1842 upon a Commission of Inquiry into the forgery of Exchequer bills.]

[Footnote 19: Serjeant Stephen's wife and a daughter died before him. He left two surviving children: Sarah, a lady of remarkable ability, author of a popular religious story called _Anna; or, the Daughter at Home_, and a chief founder of the 'Metropolitan a.s.sociation for Befriending Young Servants,' who died unmarried, aged 79, on January 5, 1895; and James, who edited some of his father's books, was judge of the County Court at Lincoln, and died in November 1894. A short notice of the serjeant is in the _Law Times_ of December 24, 1894.]

[Footnote 20: _Life of James Stephen_, p. 36.]

[Footnote 21: By his wife, a Miss Ravenscroft, he had seven children, who all emigrated with him. The eldest, James Wilberforce Stephen, was fourth wrangler in 1844 and Fellow of St. John's College, and afterwards a judge in the colony of Victoria.]

[Footnote 22: His _Const.i.tution of a Christian Church_ (1846) was republished, in 1874, as _Churches the Many and the One_, with additional notes by his son, the Rev. Samuel Garratt, now rector of St.

Margaret's, Ipswich, and canon of Norwich.]

[Footnote 23: _Lectures_, vol. i. preface.]