The Press.
London, England, 1853-08-27 00:00:00

-AlJotgt 27,1853.

to see you, Monsieur Claude. Ah ! 'tis the
Bishop of Condom."
" Claude !" " Claude !" What could be the
meaning of that name ? Was it possible that
Bourdaloue could hold intercourse with Claude
—the leading doctor of the French Protestant
Church—the champion of heresy—who had
encountered in controversy Bossuet himself?
It was even so. Claude had written so
'kiting the favour of being allowed to visit
Bourdaloue, and expressing the admira
tion which the learned Protestant felt for the
eloquent Roman Catholic preacher. Bossuet
was nettled. "He is a Huguenot !" said the
Bishop of Condom ; " And a Christian," re-
plied Pere Bourdaloue. Then Claude came in,
and found his old antagonist Bossuet before
him. The meeting was awkward, and after a
few minutes Claude was about retiring, when
the two Fenelons were announced. Conversa-
tion then became pleasant and general, and
some amusement was caused by the Marquis
de Fenelon humbly saying, even in the pre-
sence of the Bishop of Condom, that he had
repeatedly gone to hear the admirable sermons
of Monsieur Claude. The topics of the day
were then talked ot; and amongst others the
impiety of the King's life, Claude heartily ex
pressing a hope that the clergy would do their
duty, and openly admonish his Majesty.
After some time Bossuet and the } enelons
retired, and Bourdaloue and Claude remained
together. They talked of the morrow's ser-
mon of Bourdaloue, and some of it was then
read, and parts of it were being criticised,
when in burst an unexpected isitor whose
countenance had something very peculiar
in it. He had an assumed frankness, a
shrewd glance in his eyes, a good-natured
smile, but somehow he seemed to be
full of ruses, and appeared to be too wily to be
perfectly pleasing. It was Pere la Chaise, the
King's confessor. He stumbled on Bourda
daloue at the door of the preacher's long and
narrow room, and he never premised that
there was a third party in the chamber. Pere
la Chaise at once, and with vehemence, at
tacked Bourdaloue about rumours that were
circulated, and cautioned him against the con-
sequences of imprudently assailing the King,
causing scandal, and shutting up the Royal
Chapel at Versailles. "Who would thank you
for all that ?" cried La Chaise—" not me,
neither the Church, nor the Court, nor the King
himself ; nobody at all." "Except God I' cried
a voice from the lower end of the room ; and
the words of Claude electrified the compliant
courtier-priest, La Chaise, and even struck on
the excited nerves of Bourdaloue with almost
supernatural effect. Nor would La Chaise wait
to hear explanations. Suspecting some ruse,
he lost no time in effecting his retreat, and
then Claude, taking advantage of the incident,
seized the moment, and dictated a peroration,
of about four pages, thundering against the
King. " I'll never dare to say all that !" cried
Bourdaloue. " Yes ! you will," said Claude ;
and the Huguenot went away.
In the meanwhile Bossuet was with the
King, and using all his art to persuade him to
give up Madame de Montespan. Louis had
been forewarned by La Chaise that there was
a confederacy at work to bring the pulpit to
bear upon him, and he tried to extract from
Bossuet what Bourdaloue was going to say,
and how far he would venture to take liberties
with Le Grand Monarque. His heart at this
time had been artfully played upon by Madame
de Montespan, who had shown the " woman's
wit" of sending the hesitating. King a charm-
ing letter, written by the King's natural son,
the Duke of Maine, and addressed to his
mother, Madame de Montespan. This letter
—full of a boy's lively prattle—had roused
much of the King's old tenderness to his mis-
tress, and he was thinking of the child's
endearing words even when Bossuet was
conversing with him. It was just at the mo-
ment when the Bishop of Condom thought he
had finally overcome the reluctance of the
King that a page appeared and handed the King
a note, with the words. "You are the King—you
are sorry for sending me away ; but I go.
When these lines will be in your hand I shall
no longer be at the palace." It was signed
" Athenais." The note did its offiee—the
shaft from Cupid's quiver hit the King's heart
—and Bossuet felt that there was no other

THE PRESS.

resource but to rouse Bourdaloue to deliver
the very peroration which he had learned
from the preacher had been cutuposed by
Claude.
But there was the difficulty. Could the
courage of Bourdaloue be depended on ? The
stroke was attended with hazards of various
kinds. if the King had been an ordinary
sovereign he might have been easily swayed ;
but he was Louis le Grand! He was a man
beyond ordinary kings ; for let Monsieur Bun-
getter be heard in his own words while he
depicts the character of limas the Four-
teenth:—

Whether from his great ability or his great good fortune,
Louis XIV. absorbed everything; and in the game manner
as all the poets came at last to glory in being poets only by
him and for him—so there was at length no orator—that is
to say no preacher, since the pulpit al was 01%11 to elo•
quence—who did not stoop beneath the same dominion,
and gladly wear its livery. And this, it may be said, by
the way, is one of the best proofs that Louis XIV. was no
common wan. Let the legitimacy and morality at' this in-
fluence be discussed at pleasure ; let all the buses upon
which it rested be made to totter One after the other (and
we acknowledge that it can be done), yet the filet will still
remain, that this influence was immense. and that it lasted
fifty years. That eirennishuices prepared the way for it is
undeniable ; that it was in some measure a homage to Louis
XIV. himself is also true ; but even if he hail laid nothing
to do in order to acquire it, still it was a great deal to pre-
serve it, and to preserve it for half a century. Put a Louis
XIII. or a Louis XVI. in his place, and see if it would have
lasted.

• • • • •
He was then neither a great king in reality, since true
greatness possesses qualities of which he was destitute ;
ninth less a goad king, and he cared very little to be this
be was a king, in all the extent and force of the appellation
--s►uch a king as his father had not been, as his successors
were not to be—a king whose like we tastreely rind two or
three times in all the world's history—where there is never,
theless no lack of those men who are called kings.

Such was the personage with whom llourda-
lone was brought face to face in the pulpit•. At
last the moment of trial came ; and the diumse-
ment is here worked up in the most masterly
manner by the author. The reader is readily
made to feel sympathy with the nervous
anxiety of Bourdaloue. The hour has come
at last, and it is even yet in the scales whether
he will close with the usual flattery, " I have
reason to console myself, &e.," ending in a
panegyric, or concluding with the words
written for him by Claude :

Although accustomed to command an audience eight
or ten times as numerous, he found himself at this mo-
ment the object of too lively, too pien•cing an attention, not
to be confounded by it. If he had suspected nothing, per-
haps he would have perceived nothing, or would have id-
tributed this to an increased interest in himself, in his dis-
course; but how could he deceive, himself? Ile could not
even take upon him tohave recourse tothe method which he'
ordinarily used with success against the treaclwries of his
memory—that of closing his eyes. in spite of himself he
sought to read in those of the king the effect of his
slightest words, and as the king, on his side, only listened
with uneasiness and distrust, it was impossible that a little
of his agitation should not pierce through the usual impas-
sibility of his feature's. It was a curious sight tee observe'
these two men, both so skilful in impressing tethers, thus
mutually impressing and fascinating esch other. The king
was very nearly vanquished —ltourdsleme was still in his
exordium, when a desperate temptation, a bewildering idea
took possession of his mind. Here he is in the pulpit ;he
has no more counsels or orders tee receive ; he is bet own
master. What is tee hinder him front not delivering this
horrible peroration, the cause of all his distraction '? He
will not take up his former one again, oh no! That is de-
cidedly teen inadmissible, and more so at this time than
ever. "I hare reasimfor ronmulaiiint,"—for shame ! Never,
no, never will he say to the king anything like that or sp•
preaching it. He will not recite that then, it is settled.
He will be able to find a few words tee review it; he will
improvise, if he must ; he will finish as he best can—and
everybody will be satisfied. And every time he arrived at.
this c*onc•lusion he seemed to bear sounding from the
depths of his heart tlwse words eef Claude---" Except
God !" "Yes," he thought, " except (:041,—and Bossuet,
and Montansier, and the Queen, and my couscience.—and
some from piety, and some front curiosity. and
the king himself—the king. Ashamed eef having trembled,
lee will console himself only ley despising him who made
hint tremble—for nothing—and who dill tom dare to gee 0n...
And the sermon went on its way; and all this was whirling
through the head eef the• orator; and the nearer the mo•
ment drew when he would be forced tee decide, the more
terrified he wets not tee know which side to take. Twenty
times he was on the point of losing the thread of his dis-
course ; twenty times be would have lost it had his me-
mory been less tenacious; if, like a circus-rider standing
upon a galloping horse, the very rapidity of his coons• had
not tended tee preserve his equilibrium. But at the least
shock, the least phrase omitted or changed, all would lone
been broken, upset, lost. He' felt this, and it gave only the
more vehemence to his utterance. Never had he• been in
reality so absent in mind, never in appearance' so devout.
In the arts, a power once discovered, you may apply it to
everything ; in eloquence, one*• agitated, all your words re-
ceive from this fact a new life, even when the subject of
which you speak has nothing, or scarcely anything, in corn-

401

mon with the primitive cause of this agitation. Agitated,
alarmed, so long as emotion and terror do not go so far as
to owl your 1411:,you are eloquent. And thus, he was most
eloquent. Since the close office exordium the greater part
of the hearers were his own ; but he was still making vain
efforts to be theini. The events of the day—the preoccu-
rations of the next day—the Nubbin, thought of the passion,
Wpm to abate+ all, and he, oho knew so well how to &gl-
ower all the miseries in the obscurest folds of these hearts
which opened at his voice—he allowed these miiwries to
fill and (maw his own. Oh fsw a moment of solitude !
For a corner to pray in ! to place' his insupportable burden
at the' foot of the Crofts? Rut no, he must go on ; he imam
drag it to the end. He is in the middle of his diseourse.
Ile draws near the elose—aud he does not it know what
he shall do. Another page, and hesitation will no longer
b. possible. Another phrase only—two words more. His
heed grows dizzy. his knees totter beneath him. He
dashes on blindly, with a eonoentrated violence lie lets go
the first words which come into his month. All is lost !
It is not the peroration of Claudio ; it is his own; the ono
over which he has groaned ; the one which he wished to
efface with his tears and his blood. It is as if the devil
haul whispered in his ear. lint suddenly he stops and
grows pale. As be turned his head, iu order at least to
spare himself the shame' ufprouuuneing before the king's very
taee these praises whirls seem like burning coals upon his
lips—what does he see there, its that concur ? A grave, tun-
tionless, majestic c temince, which is distinctly defined
against the long folds of a black mantle. It is he—the
Protestant ! It is Claude! Bourdelone is annihilated.
He slowly bows his head, he davit his hands. But, oh !
wonder ! he rises vain. Tlw fire of his eyes breaks forth
again; his head is uptight and steady, his yoke vibrates.
It is your turn, Louis le tirand! No one save lignite had
perceived the motive of the int.mmtion, no one imagined
it to be anything else but an oratolical ruse ; but the move-
ment hail been too natural, too true, too terrilsle not to
have prodigious effect. The oretiw had perceived, as by
the coy of a Math of lightning, ell the advantages he was
going to derive from it. " 1 hors., Hererthelflo I, moon to CON•
sole tropoir"—it was at these wools that Rourthileue had
perceived Claude, and that he had Awn to fall no more.
TO console myself," he repeated slowly, " Ah, my bre-
thren, what was I about to say Y"
And then, in the 1401111 of the orator's in
vective, comes the climax of this most original
and ingenious performance.
We are not surmised at this work passing
through upwards of ten editions in Fiance,
and yet we have never heard or seen a transla-
tion of it into English, except that executed
by Doctor Potts, of New York ! Front the
evidence of its merits which our space allows
us to produce, we are 4..onviticed that our
readers will agree with our opening remarks
on the ignorance of merit, or indifference to-
wards it, displayed by the publishers of cheap
literature in leaving such a work to remain
SO long without a large English circulation,
alike due to its sterling talent and sound
PnAcht.lint latilosophy.

Crime: its Amount, Caws. awl Remedies. By
Frederic Bill. London: Murray.
Second Notior.]

HAVING Investigated thoroughly the sources of
criminality, Mr. Hill proceeds to explain in
detail his propositions for its more effectual
prevention. Ile commences by taking objec-
tion to what he calls the "leading principle "
on which criminal law is administered, namely,
the attempt " to deter from mime by award-
" ing punishment fir• different offences in pro-
" portion to their magnitude." Against this
apparently reasonable rule he argues, first,
that it cannot be carried out with even approxi-
mate accuracy, owing to the wide difference of
individual guilt in eases externally similar ;
and, next, that the end of punishment is not
an6wered, when, after a given period, the of
fender is let loose again upon society, without
any precautions, ►coral or material, being
taken against a repetition by him of the same.
Let us consider these arguments separately.
" The law eannot fix in each case the exact
" amount of moral guilt." Undoubtedly not;
for then must nu►u be able to read the heart of
man. and human fallibility to pronounce infal-
lil►le judgments. IS►lt we join issue with Mr.
Hill in regard of his definition. The magni-
tude of an Aimee, civilly Or socially consi-
dered, and the nitwd guilt involved in such
offence, are, and in our imperfect state always
must be, two very different things. The law
can define the one, but not the other. Take
an instance. An individual who by the disin-
terested aid of a friend has been rescued from
disgrace or death turns against his benefactor
without provocation, speaks ill of his eharac•
ter, and reliises him the aid which he in turn
is reduced to solicit. Nobody denies that
such ingratitude implies mold turpitude of a
very deep dye. Yet nobody proposes to make

such ingratitude penal by law. Conversely,
the offence of a schoolboy who robs an orchard
out of mischief and wantonness, rather than
desire of gain, is morally a very slight one.
But nobody proposes to refuse to the owner
of the orchard that protection to which he is
entitled, and which he can only receive
through the moderate punishment of the
thief. Here, Mr. Hill would say, is a ease of
gross injustice. You Hog or fine the boy who
has slightly infringed the law ; you let go the
man who has openly disregarded one of the
first of moral duties. The conclusion, in each
instance, is one from which no rational thinker
can dissent. Cau the principle which has led
to that conclusion be wrong? Surely not.
What, then, is the solution ? Merely, in our
view, this, that offences against public order—
that is, offences of which the law takes cogni
sauce—are not to be measured by the amount
of criminality, real or supposed, which they
involve, but by the amount of injury to the
public which follows from their commission.
This was Bentham 's canon ; and, often as it
has been assailed, we believe it will stand the
test. If told that it sets up a standard of in-
nocence or guilt which is to a certain extent
artificial, and so far bad, we admit the truth,
but we plead the necessity. The alternative
rule, that of ascertaining as far as possible the
real moral guilt of the criminal, is simply im-
possible to be applied. For, in order to apply
it, you must know the whole history—birth,
parentage, education, and mode of living—of
the prisoner; and what are you to do, where,
as often happens, these cannot be ascertained?
We reply, then, to Mr. Hill's first objection
in these words, " The law does not attempt to
" fix the moral criminality of whom it punishes.
" It proportions the penalty to the degree of
" injury, direct or indirect, which the crime
" committed was calculated to inflict on the
" State. Farther than this human justice can-
" not go ; for to go farther it would be neces-
" sary to judge men's motives as well as their
" acts."
The second question raised by Mr. Hill is
far more comprehensive, and, indeed, raises
doubts which lie at the bottom of our whole
penal system. He contends that,
the object of punishment being the prevention of crime,
that punishment cannot be well fitted for its purpose which,
after its infliction has terminated, allows an offender to be
let loose again on society, without regard to the cause of
his offence, or to the fact whether such cause has been re•
moved; and without reference even to the possibility that
the offender may have been hardened and rendered worse
by the very punishment itself ; or to the fact that, by
having lost his character, the real difficulty of his obtaining
an honest livelihood may have been increased, and with it,
also, the danger of his committing uew offences.
_ _

Granted. But are our punishments such ?
Under the transportation system, as admi-
nistered during the last ten years, offenders
were not let loose on society. They were not
disabled from earning an honest livelihood;
they were put out of the way of vicious haunts
and companions ; they were watched and
guarded long after liberty of action had been
restored ; all external circumstances invited
them to industry and repelled from crime.
What the effect of the new Ministerial scheme
may be we do not now inquire ; but, come
what may, we have had penal arrangements
which were not open to Mr. Hill's very just and
grave objection.
Our author's remedy for the evil of setting
free unreformed criminals is startling from its
novelty—more startling, perhaps, from the
manner in which it is stated than from the
practical change which it embodies. He pro-
poses that all terms of imprisonment should
be left indefinite in point of time, the prisoner
being discharged only when the executive
authorities shall declare him cured. Lest we
should seem to misrepresent, we quote the
passage :
No one thinks of sending a madman to a lunatic asylum
for a certain number of davit, weeks, or months. We con-
tent ourselves with carefitlly ascertaining that he is unlit
to be at large, and that those in whose hands we are about
to place him act under doe inspection, and have the know-
ledge and skill which affonl the best hope for his rare
that they will be kind to him, and inflict no more pain
than is necessary for his secure custody and the removal
of his malady: and we leave it for them to determine when
be can safely be liberated.
• • • •

S •

0
•

In truth, had this iorseticc, so coat,' limbic to common
sense, the advantage which the sanction of time and ex-
perience causes, instead of having to contend with the

THE PRESS.

hostile feeling almost always attendant on novelty, any one
who should propose to abandon such a system, and to
enact that, without regard to au offender's moral condition,
he should, at the end of a certain Sized period, be let loose
again on society, would prcbably be regarded as little
better than a lunatic.

The question still presents itself, who is to
fix the period ? And few will acquiesce in
Mr. Hill's suggestion that this vast power—
superseding, in fact, that of the judge—shall
be vested in an ordinary governor or inspector
of gaols. Again—by what means is the fact
of cure to be determined ? Here the parallels
of the hospital and lunatic asylum fail alto
gether. For as no man enters a hospital on
compulsion, so no man quits one until re-
established in health. Nov, if he should
decide on doing so, is there any power to
restrain him ? The two things can in no wise
be compared. For, to make the analogy com-
plete, it would first be necessary to show that
in cases of moral disease, as in those of bodily
sickness, the morbid state is accompanied by
a consciousness of suffering, and a consequent
desire for relief. From this, the logical result
of his argument, Mr. Hili does not shrink.
He thinks it likely (p. 167) that " the offender
" himself, after the excitement had passed
" away under which he had committed his
" offence, would not unfrequently feel that it
" was best for him to be placed for a time
" under control." This is surely—to use the
mildest phrase—a very optimist view of the
subject. Can we rationally frame a penal
system on the assumption that criminals will
be found to desire their own punislnnent?
Between insanity and crime—between the
asylum and the prison—there is doubtless a
close resemblance. In both the restraint is
involuntary. In both, the patient, as Mr.
Hill would call a prisoner, has ceased to be a
free agent. But the likeness stops here. A
lunatic or madman, not restored to the use of
his senses, cannot feign sanity—at least. not
for any length of time continuously, or with
skill enough to deceive practised eyes. A
pickpocket or a burglar, on the contrary, may,
by professions of repentance, by assumed in
dustry, and by orderly conduct, adopted for a
time from motives of policy, deceive those who
have charge of him into a belief of his real
reformation. If any such prospect as that of
release—not after a fixed period of sentence,
but immediately on the supposed accomplish
ment of a change in his disposition and mental
habits—were held out, the result would be an
immense encouragement to hypocrisy, a slight
probable increase in the orderly conduct of
prisoners generally, and a total subversion of
that wise judicial system according to which
latitude and discretion in measuring out
punishments is assigned to the judges of the
Crown.

- --
The error involved in this theory is, as it
seems to us, One of principle, and not of admi-
nistrative detail. Mr. Hill, in tacitly assuming
that crime is only a form of mental or moral
disease, rejects utterly the penal elements of
punishment, and chooses to consider it only
as a reformatory process, intended for the
good of the individual. He is carried away
by his desire to reclaim the offender, and
forgets the interests of the community. Again
we invoke the authority of Bentham, certainly
no anti-reformer, and who dovoted the best
years of his life to this question of crimes and
punishments. Bentham lays it down as a rule
that among the objects of legal punishment
the first is example—intimidation of uncon-
victed offenders—reformation of the individual
convict being only the second. The common
sense of mankind, in all ages, has supported
this view ; anti we do not apprehend that in
practice it will ever be disputed. Mr. Hill's
doctrine, we readily admit, is only the ex-
aggeration of a salutary principle. Our fore
fathers erred in the opposite direction. With
them the penal or deterring element was every-
thing—the reformatory process nothing. We
have discovered and are amending the error ;
but we should not, therefore, rush from ex-
treme to extreme.
Our authors practical recommendations,
founded on experience, are much better worth
attention than his theory. He advises (1)
reformatory schools, as proposed in Mr. Ad-
derley's bill, in lieu of prisons for juvenile
offenders ; (2) sonic kind of surveillance or

SATURDAY,

supervision to be exercised over the prisoner
after the expiration of his sentence—a provi-
sion more easily recommended than carried
out in practice ; (3) in certain cases, the sub-
stitution for fixed periods of imprisonment of
fixed allotments of work—so much to be done
before the prison doors are opened. This
plan originated with Captain Maconochie,
a well-known authority on such subjects. It
has the great merit of stimulating industry,
rousing instead of paralysing the energies of
the prisoner, and saving him from the inanity,
approaching to idiocy, which often results from
long confinement. The obvious objection to
it lies in the difficulty of fixing the amount of
work to be done with reference to the bodily
strength or weakness of the individual. Thus,
a strong man, or a skilled artisan, might des-
patch in a week what would take his weak or
inexperienced neighbour a fortnight. Nor
could this inequality be remedied beforehand ;
for it is only by actual trial that the strength
or skill of each can be known. Having stated
the difficulty, we quote with approval equal to
that which Mr. Hill bestows upon it the
passage in which Captain Maconochie states
his theory

If we look abroad into ordinary life, we cannot but be
struck with the resemblance which our present forms of
secondary punishment bear to everything that is in this
most enfeeblino and deteriorating, and how directly op-
posed they are to those forms of adversity which, under
the influence of providential wisdom, reform character and
invigorate it. Slavery deteriorates—long seclusion date-
riorates—every condition, in a word, more or less dete-
riorates, which leaves no choice of action, requires no
notice but obedience, affords no stimulus to exertion beyond
this, supplies the wants of nature without effort with a view
to them, and restores to prosperity, through lapse of time,
without evidence that such restoration is deserved.
Yet this is our present system of secondary punish-
ment. What improves, on the contrary, is, a condition of
adversity from which there is no escape but by continuous
effort, which leaves the degree of that effort much in the
individual's own power, but, if he relaxes, his suffering is
deepened and prolonged, and it is only alleviated and
shortened if he struggles manfully—which makes exertion
necessary even to earn daily bread—and something more,
prudence, self-command, voluntary economy, and the like,
to recover prosperity.—Page 42.
_

Mr. Hill objects to capital punishment as
useless for the purpose of deterring; as tend•
Mg to create, by the sight of death, a morbid
desire of bloodshed ; and generally as demo-
ralising in its effect on those who witness it.
He also argues against transportation ; and
proposes to retain, as penal agencies, only im-
prisomnent, tine, and the taking of securities
for good conduct.
Prison discipline is a subject not in itself
attractive, and, until of late, very little consi-
dered. Not twenty years ago it was held
enough if a gaoler maintained a decent show
of order within the walls, and kept discipline
sufficient to prevent escapes. Instruction,
labour, classification of prisoners, were all
unknown. These things have sprung up in a
single generation, not without grievous mis
giviugs anti doubts on the part of many excel-
lent persons, lest, by removing the most ob-
vious sources of pain to the criminal, the pe-
nalties intended to deter from crime should
lose their effect. Such apprehensions, not
unreasonable, perhaps, on on ti priori view,
have been dispelled by the result. Let the
gaol buildings be as clean as they may—the
food as careffilly prepared—the clothing as
good—the ventilation as diligently studied—it
is only an outward show of comfort which is
thus created. The punishment inflicted may
be less apparent to a casual visitor, but it is
not less real. Loss of liberty—perpetual con-
finement within four walls—exclusion from all
society—every action regulated and controlled
—life passed mechanically in a routine of un-
varied actions—all these are no light priva-
tions to any man, and arc indifferently compen-
sated by comfortable acconnnodation and
wholesome fare. And the criminal feels the
effects of ]►rison discipline more than another
would. Hear Mr. Hill :
For what, owing generally to wretched training, are the
habits of criminals ? idleness, late rising, and indulgence
in drinking, smoking, anti gambling. Anti what regard is
rid to these habits, however strong they maybe, on enter-
ing a Scottish prison? Not the slightest. However great
a sluggard, he must rise, the sett' morning after his stl-
mission, even in the middle of winter. when the clock
strikes six. Then. although he would probably prefer
remaining in his dirt to the trouble of making himself
clean, he must immediately wash himself, and that
thoroughly. So soon as that is done, he must, if he has