BOOKS.
JOHN WARD, PREACHER.*
John Ward, Preacher, is a remarkable book,—the power of which seems to us, however, to consist even more in the side-sketches than in that of the Calvinistic hero and his agnostic wife. These sketches, too, are no doubt very vigorous ; but the sketch of the Calvinist preacher gains a good deal of its vigour in consequence of the ignoring of theological makeweights which, little as they might have told in Jonathan Edwards's day, could not possibly have been ignored in our own day (to which this story clearly belongs), by so earnest and fine a nature as John Ward's. Doubtless he was one who would have trusted Scripture against nineteenth-century prepossessions without any hesitation; but none the less nineteenth-century pre- possessions would have called his attention and opened his eyes to all that aspect of Scripture which tells against the doctrine of final reprobation; and he could not, therefore, by any possibility have wholly ignored those passages in St. Paul which have often been quoted, and will often be quoted again, in favour of the belief in universal salvation, and which certainly are far stronger in favour of uni- versalism than anything which can be quoted from either Epistles or Gospels in favour of that final damnation which is regarded by the hero of this book as the foundation of all God's promises. Again, John Ward, living, as he is supposed to do, in our own day, could hardly by any possibility have con- travened St. Paul's direct command,—" If any brother bath an unbelieving wife, and she is content to dwell with him, let him not leave her. And the woman which bath an unbelieving husband, and he is content to dwell with her, let her not leave her husband. For the unbelieving husband is sanctified in the wife, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified in the brother." In order, we suppose, to make her picture more effective, the author has excluded from her story theological considerations which could not, in our day at all events, have been overlooked by such a one as John Ward, full of love for his wife as he was, and even fuller still of reverence for the inspired writings. In this way the author has secured a Rembrandt-like intensity of effect which is in reality almost inconceivable in the eirciun- stances which she has chosen to imagine. Of course, Elder Dean, or any of the ignorant elders of Lockhaven, might have held the views here attributed to them ; but that such a one as John Ward, who at least knew his Bible thoroughly, and all that could have been urged from the Bible against both his high- flying doctrine of reprobation, and the practical conduct by which he superstitiously persuaded himself that he had been supernaturally led to bring back his wife to what he regarded as orthodox truth, should have shown so absolute an ignorance of the counsels by which the Bible re-enforces the tender dictates of his own heart, is not at all credible. John Ward could not by any possibility, being what he was, have acted as he did in a time when the temper of the day throws so strong a light on all the more hopeful and optimistic theological elements of the Bible, and on all the passages in which St. Paul teaches true tolerance. He would have been well aware that St. Paul, however easy it may be to argue for his pre- destinarianism, was certainly no Calvinist, as well as that he would have condemned in very emphatic language the screw which John Ward is described as thinking it right to put on his wife's conscience, to make her give up her heretical opinions.
The picture of the womanly agnostic is, to our mind at least, truer, if not more impressive, than the picture of the pious and gentle fanatic. Indeed, the fashion in which Helen Ward straggles off quite gratuitously into pure agnosticism, simply because she cannot come up to her husband's standard of
orthodoxy, is very lifelike, and would be decidedly feminine were it not that we should have expected a nature so loving as hers, and so sensitive to the highest aspects of her husband's noble devoutness, to have retained through everything her faith in the substantial reality of that husband's inner life, and. therefore her faith in God. It seems to us that, though she might easily have convinced herself that John Ward's doctrinal system was incredible,—that was not difficult to see,—she could not possibly have persuaded herself so easily as she did that the devoutness of his nature was only a measure of the length and breadth and depth of the illusions
• John Ward, Preacher, By Margaret Deland. London: Longman&
in which he lived and moved and -had his being. She might have been driven into pure agnosticism by the Calvinism of any one whom she had loved less deeply and adequately, but hardly even by the Calvinism of one whom she revered and loved as she did her husband, yet whose whole life would have been a pursuit of a will-o'-the-wisp, if there were no true object for prayer. Thus, it seems to us that while the two chief figures of this remarkable story are figures of high interest, they are both of them overdrawn and wrested from their true perspective.
The other characters are all vividly painted, excepting Gifford Woodhouse, who belongs to a class of heroes whom we may describe as a cross-breed between mus- cular Christians and moral prigs. The author knew what she meant to paint in Dick Forsythe, and has painted him very well. But, under-bred and unpleasant as he is, he is hardly more objectionable than Gifford Woodhouse, with his Edgworthian virtues and his clumsy candour. But the picture of Dr. Howe's easy-going, inert Christianity,—a Christianity all social prepossession and unreasoned conven- tionalism,—of his kindly worldliness and irritation at the troublesome conscientiousness of the religious or unreligious saints; of his sister's tart worldliness and simple inability even to imagine the scruples which Dr. Howe understood but disliked ; of Mr. Dale's gentle and suppressed enthusiasm, of the true nature of which he finds it so impossible to give his unspiritual and self-opinionated wife even the faintest con- ception; of the two Miss Woodhouses, with their common pride in their nephew, their mild rivalries, and benignant satisfaction in their own different hobbies; and of little Mr.
Delmer, with his absolute inability to choose between them, even though his secret inclination points plainly to the least elderly and least dictatorial of the two,—the picture of all these figures is painted with a delicacy that implies no ordinary talent. Indeed, in the sketch of that clearly outlined but faint and fmikin character of Mr. Denner, with just enough life in him to feel keenly his solitude, and not enough to impel him distinctly to any natural mode of relieving that solitude, there is, we think, distinct genius.
The way in which he takes opinions on the comparative merits of Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth Woodhouse, and then acquiesces in the suggestion to offer to the one whom he least likes ; but, above all, the way in which he repels Dr. Howe's attempt to read the service for the Visitation of the Sick to him on his death-bed, and gallantly insists on dying as he had lived, without making-believe to be a better Christian than he was, these characteristics are touched off with a delicacy that is as rare as it is fascinating. Better to our minds than John Ward's self-torturing piety, better than Helen Ward's reckless and broken-hearted snatches at agnosticism, is little Mr. Denner's determination not to let Dr. Howe assume an in- tensity of faith in him which he knew to be unreal, not to be an accomplice in a dying act of conventional devotion which was not the true expression of his own heart :—
" The rector had clasped his hands upon his stick, and was looking intently at Mr. Denner, his lower lip thrust out and his eyebrows gathered in an absent frown. William,' he said sud-
denly, you've seen the doctor this morning Yes,' Mr. Denner answered, oh, yes. He is very kind about getting here early; the nights seem quite long, and it is a relief to see him early?— ' I have not seen him to-day,' said Dr. Howe slowly, but yester- day he made me feel very anxious about you. Yes, we were all quite anxious, William.'—The lawyer gave a little start, and looked sharply at his old friend ; then he said, hesitating slightly, That—ah—that was yesterday, did I understand you to say ?'- Dr. Howe leaned forward and took one of Mr. Denner's trembling little hands in his, which was strong and firm. Yes,' he said gently, but, William, my dear old friend, I am anxious still. I cannot help—I cannot help feeling that—that '= Stay,' inter- rupted Mr. Denner, with a visible effort at composure, quite understand. Pray spare yourself the pain of speaking of it, Archibald. You are very kind, but—I quite understand:—He put his hand before his eyes a moment, and then blindly stretched it out to his friend. The rector took it, and held it hard in his own. The two men were silent. Mr. Denner was the first to speak.—' It is very good in you to come and tell me, Archibald. I fear it has discomposed you; it was very painful for you. Pray do not allow yourself to feel the slightest annoyance ; it is of no consequence, I—ah—assure you. But since we are on the sub- ject, perhaps you will kindly mention—how—how soon ?'—' I hope, I trust,' answered the rector huskily, it may not be for several days.'—' But probably,' said Mr. Denner calmly,'pro- bably—sooner.'—Dr. Howe bowed his head.—' Ali—just so— just so. I—I thank you, Archibald:—Suddenly the rector drew a. long breath, and straightened himself, as though he had forgotten something. It must come to us all, sooner or later,' he said gently, and if we have lived well we need not dread it. Surely
you need not, of all the men I have ever known.'—' I have always- endeavoured,' said Mr. Denner, in a voice which still trembled a little, to remember that I was a gentleman.'—Dr. Howe opened
his lips and shut them again before he spoke. meant that the trust in God, William, of a Christian man, which is yours, must be your certain support now.'—The lawyer looked up, with a faint surprise dawning in his eyes.'An—you are very good to say so, I'm sure,' he replied courteously.—Dr. Howe moved his hands nervously, clasping and reclasping them upon the head of his. stick. Yes, William,' he said, after a moment's silence, 'that trust in God which leads us safely through all the dark places in life will not fail us at the end. The rod and the staff still comfort us.'—' Ah—yes,' responded Mr. Denner.—The rector gained con- fidence as he spoke. 'And you must have that blessed assurance of the love of God, William,' he continued ; your life has been so pure and good. You must see in this visitation, not chastise- ment, but mercy.'—Dr. Howe's hand moved slowly back to the big pocket in one of his black coat-tails, and brought out a small, shabby prayer-book.= You will let me read the prayers for the sick,' he continued gently, and without waiting for a reply began to say with more feeling than Dr. Howe often put into the reading of the service,—"` Dearly beloved, know this, that Almighty God is the Lord of life and death, and of all things to them pertaining; as" Archibald,' said Mr. Denner faintly, you will excuse me, but this is not—not necessary, as it were.'—Dr. Howe looked at him blankly, the prayer-book closing in his hand.—' I mean,' Mr. Denner added, if you will allow me to say so, the time for— for speaking thus has passed. It is now, with me, Archibald.'— There was a wistful look in his eyes as he spoke.—' I know,' answered Dr. Howe tenderly, thinking that the Visitation of the Sick must wait ; but God enters into now; the Eternal is our- refuge, a very present help in time of trouble.'—` Ah—yes
the sick man ; but I should like to approach this from our usual —point of view, if you will be so good. I have every respect for your office, but would it not be easier for us to speak of—of this as we have been in the habit of speaking on all subjects, quite— in our ordinary way, as it were ? You will pardon me, Archibald, if I say anything else seems—ah—unreal ?'—Dr. Howe rose an& walked to the window. He stood there a few minutes, but the- golden June day was dim, and there was a tightening in his throat that kept him silent. When he came back to the bedside,. he stood looking down at the sick man, without speaking.—Mr- Denner was embarrassed. I did not mean to pain you,' he said.— ' William,' the rector answered, have I made religion so worth- less ? Have I held it so weakly that you feel that it cannot help. you now?'—' Oh, not at all,' responded Mr. Denner, not at all.. I have the greatest respect for it,—I fear I expressed myself awkwardly,—the greatest respect; I fully appreciate its value, I might say its necessity, in the community. But—but if you please, Archibald, since you have kindly come to tell me of this— change, I should like to speak of it in our ordinary way ; to. approach the subject as men of the world. It is in this manner,. if you will be so good, I should like to ask you a question. I think we quite understand each other ; it is unnecessary to be- anything but—natural.'—The clergyman took his place on the side of the bed, but he leaned his head on his hand, and his eyes were hidden. Ask me anything you will. Yet, though I may not have lived it, William, I cannot answer you as anything but a Christian man now.'—" Just so,' said Mr. Deaner politely= ah —certainly ; but, between ourselves, doctor, putting aside this amiable and pleasing view of the church, you understand,— speaking just as we are in the habit of doing,—what do you suppose—what do you think—is beyond P'—His voice had sunk to. a whisper, and his eager eyes searched Dr. Howe's face."
That seems to us to mark the highest water-mark of literary depth and delicacy reached in a book of much more than common power,—though we are not sure that the picture. which follows of Mr. Denner's triumph in thinking that he is. aboutto solve the great mystery, is quite in keeping with the- studied repression of Dr. Howe's consolations which we have- just cited.
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