CRUDE PROPHETIC THEORIES.
[To THE EDITOR OF THE " SPECTILTOR."1
SIR,—Allow me to offer you a quaint illustration of your remark, in the Spectator of September 6th, that crude "pro- phetic " theories are " the consolation and the intellectual
luxury of scores of competent officers of gentlemen who seem, when talking on any other subject, efficient men of the world ; and of some clergymen."
A connection of mine for whom I have an affectionate regard (and who is quite certain not to read the Spectator), a clergyman, though once an officer in the Army, and who lives in constant expectation of "the Lord's Coming," was telling me one morning at breakfast of the wreck, off the coast of his parish, of a small vessel which he considered had been pur- posely run on some rocks for the sake of the insurance-money. He gave his reasons for this belief in a manly, shrewd, and businesslike way, and told me how he had refused to sign a recommendation which the owners of the smack wished to accompany their application to the Insurance Company for compensation. He pointed out that there bad been no fog the night of the wreck, although the crew had once or twice sounded a fog-horn. This sound he said he had not himself heard, but his wife had done so. " Had I heard it," he added meditatively, but with perfect sim-
plicity, "of course I should have thought it was the Tramp." " The what ?" I asked, naturally not catching his meaning. "The Trump," he repeated, with an expression of sad surprise at my obtuseness. This time, thanks to his omission of the " et" ordinarily concluding the name of the instrument, I did understand him. "But surely," I said, " you don't think the solemn call to which you refer would be the least like a fog-horn !" " Well, perhaps not," he re- plied ; " of course one does not know what sort of trumpet it will be." " But do you mean to say," I asked in amazement, " that you really expect it will be a wind instrument of any sort, to be blown with the lips ?" " Of course I do!" he stoutly replied, and, scandalised at my scepticism, added in a shocked tone : " What else could it be ?"
I attempted to suggest, as more probable, that it might be some rousing moral appeal made by God to the conscience of the nations—as, I think, I remember Mr. Maurice patting it —but I wasted my breath, and he stuck to his trumpet.
What !" I repeated, hardly yet believing my ears, " literally a brass trumpet ?" " No," he replied ; " I did not say that." And then, after a pause, as though considering whether or not I might be able to receive an impartation of deeper truth, he whispered the crowning revelation : " Now, look here, I will tell you something,—why should it not be silver ?"—I am, Sir,
&c., X. [We cannot now enter into the question which our corre- spondent subsequently raises.—En. Spectator.]
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