Books: Life of John Coleridge Patteson

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> Life of John Coleridge Patteson

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As to the desserts upon which the young men in turn were spending a
good deal out of mere custom, harmlessly enough, but unnecessarily;
as soon as the distress of the potato famine in Ireland became known,
Patteson said, 'I am not at all for giving up these pleasant
meetings, but why not give up the dessert?' So the agreement was
made that the cost should for the present be made over to the 'Irish
fund.'

Another friend of this period, now well known as Principal Shairp of
St. Andrews', was then in the last year of a five years' residence.
He has been kind enough to favour me with the following effective
sketch of Coley as an undergraduate:--

'Patteson as he was at Oxford, comes back to me, as the
representative of the very best kind of Etonian, with much good that
he had got from Eton, with something better, not to be got at Eton or
any other school. He had those pleasant manners and that perfect
ease in dealing with men and with the world which are the inheritance
of Eton, without the least tincture of worldliness. I remember well
the look he then had, his countenance massive for one so young, with
good sense and good feeling, in fact, full of character. For it was
character more than special ability which marked him out from others,
and made him, wherever he was, whether in cricket in which he
excelled, or in graver things, a centre round which others gathered.
The impression he left on me was of quiet, gentle strength and entire
purity, a heart that loved all things true and honest and pure, and
that would always be found on the side of these. We did not know,
probably he did not know himself, the fire of devotion that lay
within him, but that was soon to kindle and make him what he
afterwards became.'

In truth he was taking deep interest in the religious movement,
though in the quiet unexcited way of those to whom such doctrines
were only the filling out of the teachings of their childhood. He
was present at that sermon on the 'Entire Absolution of the
Penitent,' with which, on the Fourth Sunday after Epiphany, 1846, Dr.
Pusey broke his enforced silence of three years.

The same evening Coley wrote to his sister Fanny:--

'I have just returned from University sermon, where I have been
listening with great delight to Pusey's sermon on the Keys for nearly
two hours. His immense benevolence beams through the extreme power
of his arguments, and the great research of his inquiry into all the
primitive writings is a most extraordinary matter, and as for the
humility and prayerful spirit in which it was composed, you fancied
he must have been on his knees the whole time he was writing it. I
went early to Christ Church, where it was preached, and, after
pushing through such a crowd as usually blocks up the entrance into
Exeter Hall, I found on getting into the Cathedral that every seat
was occupied. However, standing to hear such a man was no great
exertion, and I never was so interested before. It will probably be
printed, so that you will have no occasion for any remarks of mine.
It is sufficient that he preached the doctrine to my mind in an
invincible manner.' The letter has a postscript--'Easter vacation
will be from three weeks to a month. Hurrah! say I; now a precious
deal more glad am I to leave Oxford for the holidays than Eton,
though Feniton is better than either.'

Even in the last undergraduate year, the preference for Eton remained
as strong as ever. Coley intended to remain at Oxford to read for
honours through great part of the Long vacation; and after refreshing
himself with a run to Eton, he wrote:--

'Now for a very disagreeable contrast, but still I shall find great
interest in my work as I go on, and reading books for the second or
third time is light work compared to the first stodge at them. I am,
however, behindhand with my work, in spite of not having wasted much
time here.... I really don't see my way through the mass of work
before me, and half repent having to go up for class.

'...I went to the opera on Tuesday, but was too much taken up by Eton
to rave about it, though Grisi's singing and acting were out and out;
but, in sober earnest, I think if one was to look out simply for
one's own selfish pleasure in this world, staying at Eton in the
summer is paradise. I certainly have not been more happy, if so
happy, for years, and they need no convincing there of my doting
attachment to the place. I go down to Eton on Election Saturday and
Sunday for my last enjoyment of it this year; but if I am well and
nourishing in the summer of 1849, and all goes right with me, it is
one of the jolliest prospects of my emancipation from the schools to
think of a month at Eton. Oh! it's hard work reading for it, I can
tell you.'

Thus Coley Patteson's work throughout his undergraduate three years
was, so to speak, against the grain, though it was more diligent and
determined than it had been at Eton. He viewed this as the least
satisfactory period of his life, and probably it was that in which he
was doing the most violence to his likings. It struck those who had
known him at Eton that he had 'shaken off the easy-going,
comfortable, half-sluggish habit of mind' attributed to him there,
and to be earnestly preparing for the future work of life. His
continued interest in Missions was shown by his assisting to collect
subscriptions for the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. In
fact, his charm of manner, and his way of taking for granted that
people meant to do what they ought, made him a good collector, and he
had had a good deal of practice at Eton in keeping up the boys to the
subscription for the stained glass of the east window of the Chapel
which they had undertaken to give.

That Long vacation of study was a great effort, and he felt it
tedious and irksome, all the more from a weakness that affected his
eyelids, and, though it did not injure his sight, often rendered
reading and writing painful. Slight ailments concurred with other
troubles and vexations to depress his spirits; and besides these
outward matters, he seems to have had a sense of not coming up to his
ideal. His standard was pitched higher than that of most men: his
nature was prone to introspection, and his constitutional inertness
rendered it so difficult for him to live up to his own views, that he
was continually dissatisfied with himself; and this, in spite of his
sweet unselfish temper, gave his manner at home an irritability, and
among strangers a reserve--the very reverse of the joyous merry
nature which used to delight in balls, parties, and gaieties.

Though an ardent friend, he became disinclined to enter into general
society; nor was the distaste ever entirely overcome, though he never
failed to please by the charm alike of natural manner and of
Christian courtesy; the same spirit of gentleness and kindness very
soon prevailed in subduing, even in family life, any manifestation of
the tender points of a growing character.

In the autumn of 1849, he obtained a second class in the school of
Literae humaniores, a place that fairly represented his abilities as
compared with those of others. When the compulsory period of study
was at an end, his affection for Oxford and enjoyment of all that it
afforded increased considerably, though he never seems to have loved
the University quite as well as Eton.

As he intended to take Holy Orders, he did not give up his residence
there; but his first use of his leisure was to take a journey on the
Continent with his brother and Mr. Hornby. It was then that, as he
afterwards wrote, his real education began, partly from the opening
of his mind by the wonders of nature and art, and partly from the
development of his genius for philology. Aptitude for language had
already shown itself when his sister Fanny had given him some German
lessons; and even on his first halt at Cologne, he received the
compliment, 'Sie sprechen Deutsch wohl' and he found himself talking
to a German on one side and a Frenchman on the other.

His letters throughout his foreign travels are more copious than
ever, but are chiefly minute descriptions of what he saw, such as
would weary the reader who does not want a guide-book even full of
individuality. Yet they cannot be passed by without noticing how he
fulfilled the duty of study and endeavour at appreciation which
everyone owes to great works of art, instead of turning aside with
shallow conceit if he do not enter into them at first sight.

After the wonders of Vienna and the mines of Salzburg, the mountain
scenery of the Tyrol was an unspeakable pleasure, which tries to
express itself in many closely written pages. Crossing into Italy by
the Stelvio Pass, a sharp but passing fit of illness detained Coley
at Como for a day, and caused him to call in an Italian doctor, who
treated him on the starvation system, administered no medicines, and
would take no fee. The next day Coley was in condition to go on to
Milan, where his first impression of the Cathedral was, as so often
happens, almost of bewilderment. He did not at first like the
Lombardo-Gothic style, but he studied it carefully, and filled his
letter with measurements and numbers, though confessing that no part
pleased him so much as the pinnacles terminating in statues, 'each
one a very beautiful martyr's memorial.' Two more visits of several
hours, however, brought the untutored eye to a sense of the harmony
of proportion, and the surpassing beauty of the carvings and
sculpture.

It did not need so much study to enjoy Lionardo da Vinci's great
fresco, of which he wrote long and elaborately, and, altogether,
Milan afforded him very great delight and was a new world to him. It
was the farthest limit of his travels on this occasion. The party
returned by way of Geneva; and Coley, alone with four guides,
attempted the Col du Geant. Then following is his account of the
danger in which he found himself:--

'On Monday at 4.15 A.M. we started from the Montanvert, with our
alpenstocks, plenty of ropes, and a hatchet to cut steps in the ice.
We walked quickly over the Mer de Glace, and in about three hours
came to the difficult part. I had no conception of what it would be.
We had to ascend perpendicular walls of ice, 30, 40, 50 feet high, by
little holes which we cut with the hatchet, and to climb over places
not a foot broad, with enormous crevasses on each side. I was
determined not to give in, and said not a word, but I thought that no
one had a right to expose himself to such danger if known beforehand.
After about three hours spent in this way, (during which I made but
one slip, when I slid about twelve feet down a crevasse, but
providentially did not lose my head, and saved myself by catching at
a broken ridge of ice, rising up in the crevasse, round which I threw
my leg and worked my way up it astride), got to the region of snow,
and here the danger was of falling into hidden crevasses. We all
five fastened ourselves to one another with ropes. I went in the
middle, Couttet in front, then Payot. Most unluckily the weather
began to cloud over, and soon a sharp hailstorm began, with every
indication of a fog. We went very cautiously over the snow for about
three hours, sinking every now and then up to our middles, but only
once in a crevasse, when Couttet suddenly fell, singing out "Tirez!
tirez!" but he was pulled out instantly. We had now reached the top,
but the fog was so dense that I could scarcely see 30 feet before me,
and the crevasses and mountains of snow looming close round us looked
awful. At this moment the guides asked me if I must make the
passage. I said instantly that I wanted to do so, but that I would
sooner return at once than endanger the lives of any of them. They
told me there was certainly great danger, they had lost their way,
but were unwilling to give up. For an hour and a half we beat about
in the fog, among the crevasses, trying every way to find the pass,
which is very narrow, wet to the skin, and in constant peril; but we
knew that the descent on the Chamouni side is far more difficult than
that on the Courmayeur side. At last all the guides agreed that it
was impossible to find the way, said the storm was increasing, and
that our only chance was to return at once. So we did, but the
fearful difficulties of the descent I shall never forget. Even in
the finest weather they reckon it very difficult, but yesterday we
could not see the way, we were numbed with intense cold, and
dispirited from being forced to return.

In many places the hail and sleet had washed out the traces we
trusted as guides. After about four hours, we had passed the most
dangerous part, and in another hour we were safely upon the Mer de
Glace, which we hailed with delight: Couttet, who reached the point
of safety first, jumping on the firm ice and shouting to me "Il n'y a
plus de danger, Monsieur." Here we took off the ropes, and drank
some more brandy, and then went as hard as we could, jumping across
crevasses, which two days before I should have thought awkward, as if
they were cart ruts. We reached Chamouni at 8.30 P.M., having been
sixteen and a quarter hours without resting. I was not at all tired;
the guides thanked me for having given so little trouble, and
declared I had gone as well as themselves. Indeed I was
providentially unusually clear-headed and cool, and it was not till
the danger was over that I felt my nerves give way. There was a good
deal of anxiety about us at Chamouni, as it was one of the worst days
ever seen here. Hornby had taken all my clothes to Geneva, so I put
on a suit of the landlord's, and had some tea, and at 11 P.M. went to
bed, not forgetting, you may be sure, to thank God most fervently for
this merciful protection, as on the ice I did many times with all my
heart.

'On reviewing coolly, to-day, the places over which we passed, and
which I shall never forget, I remember seven such as I trust never
again to see a man attempt to climb. The state of the ice and
crevasses is always shifting, so that the next person who makes the
ascent may find a comparatively easy path. We had other dangers too,
such as this: twice the guides said to me, "Ne parlez pas ici,
Monsieur, et allez vite," the fear being of an ice avalanche falling
on us, and we heard the rocks and ice which are detached by the wet
falling all about. The view from the top, if the day is fine, is
about the most magnificent in the Alps; and as in that case I should
have descended easily on the other side, the excursion would not have
been so difficult. I hope you will not think I have been very
foolish; I did not at all think it would be so dangerous, nor was it
possible to foresee the bad weather. My curiosity to see some of the
difficulties of an excursion in the Alps is fully satisfied.'

After this adventure, the party broke up, James Patteson returning
home with Mr. Hornby, while Coley, who hoped to obtain a Fellowship
at Merton, and wished in the meantime to learn German thoroughly in
order to study Hebrew by the light of German scholarship, repaired to
Dresden for the purpose; revelling, by the way, on the pictures and
glass at Munich, descriptions of which fill three or four letters.
He remained a month at Dresden, reading for an hour a day with a
German master, and spending many hours besides in study, recreating
himself with German newspapers at the cafe where he dined, and going
to the play in the evening to hear colloquialisms. The picture
galleries were his daily enjoyment, and he declared the Madonna di
San Sisto fully equal to his anticipations. There is that about the
head of the Virgin which I believe one sees in no other picture, a
dignity and beauty with a mixture of timidity quite indescribable.'

Returning home for Christmas, Coley started again in January 1851, in
charge of a pupil, the son of Lord John Thynne, with whom he was to
go through Italy. The journey was made by sea from Marseilles to
Naples, where the old regime was still in force. Shakespeare and
Humboldt were seized; and after several hours' detention on the score
of the suspicious nature of his literature, Mr. Patteson was asked
for a bribe.

The climate was in itself a great charm to one always painfully
susceptible to cold; and, after duly dwelling on the marvels of
Vesuvius and Pompeii, the travellers went on to Rome. There the
sculptures were Coley's first delight, and he had the advantage of
hints from Gibson on the theory of his admiration, such as suited his
love of analysis. He poured forth descriptions of statues and
pictures in his letters: sometimes apologising.--'You must put up
with a very stupid and unintelligible sermon on art. The genius loci
would move the very stones to preach on such a theme. Again: The
worst is, that I ought to have months instead of days to see Rome in.
I economise my time pretty well; but yet I find every night that I
can only do a little of what I propose in the morning; and as for my
Italian, an hour and a half a day is on an average more than I give
to it. I suffer a good deal from weakness in the eyes; it prevents
my working at night with comfort. I have a master every other day.
I tried to draw, but it hurt me so much after looking about all day
that I despair of doing anything, though I don't abandon the idea
altogether.'

There are many letters on the religious state of Rome. The
apparently direct supplications to the Saints, the stories told in
sermons of desperate sinners--saved through some lingering observance
paid to the Blessed Virgin, and the alleged abuse of the
Confessional, shocked Patteson greatly, and therewith he connected
the flagrant evils of the political condition of Rome at that time,
and arrived at conclusions strongly adverse to Roman Catholicism as
such, though he retained uninjured the Catholic tone of his mind.

It was art which was the special attraction to Coley of all the many
spells of old Rome. He spent much time in the galleries, and studied
'modern painters' with an earnestness that makes Ruskinism pervade
his letters.

At Florence, Coley wrote as usual at much length of the galleries,
where the Madonna del Cardellino seems to have been what delighted
him most. He did not greatly enter into Michel Angelo's works, and
perhaps hardly did their religious spirit full justice under the
somewhat exclusive influence of Fra Angelico and Francia, with the
Euskinese interpretation. The delight was indescribable. He says:--
'But I have written again and again on this favourite theme, and I
forget that it is difficult for you to understand what I write, or
the great change that has taken place in me, without seeing the
original works. No one can see them and be unchanged. I never had
such enjoyment.' His birthday presents were spent on a copy of the
beloved Madonna del Cardellino, of which he says:--'though it does
not reach anything like the intensity of feeling of the original, is
still a very excellent painting, and will always help to excite in my
imagination, and I hope to convey to you, some faint image of the
exceeding beauty of this most beautiful of all paintings.'

Readers chiefly interested in the subsequent career of the missionary
would feel interrupted by the overflowing notes on painting,
sculpture and architecture which fill the correspondence, yet without
them, it is scarcely possible to realise the young man's intense
enthusiasm for the Beautiful, especially for spiritual beauty, and
thus how great was the sacrifice of going to regions where all these
delights were unknown and unattainable. He went on to Venice, where
he met a letter which gave a new course to his thoughts, for it
informed him that the deafness, which had long been growing on his
father had now become an obstacle to the performance of his duties as
a Judge, and announcing his intention of retiring.

In the fulness of his heart he wrote:--

'Venice, Hotel de la Villa: May 2, 1851.

'My dearest Father,--I have not been in Venice an hour yet, but
little did I expect to find such news waiting for me as is contained
in Jem's letter, and I can lose no time in answering it. It is
indeed a heavy trial for you, that, in addition to many years of
constant annoyance from your deafness, you should be obliged now, in
the full vigour of your mind, and with the advantage of your
experience, to give up a profession you so thoroughly delight in. I
don't deny that I have often contemplated the possibility of such a
thing; and I had some conversation with Uncle John last winter in
consequence of my fancying your deafness was on the increase, though
the girls did not perceive it; I hope with all my heart I was wrong.
I told him what I know you feel, that, painful as it will be to you
to retire from the Bench, if any dissatisfaction was expressed at
your not hearing sufficiently what passed, you would choose rather to
give up your seat than to go on under such circumstances. His
answer, I remember, was that it was most difficult to know what to
do, because it was no use concealing the fact that your infirmity did
interfere with the working of the Court more or less, on Circuit
especially, and at other times when witnesses were examined, but that
your knowledge of law was so invaluable that it was difficult to see
how this latter advantage could fail to outweigh the former defect;
and everybody knew that they can't find a lawyer to fill your place,
though another man might do the ordinary circuit work with greater
comfort to the Bar; though therefore nobody is so painstaking and so
little liable to make mistakes, yet to people in general and in the
whole, another man would seem to do the work nearly as well, and
would do his work, as far as his knowledge and conscientiousness
went, with more ease;--this was something like the substance of what
passed then, and you may suppose that since that time I have thought
more about the possibility of your retirement; but as I know how very
much you will feel giving up an occupation in which you take a
regular pride, I do feel very sorry, and wish I was at home to do
anything that could be done now. I know well enough that you are the
last man in the world to make a display of your feelings, and that
you look upon this as a trial, and bear it as one, just as you have
with such great patience and submission (and dear Joan too,) always
quietly borne your deafness; but I am sure you must, and do feel this
very much, and, added to Granny's illness, you must be a sad party at
home. I feel as if it were very selfish to be in this beautiful
city, and to have been spending so much money at Florence. Neither
did Joan, in her last letter, nor has Jem now, mentioned whether you
received two letters from Florence, the first of which gave some
description of my vetturino journey from Rome to Florence. I little
thought when I was enjoying myself so very much there, that all this
was passing at home.... Your influence in the Privy Council (where I
conclude they will offer you a seat) might be so good on very
important questions, and it would be an occupation for you; and I
have always hoped that, if it should please God you should retire
while still in the prime of life for work, you would publish some
great legal book, which should for ever be a record of your knowledge
on these subjects. However it may be, the retrospect of upwards of
twenty years spent on the Bench with the complete respect and
admiration of all your friends, is no slight thing to fall back upon:
and I trust that this fresh trial will turn to your good, and even
happiness here, as we may trust with safety it will hereafter.

'Ever your very affectionate and dutiful Son,

'JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON.'

In this winter of 1852, Mr. Justice Patteson's final decision to
retire was made and acted upon. The Judge delighted in no occupation
so much as the pursuit of law, and therefore distrusted his own
opinion as to the moment when his infirmity should absolutely unfit
him for sitting in Court. He had begged a friend to tell him the
moment that the impediment became serious; and this, with some
hesitation, was done. The intimation was thankfully received, and,
after due consideration, carried out.

On January 29, 1852, after twenty-two years on the Bench, and at the
age of sixty-two, Mr. Justice Patteson wrote his letter of
resignation to Lord Truro, then Lord Chancellor, petitioning for the
usual pension. It was replied to in terms of warm and sincere
regret; and on the 2nd of February, Sir John Patteson was nominated
to the Privy Council, as a member of the Judicial Committee; where
the business was chiefly conducted in writing, and he could act with
comparatively little obstacle from his deafness.

On February 10, 1852, he took his leave of the Bar. The Court of
Queen's Bench was crowded with barristers, who rose while the
Attorney-General, Sir Alexander Cockburn, made an address expressive
of the universal heartfelt feeling of respect and admiration with
which the retiring Judge was regarded.