THE death of the Bishop of Durham was hardly unexpected. He had been prostrated by a long and distressing illness, from which at one time he did not expect to recover, and although strength partially returned, the serene loftiness with which in his latest speech he referred to death was almost prophetic. During these last months his hand was constantly at his work. He revised with amazing thoroughness his great edition of Ignatius, and prepared for publication his essays on Supernatural Religion and the Gospel of St. John. In these he delivered final and weighty testimony to central truth. Thus having done much service to God and man, having received such acknowledgments and rewards as man could give him, he has passed away in the fullness of his years, with his house set in order.

Bishop Lightfoot was pre-eminently the scholar of the Church of England, and as such found his first sphere of influence among the students of Cambridge. There is a characteristic theology of Cambridge, as there is of Oxford: Julius Hare is, in measure, to the one what J. H. Newman is to the other, whether acknowledged or not. But while no successor has arrived to divide the field with Newman, Hare has been almost forgotten in the living and masterful energy of such teachers as Lightfoot, Westcott, and Hort. Of these Lightfoot was unquestionably chief. His university career was one of nearly unique distinction. This fact of itself made him influential with young men, to whose favour intellectual power is essential, and who appreciate the certificate of university distinction beyond any other. With them, earnestness and piety standing alone go for nothing. But when goodness is joined to knowledge it counts for much; and when these are crowned by spiritual power, paramount influence is the result. Lightfoot had all three. A scholar of the first rank, a man of transparent and genuine goodness, he was something more: a common-sense Englishman, reticent as to spiritual experiences, his face was pale at times with a light not of this world.

Bishop Lightfoot, indirectly rather than directly, did a work of far-reaching import in his own Church of England. The ingenious person who divided that communion into Low, Broad, and High, has been the author of much confusion. It never was a satisfactory classification; now it is hopelessly inadequate to cover the facts. Dr. Lightfoot could not be limited by any of these names. In the sense that he believed in the place, the greatness, and the mission of the Church of England, he was a loyal and devoted Churchman. He had no shrinking from comprehension, and in that sense might be termed Broad. Some of his chief friends (like Dr. Liddon, to whom his work on Ignatius is dedicated) were High Churchmen, and he, like his predecessor, the author of the Analogy, seems to have favoured elaborate services. He never entered into direct conflict with any party in his Church, and was as free from coveting any party name as Dean Vaughan himself. But his work was of incalculable significance for the future of Christendom. It was he who dealt its death-blow to the doctrine of Apostolical Succession as held by the mass of the High Church clergy. There is an increasing consciousness of this among them. Although they are not superior in theological learning to other divisions of the Church of Christ in England, they know in their heart of hearts that they must abide by the verdict of scholarship. And since we have witnessed Pusey's characteristic doctrine rejected openly by the head of the Pusey House, we need not despair of seeing the chief bar to Christian union taken out of the way.

Bishop Lightfoot, perhaps, did more for those outside as a defender, than as an expositor of the faith. Few will recollect Dr. Samuel Brown's first booklet, in which he took the nom de plume 'Victorious Analysis.' That has often struck us as very prophetic of scientific hopes. Science hoped to be 'victorious' by 'analysis.' Analysis was carried far, but the wiser leaders have always been aware that the Gospels must be analysed before any real triumph can be claimed. In this they had chiefly to reckon with Lightfoot, and a very serious business they found it. To many it was assurance and comfort that such a man championed the faith. It may be a very poor argument to say 'The President of the Royal Society is a Christian: therefore I may safely be a Christian,' but such as it is it goes far. But those who wanted more were not disappointed. The unfortunate man who was too easily persuaded that he had made an end of supernatural religion was taken in hand by the Bishop and hewn in pieces. The lowered and abated tone of skepticism in our day, and the confidence of Christian apologists, is largely due to this victory. Among scholars it was acknowledged that Lightfoot knew more of the early Christian literature than any other man. There are more brilliant men left even in his chosen field than he was: Harnack is a conspicuous instance. But it was hardly possible that he should be surpassed in actual knowledge. He began early, he lost no time, he took the right way, his mind was at once retentive and eager, he never printed anything to which he had not given the last finish, and never discussed subjects he did not perfectly understand. So even the Germans came to recognise that they had no man quite his peer. The sobriety of his judgment, if it had stood alone, they might not have appreciated. If you call a young Dutch New Testament critic wrong-headed, he may reply that you are dull. But when you can point out that your opponent, though he has the advantage of not writing in English, is only an amateur, something is accomplished. It is true that Lightfoot was not a great genius. He was not one of those interpreters in whose presence darkness readily breaks away. He does not yoke himself with the mind of St. Paul. But for certain permanent qualities of wisdom, knowledge, and thoroughness, he is unsurpassed among New Testament expositors, and we deeply regret that he has not been spared to accomplish the next labour he had proposed to himself -- a commentary on Ephesians.

Of his work as a bishop not much need be said. Many not of his own communion grudged him to work so largely mechanical, but since he had to be a bishop, we regret that he did not die Archbishop of Canterbury. There is a generous instinct in human nature whereby we fancy that our great and wise are capable of anything; that they can overstep the inexorable moenia mundi; that the scholar can go forth into the world and guide it with his counsel. It is not so. Lightfoot did his best; his impulses were noble and generous; he longed to see the great salvation; he was full of the hopes that lift our fallen life; he never feared new ideas and new movements. He saw that something must be done -- done at the risk of mistake -- and he did it. But we are most attracted by the signs of a lofty and austere piety which mark his episcopate as they did that of Joseph Butler. Many viewed with misgiving the ascetic life of the author of the Analogy, his melancholy forebodings, his solitary habits, the ornate chapel where he bowed before a silver cross. Lightfoot's piety found, perhaps, more legitimate channels of expression, but it was of the same type -- lonely, intense, and pale. In this lies his chief, his true greatness: that Ad Te quacunque vocas was his guiding rule of life.

January 3, 1890.