marks the spot. After looking at this, and trying to reproduce the
scene, I descended to the cock-pit, and surveyed the dark and gloomy
cell in which he breathed his last, reclining against a huge rib of his
ship. Poor soul! If he had but served God as he served his King, there
would have been a glory in that death, beyond that of “victory, or
Westminster Abbey.” After a rapid survey of the dock-yards, I made my
way, by rail, to Chichester.

A fine market-cross distinguishes this city, and is kept in excellent
repair. But the great attraction is, of course, its cathedral, a
mutilated but still noble structure, which I found well worthy of a
visit. It exhibits some praiseworthy restorations, and I was pleased to
find that its nave is frequently used for sermons. It has many tombs and
monuments of note, and many of its architectural peculiarities are
attractive. Relics and antiquities connected with the history of the See
are shown, and it is painful to find, in one apartment, mysterious
evidence of the ill uses to which a church could be put, before the
Reformation. In the Bishop’s Consistory Court, there is a secret door in
the wainscot looking like a mere panel. This moves with a slide, and
covers a massive gate, with a lock, which opens into a strong room, once
used as a prison. It was no doubt the scene of suffering for conscience
sake, in the days of the Lollards.

After having so lately described other cathedrals of much greater
interest, I will only add, concerning this, that I was much pleased to
note among its monuments the modern one, by Flaxman, commemorative of
the poet Collins. Architecturally, indeed, it is out of place: but the
unfortunate bard was a native of the cathedral precinct, and the
Christian artist has seized upon that incident in his unhappy life,
which attests the consolations which highest genius may derive from the
same source that makes childhood wise unto salvation. “I have but one
book,” said he to a visitor, shortly before he died, as he held up the
New Testament, and added—“the best.”

My next stage was Brighton, where I enjoyed a sea-bath, and a brief
survey of that beautiful creation of fashion. But my chief enjoyment
here was received in the delightful hospitalities of a distinguished
family, which I shall always remember with sincere regard, as embracing
some of the most agreeable persons I have ever met. Among the varieties
of English character which have most charmed me, those to which I now
gratefully refer, are often reviving in memory, as affording a true
ideal of domestic happiness, enlivened by sentiment, and hallowed by a
spirit of devotion.

I was forced to make a very rapid survey of the southern coast, passing
by the old abbey at Lewes and the castle at Pevensey; and pausing
scarcely an hour upon the noble beach at Hastings, and amid the ruins of
its castle. With greater regret I was forced to omit visits to Battle
Abbey, to Hever Castle, and to Penshurst, to the last-named of which I
had an especial drawing, for the sake of Hammond and Sir Philip Sydney.
I was engaged to spend St. Peter’s day at Canterbury, and to be the
anniversary preacher, a privilege to which I was willing to sacrifice,
many other pleasures. Passing, therefore, through some pretty Kentish
scenery, and pausing to visit the old monuments at Ashford, I made my
way, before nightfall, to the city of pilgrimages, and was received as a
guest within the Warden’s lodge at St. Augustine’s. An anniversary
dinner was served in the hall, at which several distinguished personages
were present; and afterwards I saw the ceremony of admitting a scholar
to the foundation. I then visited the room over the gateway, which
lodged King Charles I., on his bridal tour; and, after service in the
chapel, retired to my room in this holy and religious home of the
Church’s children.

                              CHAPTER XXX.

        _St. Augustine’s Chapel—St. Martin’s—Addison—Thompson._

In the chapel of St. Augustine we kept St. Peter’s Day, and commemorated
the benefactors of the college. It was a cheering spectacle to behold
around me those missionary youths, devoted to the noblest warfare which
can enlist the energies of man, and destined, as I could not but pray,
to see and to achieve great things in the extension of the kingdom of
Immanuel upon earth. And how inspiring to them the associations with
which they are surrounded! On the very spot which they inhabit, the
Missionary Augustine preached the Gospel to their ancestors, when
Anglo-Saxons were but pagans, and now they go forth from it, as from the
very centre of Christian civilization, to bear the precious seed to the
uttermost isles of the sea, so that what England is, Australia may
become.

In the afternoon, I preached in old St. Martin’s, which probably is the
very oldest Church in England. Its name of St. Martin is probably a
second designation, given to it when it was fitted up for the use of
good Queen Bertha, before the conversion of her husband, Ethelbert. Such
a Church is spoken of by Bede, as having been built before the Romans
left the island; and as Roman bricks, of unquestionable antiquity, are a
large portion of the material of this Church, it is on this and other
accounts generally dated from A. D. 187, and supposed to have been
originally erected by some good Cornelius of the Roman army. Be that as
it may, Queen Bertha’s tomb is in the choir to this day: and the ancient
font is with good reason supposed to be that in which Ethelbert was
baptized. What hoary antiquity, what venerable and august dignity invest
this sacred place! It is of humble dimensions, and both without and
within bears the marks of its primitive character, in its plainness and
simplicity, but it is kept in good repair, and regarded with the
affectionate reverence which is so becoming. The yews and the ivy which
adorn it with their shade, are, apparently, almost as old as the Church:
and the church-yard gently slopes from the church-door to the road-side,
giving a beautiful elevation to the old pile, and presenting a highly
picturesque effect to the passer-by.

But how shall I describe the cathedral, whose huge bulk everywhere lifts
itself into sight above this curious and reverend old town? The
metropolis of the Anglo-Catholic communion is graced by an
Archiepiscopal church, every way worthy of the majestic relations which
it bears to Christendom. There it stands, like the Church of England
itself, worthy to be “the joy of the whole earth,” and not more
magnificent and imposing, than harmoniously chastened throughout with an
air of sovereign splendour subdued by solemn propriety. There is about
it, as compared with other English cathedrals, a sort of aggregated
look, strikingly significant of the massively conglomerate body which
the Anglican Church has already become, and something of which has
characterized her from the beginning. The double cross, in form of which
the cathedral is built, very appropriately, in view of its primacy,
heightens this effect: and the result is, that its prestige is well
sustained, when the pilgrim sees before him the head church of his
religion. A blessing on its ancient towers, and may it more and more
become “dear for its reputation through the world.”

On Sunday and the day following, when I attended service in the
cathedral, I had the best opportunities for surveying it throughout,
under the attentive guidance of Lord Charles Thynne and the estimable
Archdeacon Harrison. I am glad to say that the service here was very
effectively celebrated, though a larger force would have been more
worthy of the place and of the work. The organ is quite concealed in the
triforia, and its sound is somewhat peculiar as it issues from those
high cells, in perfect unison with “the full-voiced choir below.” As to
the effect of the cathedral upon the eye, I remember no interior, save
that of Milan, which can compare with it for impressiveness; and if,
from general effect, we descend to details, this cathedral is vastly the
more solemn and magnificent of the twain. Its altar, for example, is one
of the most lofty in Christendom, the choir rising from the nave by a
long flight of steps, and the altar being elevated, in like manner, very
high above the level of the choir. The several ascents and various
levels of the Church, instead of too much breaking its whole, seem to
add an air of vastness and sublimity to the general design. But when one
surveys, now the nave, and looks upwards into the tower, and along the
far-sweeping vaultings, and now the choir and its intersecting arches
and vistas; or descends to that varied undercroft, with its chapels and
sepulchres, and twisted columns, and French inscriptions; or mounts to
make circuit of the tombs and chapels, pausing within “Becket’s Crown”
to admire its unique and anomalous elegance; and then makes his way
through the cloisters into the chapter-house, and finally escapes into
outer day, and looks up again at the vast pile, through which he has
been wondering and wandering so long—the impression left upon the mind
is one of astonishment, like that of the Queen of Sheba, when “there was
no more spirit in her.” I had seen the spot where Becket fell beneath
the stout blows of his murderers—the marble floor which received his
blood still exhibiting a speaking memorial of the tragedy, in a small
mutilation which was made in sawing out the bloody block, to be carried
to Rome as a relic; I had seen the remains of the same prelate’s shrine,
where his sovereign submitted to flagellation, where princes presented
so many costly oblations, and which once glittered with such gorgeous
wealth before the eye of Erasmus; I had seen the stone-stairs leading up
to his sepulchre, worn away by the thousands of devotees, among which I
reckoned those of certain Canterburie pilgrims, accompanied by Dan
Chaucer himself; I had seen the tomb of the Black Prince, with his
lion-like effigy—over which dangles his surcoat, a thing of tatters,
but which no one can behold without emotion, when he reflects that it
once encased the beating heart and chivalrous breast of that gallant
Plantagenet. I had beheld the recumbent effigies of the usurping
Lancaster, Henry IV., and his Queen, Joan of Navarre; and I had surveyed
the memorial works, or sepulchres, of the primates of all England, from
Lanfranc to Chichely; but after all, I bore away no remembrance more
pleasing than that of the monumental window and tomb of the late
Archbishop Howley, commemorating, as they do, a most worthy prelate, and
marking the great epoch of a revival of theology, and of practical
faith, throughout the Church of England. This tomb is surmounted by the
recumbent effigy of the Bishop, and presents a most graceful specimen of
reviving art. He is habited in his sacred vestments, to which the
addition of the cope gives completeness and effect; and as the
Archbishop wore that vestment at the coronation of Queen Victoria, there
was reality to justify its use. In short, I was glad to see that even in
the cathedral of Canterbury, and without servility in copying the
antique, our own age can erect a monument, and surmount it with a
figure, literally true to its original, which is worthy of the place as
a work of art; and which, if it is more modest than the mediæval
sepulchres which surround it, is still in perfect keeping with all their
splendour; while it tells the simple story of a primacy the most
brilliant in its contemporary achievements of any that has ever blessed
the Church of England, since the days of Augustine. It will be forever
celebrated as distinguished by the rapid extension of Anglican
Catholicity in all quarters of the globe, and by a holy effort for the
restoration of unity to the Church of God.

The city of Canterbury abounds in quaint nooks and corners—old gates,
and fragments of wall;—and, in particular, is marked by an ancient
mound, or artificial hill, called the _Dane John_, which is much
reverenced as a work of the aboriginal Britons. Some will have it that
it was raised against the Danes, as its name appears to import; but it
strikes me as something of religious origin, and not unlike those
mysterious _tumuli_ which abound in our own Western country. If truly
British, indeed, who knows but some primeval _Madoc_ built both it and
them?

It was my fortune to hear in the cathedral, as an anthem, that _chef
d’œuvre_ of Sternhold and Hopkins, which must have been written in some
fit of poetical inspiration, vouchsafed to them for those two verses
only—

        “The Lord descended from above
         And bowed the heavens high,” &c.

The extract has been set to noble music, but who was the composer I
cannot say. After a visit to the Deanery, and a gratifying survey of its
long gallery of ecclesiastical portraits, I was shown into the
surrounding gardens, and conducted to almost every part of the cathedral
precincts, and finally dismissed by an ancient gate, which, owing to
some tradition, retains the romantic name of Queen Bertha’s postern. But
let me not conclude my remembrances of Canterbury without a warm tribute
to the delightful society to which I was introduced at St. Augustine’s,
and among the dignitaries of the cathedral. The esteemed Warden, who
received me as his guest, and who so kindly entertained me, deserves my
most grateful acknowledgments.

On the morning of my departure, rising very early, and accompanied by a
friend, to whom I had become warmly attached since my arrival in
England, I drove out, through pleasant Kentish scenery, to the parsonage
of Borne, which is from Canterbury three miles distant, according to
Izaak Walton; following the example of the many, who once did so, to see
the face of the venerable and judicious Richard Hooker, though I could
only hope to see his tomb, and the church in which he ministered. I
shall never forget that morning drive, nor the reverence with which, at
length, I beheld Hooker’s own church, and the parsonage in which he so
loved to see God’s blessings spring out of the earth about his door. I
entered the holy place, and there was his bust, coloured by the old
artist to represent life: and looking at it, through my hands, so as to
shut out the surrounding parts of the monument, I was verily able to
conceive that I beheld good Master Hooker in his pulpit, about to speak.
It imprinted a live idea of the man upon my memory, which I would not
lose for many costlier things. The place called up many of those graphic
anecdotes which his quaint biographer has chronicled concerning him; but
I was especially reminded of that scene between the Puritan intruders
and the old parish clerk, who, when they sat down on joint stools to
partake their communion, said, as he resigned the keys with a heavy
heart, “Take the keys and lock me out, for all men will say Master
Hooker was a good man and a good scholar, and I am sure it was not used
to be thus in his days.” I could not but remember, moreover, that within
those walls Hooker had passed many a lonely Ember-day, locked up for
fasting and prayer; and ‘who knows’ said I to myself, ‘but we are even
now realizing the blessed answers to those intercessions for the Church,
in all parts of the world?’

On my way up to London, I paid a visit at S—— Park, the residence of a
young country squire, who had lately taken his degrees at Cambridge,
married, and settled here on his hereditary estate. The life of an
English gentleman, of this degree, has always struck me, as nearly the
most perfect realization of sublunary bliss, which the world affords.
Nor did the glimpse which I thus gained of such a life, in the least
disappoint me. The young mistress of the mansion, in the momentary
absence of her husband, kindly made herself my guide, over a portion of
the estate, in search of him. No ceremony—and no attempt to appear
fine. In a moment she was ready, and as she led me hither and thither,
she was not above taking me to her poultry-yard, and her dairy, and
showing me her amateur farming. We entered a fine field of standing
corn—the golden wheat of Kent—and as we passed through the narrow
foot-path, my fair guide informed me ’twas their way to parish church,
and just then I descried the church itself, at a little distance, in its
modest beauty, at the foot of a hill. A lark flew up, and she pointed at
the little fellow, as he mounted the skies, and poured out his song,
reminding me of a remark I had made to her, that we have no sky-larks in
America. She entered a pretty farm-house, where a decent-looking family
were just taking their tea: they treated her as they would have done a
descended angel, while she, in the prettiest tones, inquired whether
they “had seen their Master thereabout,” and so, thanking them,
departed. We soon encountered the young “Master,” who gave me a kind
welcome, and showed me the further attractions of the estate. Then home,
and soon to dinner, and after that, a pleasant summer evening sauntering
about the doors and under the old trees of the park, where the rooks
kept up a great cawing in consequence of our intrusion. In many
respects, the place did not differ much from many American residences
that I have visited; but in others it did, and chiefly in the entire
ease and nature with which everybody, from the squire to his humblest
menial, nay, even the house-dog, fitted his place, and seemed to enjoy
it. We have no servants in America, though we have slaves. All
white-complexioned people scorn to obey. Hence the misery and the
stiffness of housekeeping, and the deplorable multiplication of those
vulgar establishments called “fashionable hotels.” Let me add,
concerning this happy abode of unostentatious English comfort and
refinement, that what especially pleased me was the devout appearance of
the household servants at family prayers. They all joined in the
devotions, and each had a Prayer-book in hand, which appeared to be a
cherished companion of their daily routine. Happy the household where
all the inmates, from the least to the greatest, have one Lord, one
faith, and one baptism.

The ancient castle and the cathedral of Rochester were taken in my way
up to London; but, interesting as they are in themselves, I might fail
to make them attractive, in a description so vague as I should be
obliged to give them, and so, with a passing tribute to their merits, as
religious and feudal monuments of the past, I must again return to
London.

In frequent visits to Westminster Abbey, I had become familiar with
every portion of it, including cloisters, chapter-house, and library. In
the library, by the politeness of one of the dignitaries, I was favoured
with a minute inspection of some of its most precious historical
deposites. Such were the dies from which were struck the coins of Henry
Fourth, and many succeeding sovereigns, rude works of art, depending
upon blows of the hammer to produce their impression. In the
chapter-house is the original Domesday-book, and many other historical
documents. I was shown the instrument by which Edward I. was authorized,
by twenty-three competitors, to settle the Crown of Scotland upon one of
their number. The seal of Bruce’s father is very distinctly visible.
Here are Henry VII.’s very minute instructions to his commissioners to
examine the personal claims to his choice, of a young princess, whom he
proposed to marry, with their not over-gallant reports. A superbly
decorated instrument, dated at Amiens, August 18, 1527, and signed by
Henry VIII., and Francis, was also a great curiosity. It has a golden
seal, with the legend—_Plurima servantur fœdere, cuncta fide_. Among
other parchments, one signed by Mary, as Queen of France, with her
husband Francis II., was interesting. I saw also the stamp, used by
Henry VIII., to affix his signature to parchments, in his dying days; a
prayer-book of Queen Elizabeth’s; and a fine old Missal of 1380, from
which some zealous reformer had erased the service for Becket’s-day, and
several prayers for the Pope.

But all these were inferior in interest to the tombs and chapels of the
Abbey. Many of the monuments are in wretched taste, and a general
banishment to the cloisters, of those which are not in keeping with the
architecture of the church, would be a great improvement. The residue
should then be repaired and decorated. But even as they are, they
present a most interesting epitome of history, and a most affecting
commentary on the vanity of worldly grandeur and greatness. With Henry
VII.’s chapel, and its royal sepulchres, I was greatly impressed, and
the near neighbourhood of the tombs of Mary and Elizabeth, struck me as
forcibly as if I had never heard of the strange proximity, in which
they, who once could scarcely live in the same world, here mingle their
dust with the same span of earth, and side by side, await the judgment.
Oh, what pomp of sepulture attests the universal reign of death in this
ancient temple! Here, in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, stands the
throne, which has been the glory and the shame of so many who lie
sleeping around it. The rough old stone, inserted in its base, is the
Scottish palladium; and the old monkish fable makes it one of the stones
of Jacob’s pillow, at Bethel. The monuments of Edward III., and Queen
Philippa, and that of Henry V., commanded my especial attention. Above
the latter, are preserved the saddle, shield, and helmet, which he used
at Agincourt. The body of Edward I. rests beneath a plain altar-tomb. In
the centre of the chapel is the shrine of St. Edward: and it is as near
as possible to these relics of their predecessors, that English
sovereigns are still anointed and crowned in the adjoining choir. At
such times, if these silent tombs are startled by the shouts of the
multitude that cry—_Long live the King_, how much more forcibly they
must speak to him, in their mute expressiveness, reminding him of his
nothingness, and calling him to prepare for a long home in the dust!

To the reflections of Addison and of Irving, in this consecrated pile, I
shall not attempt to add my own. The sweet interpreter of the moral of
this wonderful place, sleeps appropriately under its tutelage, and few
are the graves within it, which more affect a kindred heart. To see the
grave of Addison, which was lately marked by a small white stone, in the
pavement of one of the chapels, suggests a kind of postscript to his own
musings; and, as I stood, thoughtfully, over it, I seemed to hear his
voice, out of the sepulchre, confirming his living words. I thought,
moreover, how much has been done, since his day, to add to the interest
of the holy place—even in addition to his own grave! How many tombs I
saw, which he did not—his own among them! Addison knew nothing of
Johnson’s sepulchre; stood not by the rival relics of Pitt and Fox;
thrilled not as he approached the resting-place of a Wolfe, or a
Wilberforce; and little dreamed how much more than the shrine of Kings,
his own last bed would impress a stranger from America, in the
nineteenth century. How transcendant the enchantment with which genius
invests its possessor, where it is paired with virtue! With what
refreshment I often turned from the royal tombs to the Poets’ Corner;
and there, with what reverence did I turn most frequently to the
monuments of those whose high artistic inspiration was characterized by
the pure spirit of love to God. It was pleasing to behold the memorials
of Chaucer, and of “rare Ben Jonson;” but with a fonder veneration I
paused more frequently before that of the stainless Spenser. I thought
of his words concerning “the laurel”—and how fittingly they apply to
this Abbey, as the—

              “——Meed of mighty conquerors
        And poets sage.”

With a different sort of pleasure I surveyed the wonders of the British
Museum. There, a scholar can find all he needs in the way of literary
food, freely bestowed. I do not admire the new buildings; but the
Institution is worthy of a great nation, and reflects eternal honour on
George the Third. Will the Smithsonian, at Washington, ever rival it?
Its newest and its oldest treasures, were the great stones from Nineveh,
so cleverly described by the _Quarterly_. With what emotions I surveyed
those illegible hieroglyphics; and scraped acquaintance with those
“placid grinning kings, twanging their jolly bows over their rident
horses, wounding those good-humoured enemies, who tumble gaily off the
towers, or drown, smiling in the dimpling waters, amidst the ἀνήριθμον
γέλασμα of fish.”

The English, though a proud people, are really very moderate in their
appreciation of the manifold charms of their incomparable isle. When I
surveyed the river-view from Richmond-hill, I recalled the glorious
waters of my own dear country, and many a darling scene which is
imperishably stamped in my mind’s eye, and asked myself whether, indeed,
this was more delightful to the sight than those. I was slow to admit
anything inferior in the scenery of the Hudson and Susquehanna, when I
compared them with so diminutive a stream as the Thames, and I even
reproved myself for bringing them into parallel; but over and over again
was I forced to allow, that “earth has not anything to show more fair,”
than the rich luxuriance of the panorama which I then surveyed. A river
whose banks are old historic fields, and whose placid surface reflects,
from league to league of its progress, the towers of palaces and of
churches which, for centuries, have been hallowed by ennobling and holy
associations; which flows by the favourite haunts of genius, or winds
among the antique halls of consecrated learning; and which, after
sweeping beneath the gigantic arches, domes and temples of a vast
metropolis, gives itself to the burthen of fleets and navies, and bears
them magnificently forth to the ocean; such an object must necessarily
be one of the highest interest to any one capable of appreciating the
mentally beautiful and sublime; but when natural glories invest the same
objects with a thousand independent attractions, who need be ashamed of
owning an overpowering enthusiasm in the actual survey, and something
scarcely less thrilling in the recollection! When I afterward looked
towards Rome, and descried the dome of St. Peter’s from Tivoli, I felt,
as Gray has somewhere observed, that nothing but the intellect is
delighted there, while on Richmond-hill, the soul and the sense alike
are ravished with the view, and fail to conceive anything more
satisfying of its kind. If ever, which God forbid, the barbarian should
overrun this scene, and make ruins of its surrounding villas and
churches, the contemplative visitor of a future generation will still
linger on those heights with far more of complicated and harmonious
satisfaction than can possibly refresh the eye that wanders over the
dreary Campagna. Yet how few of the great and fashionable in England
have ever allowed themselves to appreciate the glories of their own
scenery after this sort!

But whether on those lofty banks, or down by the river-side, or wherever
I wandered amid their green retreats, I owned to myself one sad
disappointment. I repeated over and over again those verses, learned in
school-days, in which Collins bewails the poet of the Seasons:—

        “Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
          When Thames in summer wreaths is dressed,
        And oft suspend the dashing oar,
          To bid his gentle spirit rest.”

Where was “yonder grave,” and where “yon whitening spire?” It was with
some chagrin that I followed my directions into the dullest haunts of
the town, and into a modernized church, in an unromantic street, and
there soliloquized, over a miserable brass plate, amid a pile of
pew-lumber—“In such a grave your Druid lies!” It is amusing, on a few
square inches of worthless metal, as entirely devoid of artificial value
as it is of intrinsic worth, to observe the vanity with which a man of
rank has contrived to write his own name in as large letters as those of
the poet’s. “The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man, and so
sweet a poet, should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his
interment, &c.”—so reads the inscription. The Earl has at least the
merit of having exactly expressed the character of his tribute, for it
_denotes_ the place, and that’s all. One would think a Scottish nobleman
might have spared a few guineas in doing something better for the grave
of his countryman.

A glimpse of Twickenham, and of the spire of the church where Pope is
entombed, were all that I allowed myself, in honour of a bard whose
faultless verse is no excuse for the frequent indecency and paganism of
its sentiment. It is a curious and revolting fact that his skull has
been purloined, and now belongs to a phrenologist. I caught a railway
view of Dachet-lane, famous for Falstaff’s experiences in the
buck-basket, and so once more to Windsor! I stopped, over a train, to
enjoy one more walk on the castle terrace, and one more look at Eton
college, and then hastened on to Oxford, to attend the Commemoration. I
accepted the hospitalities of my friends of Magdalen, who lodged me in
the rooms formerly occupied by the Bishop of Exeter.

During my visit I did not fail to see the celebrated Dr. Pusey, who
struck me as a younger man than he is generally supposed to be. His
appearance indicates nothing eccentric or ascetic, and his manners are
those of a gentleman at home in the society of his fellow-men. He has
friends and foes at Oxford, as well as elsewhere, but all seem to regard
him with respect as a man of piety and learning. To me he was less a
lion, however, because I have always regarded the application of his
name to the great movement of 1833, as a mere instance of popular
caprice. His share in it has been less than that of many others; neither
the credit of its good, nor the disgrace of its evil, belongs to him in
any superlative degree. Its progress has left him, with others, far in
the rear of its existing interests; and what has been stigmatized as
_Puseyism_ is perhaps, when fairly distinguished from the extravagances
of a few fanatics and sophists, the English phase of a world-wide return
to principles that were the life of Christianity, long before Popery was
in existence, and ages before it had bred Protestantism by its violent
reaction.

                             CHAPTER XXXI.

                        _Oxford and Cambridge._

I had seen Oxford in vacation, and again during term; I had now the
privilege of attending its Encænia. The occasion brings many
distinguished persons to the University, and the pleasures of dining and
breakfasting in the college-halls, and with private parties, are greatly
enhanced by such additions to the company of eminent residents. The
ceremonies in the Academic theatre sadly disappointed me. Imagine an
open area, filled with gownsmen and their friends, and surrounded by
tiers of boxes filled with ladies, above which, near the ceiling, is
elevated a third tier, full of undergraduates. The Dons and doctors, in
their robes, sit on either side of the Vice-Chancellor, at one extremity
of the theatre, in a place something between a row of boxes and an
orchestra. In the presence of ladies and of such grave and reverend
seniors, one naturally expects decorum from all parties; but though I
had often read of the frolics in which the undergraduates are permitted
to indulge on these occasions, I confess I was not fully prepared for
the excessive and prolonged turbulence of the scene. While awaiting the
opening of the ceremonial, it was well enough to laugh at the cheers of
the youth as they called out successively the names of favourite public
personages, or at their sibilations, when the names of “Lord John
Russell” and “Cardinal Wiseman” were proposed for merited derision. But
when, again and again, as the venerable Vice-Chancellor rose to make a
beginning, his voice was vociferously outnoised by that of the boys
overhead, I began to think the joke was carried a little too far. There
had been some omission of customary music, and to supply the deficiency,
uprose those legions of youth, and shouted—_God save the Queen_, in
full chorus, stanza after stanza, till the Dons looked eminently
disloyal in their impatience. The Creweian Oration was delivered by the
Public Orator, and I was particularly desirous of marking his
pronunciation of Latin words, as well as the general merit of a
performance in which once, upon a like occasion, Bishop Lowth so
handsomely acquitted himself. But, I think, I speak within bounds when I
say that scarcely an entire sentence could be heard, from beginning to
end. All manner of outcries assailed the speaker, from his rising till
he surceased. At one time, an extremely impudent personality excited a
general smile. The orator waxed warm as he spoke, and growing quite
rubicund of visage, some flagitious freshman cried out—“Pray stop; it
makes me hot to look at you.” Several distinguished individuals, bishops
and generals, and scientific men, were presented to receive the
_Doctorate in Civil Law_, and now I supposed the hospitality of the
University would suffice to shield the eminent personages from the
annoyance of such untimely fun. But there was no cessation, and when Sir
W. Page Wood was presented, there was a merry cry of “_inutile lignum_,”
at which no one laughed more heartily than the party himself. Verily,
thought I, if this were unheard of in England, and were only set down in
the book of some peregrine Dickens, as what he saw in America, at a
Harvard Commencement, how inevitably would it figure in reviews and
newspapers as a telling fact against the disorganizing tendencies of
democratic education! In Oxford, it is regarded as a mere outbreak of
youthful merriment, and such is indeed the case: and yet, unless
_Encænia_ and _Saturnalia_ are synonymous terms, one must be allowed to
think the custom best honoured in the breach. I must add, that during
the delivery of a poem, by an undergraduate, his comrades showed more
respect, and the tumult subsided for a time, like that of Ephesus, on
the remonstrance of the town-clerk. The young poet pronounced his
numbers in the same tribune where once stood Reginald Heber, enchanting
all hearers with his “Palestine.”

A lunch in the superb new hall of Pembroke, of which many ladies partook
with the other guests, giving the hall an unusually gay appearance; a
dinner at Oriel, and afterwards sport with bowls, and other games, in
the garden of Exeter; and, finally, a very agreeable evening party at
Magdalen; these were the other occupations of the day, in which I
greatly enjoyed the society with which I mingled. I was particularly
pleased to observe the enthusiasm of the female visitors of Oxford, many
of whom had come up for the first time, and were less acquainted with
the place than myself. It was a novel pleasure, on my part, to turn
_cicerone_, and to explain to a group of English ladies, the wonders of
the University.

Next morning, after breakfast at Merton, and a lunch at Jesus College,
with some kind friends who were preparing to leave Oxford for the Long
Vacation, I went, in the company of some of them, to Bedford, and there
took coach for Cambridge. I thought of John Bunyan, who once inhabited
the county-jail, in this place, and there composed his wonderful
allegory; and as I began to travel along the banks of the Ouse, I
thought of William Cowper, who was one of the first to do justice to his
piety and genius. If the Church of England, sharing in the fault of the
times, (and visiting others with far milder penalties than both Papists
and Puritans laid upon her) was in any sort a party to his ill-usage, it
must be owned that she has done him full justice, in the end. He owed
his enlargement to the Bishop of Lincoln’s interposition, and Cowper and
Southey have affixed the stamp, and given currency to the gold of his
genius. I am ashamed that he was not taken into the Bishop of Lincoln’s
house, and made a deacon, and so cured of the mistaken enthusiasm which
was evidently the misfortune of the tinker, and not the natural bent of
the man.

Our journey lay over a dull and level country, and there was little to
enliven it, except the conversation of a young Oxonian going to see the
rival University. A cantab, returning from Oxford, maintained a
good-natured debate with him, in favour of his own _alma-mater_. We went
through St. Neot’s, where I remembered Cowper again; descried at the
distance of some twenty miles the majestic bulk of Ely Cathedral, and
finally greeted the fair vision of King’s College, conspicuous among the
other academic homes of Granta. It was the fourth of July—and thoughts
of the very different scenes through which my friends were passing in
America, were continually in my mind. Here it was not thought of, though
a day which has left its mark upon Great Britain, and the world. Was it
the day of a rebellion? By no means; unless the day that seated William
of Orange on the throne of England was such. Our fathers ceased to be
Englishmen, because a corrupt and incompetent Ministry were resolved
that they should no longer be freemen. I thank God we are no longer at
the mercy of such men as Lord John Russell, and Sir William Molesworth.
So I mused, even as I stood, for the first time, in venerable Cambridge,
where some of my forefathers were educated, and where I felt it a sort
of wrong to be disinherited of a filial right to feel at home.

I was not disappointed, disagreeably, in Cambridge, but the reverse; and
it grew upon me every hour that I was there. One of my first visits was
to the truly poetical courts of Caius, where the singular quaintness of
its three gates charmed alike my sight and fancy. “Before honour is
humility”—and here the proverb is translated into architecture. You
must pass through the gate of humility, and the gate of virtue, before
emerging through the gate of honour. Strange that the beneficent founder
of this college, like Dr. Faust, in Germany, should have left his name
to legend-makers and fabulists, and so to comedy, and the “Merry Wives
of Windsor.”

The noble twin of Oxford is certainly inferior in the appearance which
she first presents to a stranger, and yet, from the first, the chapel of
King’s is a superb sight, which even Oxford might almost grudge to her
sister. I greatly regretted reaching Cambridge during a vacation, when
comparatively few of the gownsmen were on the spot. Still, having become
so familiar with academic manners, in Oxford, it seemed hardly necessary
to do more than survey the still-life of Cambridge, in order to
understand it as well. The diversities between the Universities are
indeed many, and all my prepossessions are in favour of Oxford; and yet,
after a brief external survey of her rival, and much conversation with
some of her loyal sons, I can easily understand their attachment to her,
and the pride they take in her reputation, as well as their firm
conviction of her superiority. To an American, indeed, the late election
of so unfit a person as Prince Albert to be their Chancellor, is a
surprising thing; and it is no very bright omen, for the University,
that the prince already aims to shape it, as near as possible, after the
similitude of Bonn, his own garlicky, blouse-wearing, and pipe-smoking
_Alma Mater_, in Teutschland. But, on the other hand, the spirited
resistance which was made to that measure, in bold opposition even to
the known wishes of a beloved Queen, is instanced, by many
Cantabrigians, as a proof of devotion to great principles, of which they
have reason to be proud. They have a thousand better reasons for being
proud of their University, and would that their Chancellor, who is
otherwise so well qualified, had the power to appreciate and feel them
half as warmly as many an American does, from the depth of his soul!

Cambridge struck me as an older and less modernized place than Oxford.
Its streets are a labyrinth, and many of them present the appearance of
Continental, rather than of Insular Europe. One of the first things that
struck me was the conduit erected by the same “old Hobson” whom Milton
celebrates, and from whom comes the adage of “Hobson’s choice.” He was a
carrier, and kept horses to let, but made the Cantabs take the horse
that stood next the stable-door whenever they came to hire. He certainly
was a remarkable man, for what other carrier was ever consigned to
immortality by a monument in Cambridge, by a practical proverb, and by a
memorial in the verse of such a poet as Milton?

As the means of information respecting Cambridge are in everybody’s
hands, and as the picturesque of its colleges and grounds is familiar
from engravings, I shall spare my reader the trouble of details which
might seem a repetition of those of Oxford. In St. John’s college, which
its own men are accused of considering the University, I found the
chapel, though small and plain, a most attractive place. Its “non-juror
windows,” and other memorials, revive many historical names. I know not
why the Johnians have received the Pindaric epithet of Swine, but so it
is; and the peculiarly pretty bridge, spanning the Cam, which unites its
quadrangles and halls, has accordingly won the sportive name of the
“Isthmus of _Sues_.” In the very pleasant grounds adjacent, I plucked a
leaf from the silver-beech, said to have been planted by Henry Martyn,
and breathed a blessing on his memory. A fellow of Trinity kindly
devoted himself to showing me the attractions of his college, and they
are very great. The library is a Valhalla of literary heroes, the sons
of Trinity, whose busts adorn the alcoves: and the statue of Byron, by
Thorwaldsen, is a superb addition to its treasures of art, which, on the
whole, will do no harm here, excluded as it was from Westminster Abbey,
by a virtuous abhorrence of the bold blasphemer whom it represents, and
thus stamped as deep with infamy as it is otherwise clothed with
attractiveness. Among the relics of the collection, there were two which
any man must behold with reverence: a lock of Sir Isaac Newton’s hair,
and the original manuscripts of Paradise Lost, and of Lycidas! Then to
the chapel—that chapel which ever since I read “the Records of a Good
Man’s Life,” in school-boy days, I had longed to see, and where I had
often wished it had been my lot to pray, in college life. In the
ante-chapel, there was that statue of Newton, so beautifully described
by the author, as arresting the melancholy attentions of a consumptive
youth, as he passed it, for the last time, in his surplice, and
confessed that this had been too much his idol, in that house of God,
filling his enthusiasm with the worship of genius, when he should have
thought only of his Maker. I shall never forget the thrills of excited
imagination with which I received some of my first impressions of
Cambridge, in reading that story of Singleton: and now they all revived
as I stood upon the spot.

Among the attractions of the small colleges, I must not omit to mention
the chapel of Jesus College, which has lately undergone a thorough
restoration, and presents one of the most beautiful specimens of revived
mediævalism in art which I have ever seen. It is the work of an
accomplished gentleman of the college, assisted to some extent by the
voluntary contributions of undergraduates. Nothing of the kind which I
saw in Oxford can compare with this exquisite Oratory. I went to
Christ’s college and saw Milton’s mulberry—a pleasant memorial of his
best days; the days when he was the “lady of his college” for youthful
comeliness, and the man of his college for the genius that produced
Lycidas, and for the unsoured feelings that could yet appreciate “the
high embowed roofs,” and the “studious cloisters” by which he was there
surrounded. Happy would it have been for him, had he kept that youthful
heart! The mulberry is propped up like an old man on his staff, and
shielded from the weather by a leaden surtout, but must soon cease to be
the last living thing that connects with the name of Milton.

What a place is Cambridge, when its minor colleges suggest such names!
As I passed what was formerly Bennet college, I thought of Cowper’s
lines on his brother. There, too, was Pembroke, suggesting thoughts of
Bramhall and of Andrewes—of Andrewes whom even Milton could praise,
albeit he was a prelate. There was Peterhouse, reminding me of good old
Cosin. More than all—there was little Caius (pronounced _Keys_) where
Jeremy Taylor, the poor sizar and the barber’s son, passed so often to
and fro, beneath its quaint old gates, bearing a soul within him, which
in after years he poured forth, like another Chrysostom, and made a
treasure for all time. I am sorry to say there is another college there,
which suggests the odious name of Cromwell, the man who kindled the
fiery coals in which the golden heart of Taylor, and the hearts of
thousands more, were well refined, and seven times purified.

The Fitzwilliam Museum is a noble collection of antique sculpture and
architectural relics, with a library and paintings, and has been housed
superbly in a building, which is a great ornament to Cambridge, although
built, in modern taste, and in Grecian style, suiting the things it
contains better than the place which contains it. I received far more
pleasure, however, from a visit to the celebrated round church, which
has been lately restored, and whose name, St. Sepulchre, refers it to
the era of the Crusades. But how shall I speak of King’s College Chapel?
I was not so fortunate as to see it filled with its white-robed
scholars, but its own self was sight enough. “Such awful
perspective”—indeed! Such tints from such windows—such carvings—such
a roof! It springs and spreads above you, light as the spider’s web, and
yet it is all massive stone, and its construction is an architectural
miracle. I climbed to the roof, and walked upon that same vaulting, as
upon a solid stone-pavement. It is put together in mathematical figures,
and on principles purely scientific; but modern architects are puzzled
to explain them. Above this, there is another roof, which is exposed to
the weather, and from which one enjoys a fine view of the town and the
surrounding country. The walks and avenues of limes, which stretch
before King’s, and which connect with the grounds of Trinity and St.
John’s, are inferior to nothing in Oxford, and are generally pronounced
by Cambridge men superior to Christ church meadows and the walks of
Magdalen. I strolled among some magnificent limes in the grounds of
Trinity, which might well apologise for a student’s opinion, that no
other college in the world has such grounds and trees. As for the river
Cam, its beautiful bridges, I am sorry to say, are reflected in a very
sluggish and dirty tide, called “silvery” only by poetical license.

Dining in the hall of Trinity, I was overwhelmed by the sublime
associations of such a place, as illustrated by the portraits around me.
Everywhere were the pictures of great historic sons of this college;
here was Pearson, and there was Barrow; and before us, as we sat at
meat, were Bacon and Sir Isaac Newton. What children has this Mother
borne; not for herself, but for all mankind! And thus much I will say
for Cambridge, as compared with Oxford, that whereas amid the
architectural glories of the latter, one almost forgets the glory of her
sons, you are reminded, at every turn in Cambridge, that her chief
jewels are the great men she has brought forth. One cannot give her all
the credit, indeed: she has been singularly fortunate; but when hers are
Bacon, and Newton, and Milton, and Taylor, and stars, in constellations,
of scarcely minor magnitude, what university in Christendom can call
itself superior? If Granta has her peer, there is nothing that is more
than that on earth.

                             CHAPTER XXXII.

                      _Cathedral Tour—The Border._

A cathedral tour now lay between me and Scotland, to which I began to
make my way rapidly. All that I had yet seen of architecture, promised
to be the mere preface to what was still before me, in the splendours of
Ely, of Peterborough, of Lincoln, of York, and of Durham. To my reader
it will be impossible to convey the idea of variety and ever-novel
delight with which these successive miracles of the builder’s art
impressed me, as I passed from one to the other, from day to day; but I
will touch on the more special characteristics of each, in full
confidence that what is most striking in old historic monuments, like
these, can never tire the head that is furnished alike with eyes and
brains.

The train took me swiftly to Ely, over a fenny district, which supplied
nothing of interest, except the distant view of the towers, which loomed
up, more and more, as we drew nigh the little city. How different this
railway approach from that celebrated by Wordsworth:—

        “A pleasant music floats along the mere,
         From monks in Ely chanting service high,
         Whileas Canute the king is rowing by!”

I found this magnificent work partly in ruins—partly undergoing a
beautiful restoration; and as the pavement of the choir was torn up, I
beheld a stone-coffin, in which, perhaps, lie the bones of one of those
very monks, who were singing in the days of King Canute. At my request,
one of the workmen raised the lid of the coffin, and there lay the skull
and bones of an old ecclesiastic, the former quite entire; or, perhaps,
it was St. Ethelfreda herself, who began her building here in the
seventh century. If so, they are repairing her works, in the nineteenth,
in a spirit of nobler art, than she ever imagined. The restorations are
truly superb, and a future visitor will find the choir of Ely one of the
most impressive temples in Christendom. What an age of restorations this
is, in the Church of England! ’Tis a nobler reformation than that of
three hundred years ago—for that was, necessarily, one of haste and of
overthrow. Now a calm constructiveness is at work, holding fast all that
was gained before; but giving it the finish, which was impossible then.
And these material restorations are but the symbol of a great spiritual
awakening, concerning which, there is one painful thought which no
student of English History should ever forget. It is this, that but for
the Puritans, all this would have been done in the seventeenth century!
Greater and better men were then on the stage than any that are now
living, and all that the age of Victoria is doing for Christ, it was in
the heart of King Charles to do. It is impossible to say what might not
have been the blessed results for the Universe had the Church of England
been in a condition to tempt the Church of France to an alliance in
1682. All we can say on the other hand, is that, let Macaulay declaim as
he may, progressive freedom would have been established in England
without the paradoxical intervention of a Cromwell, while there is
nothing left us, as the direct results of Puritanism, except a few
Socinian congregations, and the “Dissenters’ Chapels’ Bill.”

The massiveness of some portions of this cathedral, and the lightness
and grace of others, are very impressive. Its length is very great, and
the vista “long drawn out.” Amid its ancient monuments I spent a solemn
hour of musing, while the light of the descending sun, through the
clere-story and lantern, showered a soft and melancholy radiance over
the whole interior, admirably harmonizing with the reflections it
necessarily inspired.

I found Peterborough another sleepy little city, and the cathedral
beautifully situated, with the Bishop’s palace hard by. It is a severe,
but grand exterior, and presides over the surrounding trees, and roofs,
like a sort of divinity. It is quite free of encroachment from other
buildings; but its close, or precinct, is guarded by a circuit of
prebendal, and other ecclesiastical houses, with turreted and arched
gateways, which seem to command a reverent approach to the sacred spot.
I omit a technical description of the architecture, but must be allowed
to give some account of the Sunday I spent there, and of one or two
little things that deeply affected me.

While the bells were thundering for Morning Service, I stood in the
nave, wholly lost in contemplation of its plain, but massive majesty. A
train of children entered, with their teachers, evidently a
Sunday-school. I watched the little procession as it wound its way amid
the columns, and turned to the left of the choir. Following them, I saw
them enter the choir, by a small side-door, and as they stepped into it,
every little foot fell on a slab of stone, in the centre of which was a
little brass plate, not so large as one’s hand. When all had gone in,
and were kneeling in their meek array, I drew near, and stooped down to
see over whose dust they had been treading. I read a few words, but they
thrilled me like electricity—“Queen Katherine, 1536!” Here, then, lies
that proud daughter of Arragon, whose mournful history has left its mark
upon nations, and upon Christendom! The scene in Shakspeare rose before
me—Pope—Cardinals—Princes—Henry VIII. This stone covers all, and
peasants’ babes trip over it as lightly as if the life that lies
extinguished there, had been as simple as their own!

In the corresponding spot, on the other side, lies just such another
slab, over another sepulchre. The body has been removed to Westminster
Abbey; but its first repose was here. The brass has been torn out; but
it once read, “Queen Mary, 1587”—for here the poor Queen of Scots was
laid, headless, and festering in her cerements, six months after that
fatal day, in the neighbouring Fotheringay Castle. The date of her
interment offers the best apology for the severity she had suffered,
although nothing can excuse the sin of Elizabeth. It was the year before
the Spanish Armada; and it is now known that she had, _two years
previously_, given her kingdom to Philip II., inviting that bloody bigot
to set up his Inquisition among her Scottish subjects, and excluding her
own son from his right. Such was her crime against her own people,
aimed, however, more especially at England, by her fanatical zeal.
Between these solemn tombs of a Queen of France, and a daughter of
Spain, I worshipped that day, and received the Holy Communion, to my
comfort. The anthem was a familiar strain, from Mozart, which we sing in
America to the Christmas hymn, set to words from the Psalter—_Quam
magnificata opera tua!_ The Bishop of Peterborough was the preacher, and
I heard him again at Evening Service. As you leave the nave through the
western entrance, you see an odd portrait set against the wall, that of
a grave-digger, spade in hand. Underneath, you read—“R. Scarlett, died
1594, aged 98.” He buried the two Queens, and the inhabitants of the
town _twice over_, as you learn from uncouth rhymes subjoined. Was ever
such a “king of spades?”

Next morning I saw “Lincoln, on its sovereign hill,” and heard the Great
Tom—“swinging slow with sullen roar.” The restorations going on in the
choir had driven the service into a little chapel, near the west end;
but the singing was very sweet, and solemn, though entirely without
ceremony. I devoted the morning to the survey of this model of art,
which I like the better, because it is, in part, a monument of the
Anglican Liberties, as they were maintained in the middle ages, against
the Roman Pontiff. The central tower is the work of brave old Bishop
Grostéte, in the thirteenth century. He was the predecessor of Wycliffe
and Cranmer, in defying the Pope, and in spite of papal anathemas, he
died in peaceful possession of his See. All honour to his pious memory.

It is the custom to admire the west front of this cathedral
extravagantly; but I confess that with all that there is to admire in
its separate parts, the whole seems, to me, ill-composed. The towers,
more particularly, strike me as possessing no unity with the mass of
architecture, behind which they rise, as from a screen, whose broad
rectangular frontage detracts from the apparent height. It is only as
seen from the foot of the hill, that the whole architectural bulk
affects the eye sublimely, towering majestically over the town, which
crouches at its base. The whole pile affords to the architectural
student every luxury of his art, both within and without; but such were
the desecrations which it suffered from the Cromwellians, that few of
those gorgeous shrines, for which it was formerly distinguished, remain,
to delight the ordinary visiter. In the cloisters have lately been
discovered some Roman remains: a mosaic pavement, in particular, such as
the traveller is so often shown in Italy. “The Jew’s house,” so called,
a relic of mediæval art, was more interesting to me, as connected with
the legend of the little martyr who lies in the cathedral, and who is
celebrated by Chaucer, in the tale of the Prioress.

The City of York makes an imposing show, crowned by the glories of its
vast minster, and walled in, like Chester, with ancient ramparts, which
nearly encircle the town. How singular the reflection that Constantine
the Great was a native Yorkshire-man, born in this town, in A.D. 272!
Here, too, his father died, in A.D. 307, and he succeeded to the empire,
going forth to reform pagan Rome, as I trust the spirit of England has
even now gone forth to do the same for Rome papal. Here, too, died the
Emperor Severus vainly striving to reconcile his sons Caracalla and
Geta. Among the monuments of the Roman Forum, these names afterward
reminded me of York; while, across the broad Atlantic, the immense city
where I had been brought up, had always been to me, her memorial. How
many were the reflections with which I walked the whole circuit of her
walls, and surveyed the town, the ancient castle, and the surrounding
scenery, and then sailed upon the river beneath! The beautiful ruins of
an old abbey, near the river, still delight the antiquarian; but after
cursorily surveying these, I hastened to the cathedral.

The western front of the minster is worthy of its extraordinary fame.
The semi-barbarian features of many of the cathedrals are here
superseded by what might seem to be the idealized perfection of their
rude details. The unity which was wanting in Lincoln, seemed to be here
complete and entire; and the rich and delicate tracery which invests it
has the appearance of an elaborate tissue of lace, fitted over the stone
after the substantial part was complete. From other points of view, the
impression is less of grace, and more of majesty. The whole is sublime
in its effect beyond that of any other cathedral that I ever saw; and
even in Milan, I could not but say to myself, as I gazed on its
wonderful _Duomo_—“after all, it is, as compared with York, only a
beautiful monster.” There is something about it which realizes the idea
of a cathedral, in its model form; and this is a charm that is wanting
in many others of its class. In its ample choir, I was more affected by
the service than at any other place, with the exception perhaps of
Canterbury, so far as it depended on the elevating influence of mere
architecture, consciously felt and employed to ennoble the sacrifice of
praise and prayer. With the survey of the chapter-house, cloisters, and
tombs, I was less interested than with repeated efforts to take in the
vast sweep of the interior, and to animate it with visions of what it
may yet become, when Deans and Canons wake up to the immense
responsibility of their opportunities to work for the glory of God. The
tone of the service, and the swell of the organ, even now, give wings to
worship, when the anthem rises beneath this lofty vault, and dies away
in the profound depth of the nave, or spreads itself amid aisles and
columns, with multiplied reverberations and undulations of harmony; but
oh! what might not be its heavenly effect, were the choir and nave all
one, and filled with kneeling thousands, lifting up their voice with one
accord in the overwhelming common-prayer of the Anglican Church! A
friend of mine, who was once present, in Yorkminster, on a Sunday,
realized something very near what I strove to imagine. The congregation
was swelled by the presence of several regiments of soldiers, who
appeared to take part in the worship, and whose gay uniforms, as they
knelt on the mosaic floor, received a richer splendour from the tinted
lights that flowed down from lofty windows, where meek saints and mighty
princes seem to live again in the lustre of their portraiture.

An early start next morning, a short railway trip, and then a
stage-coach drive of two miles, and then a walk through the fields,
brought me to S—— parsonage, before breakfast, where a kindly welcome
awaited me from my Malvern acquaintances. A day had been planned for me
by the kind lady of the parsonage, and though it threatened rain, she
laughed at the idea of abandoning it on that account. An American lady
would scarcely have thought of it, even in fair weather, as the
excursion involved not a little exercise of the foot. Off we went in a
pony-carriage to Ripon, where I had time for a hasty inspection of the
minster, lately made a cathedral. It is a severe specimen of Early
English, and affords much to interest the student; but very little to
make a story of, unless we adopt Camden’s explanation of St. Wilfrid’s
needle in the crypt. It is a narrow perforation of the masonry, through
which ladies were sometimes required to pass, when, as Fuller says,
“those who could not thread the needle pricked their own credit.”

We went through the grounds of Studley Royal, enjoying a diversified
view of beautiful park scenery, till we came to the neighbourhood of
Fountains Abbey, and exchanged our drive for a walk. We passed through
woods, and by little lakes, and over rustic bridges, and came at last
into a walk richly embowered with trees, along a height, where the
foliage completely screened the view below. Our fair conductress
promised us a lunch at a little halting-place called Anne Boleyn’s Seat.
I did not tell her that I had foreknowledge of the trick she meant to
play upon me; but I sincerely wish that I had never heard of it, for my
own sake as well as hers. Arrived at the spot, we sat down to rest, when
suddenly the lady flung open a door, and before us was such a view as
can be seen nowhere else in the world. We were balconied, in a lofty
window, and below was the beautiful valley and meadow: at the extremity
of which, rise the ancient walls, chapel window, and tower of Fountains
Abbey—the most poetical ruin in existence. All Italy has nothing to
show, that can be compared with it for beauty, especially if we take
into account the extraordinary charms of the wooded steeps that surround
it, and of the green velvet mead, from which it lifts itself like the
creation of enchantment. Its architecture is vast and majestic in scale,
and the ivy has contrived to festoon and mantle its magnificence, in
such wise as to lend it a grace it never could have possessed even in
its first glory. There is a more sylvan charm about Tintern. Fountains
Abbey is the perfection of artificial beauty, for even its surrounding
nature is impressed with a look of long and complete subjugation to the
hand of consummate art.

I assured our fair enchantress, that although I had heard of this
surprise before, her playfulness had not been lost on me. I had expected
to enjoy it only under the humdrum operation of an ordinary guide. She
had heightened the effect by her talismanic touch and artistic air, and
I was free to confess that the effect produced was such, that “the half
had not been told me.” A little streamlet runs through the meadow, like
a silver thread upon emerald; and nothing which a painter could wish is
wanting to make the scene a picture of delight. I could not but think of
the still waters, and the green pastures, and the glorious mansions of a
better world.

The Abbey was Cistercian, as the fat valley in which it stands might
indicate, according to the rhyme:—

        “Bernard the vales, as Benedict the steeps,
         But towering cities did Loyola love.”

It was founded, in fact, in the time of St. Bernard, under the first
impulses communicated to Europe by his vast enthusiasm. But it is in
vain that we look for any traces of his asceticism, in the luxurious
splendour of every portion of this noble pile. Here you enter the lordly
refectory; you pass to the ample kitchen, and ascend to the long range
of dormitories. What prince on earth is better lodged? The chapter-house
is on the same scale of dignity; and the cloisters are a long
perspective of pillared arches, through which the eye can scarcely
penetrate to the end. But the church, with its elaborate chapels, of
which nearly half the pillars are standing in their gracefulness,
beggars description. Its floor is green turf, and its walls are hung
with living tapestry; but it seems still a vast cathedral, and the more
beautiful, for its heavenly vault, and its windows, opening in all their
rich variety of form, bright glimpses of wood and sky. Everything is in
keeping, and the whole is such an epitome of the monastic system as
suggests alike its glory and its shame. The excavations are still going
on, and like those of Pompeii, they are revealing the most minute and
tell-tale particulars of monastic life. One cannot altogether regret
that such establishments are of the past, and yet the experiment of
their reform should have been fairly tried, before destruction made it
forever impossible to restore them to noble and pious uses.

Near the Abbey is a yew-tree of great antiquity, beneath which,
tradition says, the first colony of monks assembled, and planned their
future home. In a secluded spot, a little further on, I came to
Fountains Hall, a pleasant manorial residence. It was built in the time
of the first Stuart, and, I am sorry to add, of materials, quarried in
the old Abbey. Such being the case, I am glad it is not mine. Sacrilege
is so fatal a sin, that I hardly dared to take away a bit of moss from
the Abbey walls; and to remove a cubic inch of its masonry, was a
liberty from which I shrank, as a sort of irreverence to God.

Adieu to Fountains—but the scene will never leave my mental vision,
which will retain as tenaciously, also, the recollection of those whose
company enabled me to enter into the spirit of the scene, as I never can
when alone. Reluctantly bidding them farewell, I went by rail to South
Shields, on a visit to an estimable M.P., whose acquaintance I had made
in London. He is a man of great natural refinement, and of very superior
accomplishments, having greatly distinguished himself in early life, at
Oxford, though his retiring disposition has kept him from the ambitious
dignities which he might easily have commanded. Though there are few, in
England, to whom I became more attached, I must add that it was neither
from political nor religious affinities. He is as much of a dissenter as
a churchman can well be, and as little of a John Bull as an Englishman
can well be; but it is my creed, that none but the most narrow-minded
mortals limit their society to those who share their own likes and
dislikes, and never has my contempt for Sallust’s rule of friendship
been more richly rewarded than in the relations which I formed with Mr.
I——. With his liberal feelings towards America, I was particularly
gratified; and it was pleasant indeed to listen to this estimable man,
as he generously eulogized several of my countrymen, whom he had made
his friends. Most attractive too was his unassuming piety. His Greek
Testament was his familiar companion, and he was sometimes betrayed into
scholarly criticisms of its text, which I could not always adopt, but
which I was forced to admire, as drawn from stores of classical
knowledge and accuracy. I felt it a great privilege to be his guest, and
fell asleep in my chamber, full of happy reflections on the pleasures of
the day, and lulled by the sounds of the sea, which breaks on the
boundaries of his demesne. The morning light came to my window over the
German Ocean, for the King of Denmark is next neighbour to my friend in
that direction.

I was now among the collieries, but had no desire to know anything about
them. I saw the mouths of the doleful pits which descend to these human
burrows, and to think of the miserable population below, was enough!
There they live, and die, and are buried while they live, and are far
more wretched, I should imagine, than the servile class, in most cases,
among us. The amelioration of life in the collieries, is by no means
neglected however. England is alive to the spiritual and temporal
destitution of her poor, of every condition; and happy will it be for
us, when our national evils are as deeply felt as those of England are
by Englishmen; when they are as temperately and freely discussed, and as
boldly submitted to an enlightened spirit of progress and reform.

With my estimable friend, I visited Durham, its cathedral and
University, and enjoyed great privileges in so doing, as the result of
his kindness. On our way, he pointed out the secluded and saintly
Jarrow, and the tower of Bernard Gilpin’s Church. In this neighbourhood
occur two names that startle an American: he comes to _Franklin_, and to
_Washington_, little villages which have imparted their names to
hundreds of places in America, by first giving them to two really great
men. With us, places are named from individuals; but in England, the
reverse is more frequently the case.

“Stupendous”—is the epithet for the cathedral of Durham. It is the
poetry of the frigid zone of architecture, as Milan cathedral is of its
tropics. The first impressions, on entering, were instinctively those of
the patriarch—“how dreadful is this place—this is none other than the
House of God.” At York, I had said—‘this is the gate of heaven.’ Here
an overpowering solemnity brooded over every thought, and I less admired
than wondered. One thing was most pleasing: there is no screen, and the
eye ranges through nave and choir, unrestrained, to the altar itself to
which a bas-relief of the last supper, gives a fine effect. Under the
guidance of Canon Townsend, who had lately returned from his most
primitive visit to the Pope, we surveyed the entire cathedral and its
adjoining courts, all alike builded for everlasting, if the solidity and
grandeur of its masonry be any index of its design. We visited “the
Galilee,” and the tomb of the venerable Bede, the “nine altars,” at the
eastern end, and the tomb of St. Cuthbert. Also, the chapter-house,
hallowed by the names of Aidan and Finan, those apostles of the North,
who came forth from Iona to illuminate our Saxon ancestors. I pity the
man who claims no kin with their ancient faith and piety! They infused
into the Church of England many elements of its present character, and
Bernard Gilpin was their legitimate son, even more than Bede himself.

In the library, we were shown, by the polite dignitary who was our
guide, many antiquarian and literary curiosities. The stole of St.
Cuthbert, taken from his coffin, and some needlework of the sister of
Alfred, were of the number, and divers manuscripts, on vellum, of great
beauty, and one the autograph of Bede! Some modern copes, of the time of
Charles First, were shown us, as having been worn in Divine Service, in
the cathedral, according to the rubric, till Warburton laid them aside.
We also visited the University, which now fills the old castle of
Durham. This castle was built by William the Conqueror, and was long the
residence of the Bishops, as Lords of the Palatinate. Its old Norman
chapel is very interesting, and the modern fittings are in good taste
throughout, and turn it to good account. In one of the prebendal houses,
we found the Bishop of Exeter, a prelate of great distinction, and
celebrated for making warm friends and bitter foes. Canon Townsend gave
us our lunch, at his own table, and warmly eulogized the American
Church, which he designs to visit. He also praised our country and its
achievements. His burning desire seems to be to unite all Christians,
once more, in one holy fellowship of faith and worship, and it was in
this spirit that he visited the Vatican, and exhorted the Pope to
repent. It was the last testimony to Pius Ninth, before he dared to
commit that damning sin against Christian charity, on the 8th of
December, 1854. In my opinion, Canon Townsend need not be ashamed of
having preached the Gospel at Rome also.

I crossed the river Wear, and gained from its well-wooded bank, the best
view of the cathedral. It rises on the opposite bank, high over the
stream, like part of the rock on which it is built. It presents the
appearance of entire “unity with itself.” Massive and ponderous dignity
invests the whole pile, and with the advantage of its deep descent to
the river, I know not where to look for anything that seems at once so
fixed to the earth, and yet so aspiring in its gigantic stretch towards
heaven. The cathedral at Fribourg, in Switzerland, not only lacks its
grandeur, but is too far from the edge of the steep, on which it stands,
to derive much character from it. Durham, on the contrary, grows out of
the cliff itself, and it is hard to say where the natural architecture
terminates, and art begins.

I heard the service, in the cathedral, and it was effectively performed.
From preference, I occupied the extremity of the nave, and enjoyed its
distant effect. The Episcopal throne, in this cathedral, is a great
curiosity. Had I not been told it was a throne, I should have said it
was a gallery, or orchestra. Its style is altogether curious, and
unique; but I should think his Lordship would prefer any place in the
cathedral, to such a strange eminence. I left Durham, with great regret
that I could not linger for a long time, amid its venerable and sacred
attractions.

A good portion of the succeeding day was given to Newcastle-upon-Tyne,
its smutty old-town, and its spruce and showy new-town. Here is Norman
England on one hand, and England of the Reform-bill on the other.
Standing upon one of its lofty bridges, I surveyed the town, and the
river, and felt more pleased with what I saw than I had supposed it
possible for me to be with such a coal-hole.

Out of the hole I climbed, however, to the height on which stands its
old castle, built by Robert Curthose, son of William the Conqueror. It
is a dingy tower, at best; but massive, and full of historic interest.
Its chapel, only a few yards square, and dimly lighted, is remarkable
for some of the finest specimens extant, of the Saxon arch. Its parts
are distinctly marked, as chancel, nave, sacristy, and the like; but it
is more like the chapel of an Inquisition, than of a royal castle.
Several rooms in the castle are filled with Roman relics, all found in
the neighbourhood of the town; and often, when I afterwards visited
Rome, and thought of this far distant place, did it give me new ideas of
her ancient power, to reflect upon her identity here and there, and upon
the skill in overcoming difficulties, which, in that barbarian day, made
her to be felt as really upon the Tyne, as upon the Tiber. I saw very
soon the same marks of Roman conquest, far away in Scotland, near Elgin,
and Inverness.

And to Scotland I now made my way, without stopping. Flying through
Northumberland, I caught many glimpses of its scenery and antiquities,
about Warkworth and Alnwick. Far out at sea, I spied the lofty bulk of
Holy Island, or Lindisfarne, the Iona of England. I instinctively bared
my head to it. At length I sighted Berwick-upon-Tweed, the _Amen Corner_
of England, where the Church ceases, and the Kirk begins. Anon, I was
over the Border.

                            CHAPTER XXXIII.

                      _The Lakes and the Lakers._

As I am now detailing my “Impressions of England,” I must leave out my
Scottish chapters, for Scotland is far too rich in material to be
smuggled into the world under any cover except its own. After a most
interesting visit to this romantic land, I again saw England as I
approached the Cumberland mountains, at Ecclefechan, and in spite of my
delight in Caledonia, I somehow felt that it was home. I reached “Gretna
Green” from a direction the opposite of that which is the fashion for
runaways, and hence saw nothing of “the blacksmith;” but I was informed
that he duly posts himself at the station when the train approaches from
the other direction, and very frequently finds customers. It is not now
as in the days of posting; and if a brace of lovers can make sure of a
train in advance of pursuers, they are quite safe. The next train may
bring the frantic friends and parents; but the wedding is already
performed, according to the barbarous law of North Britain. It has been
remarked as something singular, if not disgraceful, that several who
have risen to be Lord-Chancellors of the southern kingdom, were, in
early life, married in this way. After a moment’s pause at the Gretna
station, we were whirled across the Sark, with a glimpse of the Solway,
and soon I was in “merrie Carlisle.” I entered it, thanks be to Bishop
Percy, with special thoughts of “Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and
William of Cloudeslee.” The poetry of the town is, in fact, concentrated
in that ballad of ballads. As a border town, it has always been subject
to those fearful scenes and tragedies, which only war creates: and its
history is a romance, from the days of the Conquest to those of the
Pretender, whose flag once waved on its walls. It is charmingly
situated, and well watered by its three rivers; but its castle and its
cathedral are its chief objects of interest, and offer little that can
be described with effect, after a review of more striking specimens of
their kind. Among the tombs in the latter, is that of Archdeacon Paley,
the _moralist_, who “could not afford to keep a conscience.” I did not
regard it with any great emotion. The adjacent Deanery, at one time
inhabited by Bishop Percy, was more interesting to me, for whatever he
may have been as a bishop, I cannot doubt that his taste and industry in
literature have produced a vast result in the poetry and letters of his
native tongue. I have often amused myself, not only with his “ballads”
themselves, but with an effort to trace their immediate and remote
effects on the taste, and even upon the genius of England. They are very
striking, and prove what may be the lasting results of a very humble
sort of literary enterprise, when it is founded on “truths that wake to
perish never.”

I was in the region of the Lakes, and felt upon me already the powerful
influences which its great poets have left it for an heritage forever.
The noble range of the Cumberlands seemed to lift their monumental
heads, in memory of Southey and Wordsworth. I went to Kendal, and
sighted the castle where Katherine Parr was born, but was glad to take
the earliest train to Bowness. Welcome was the sight of Windermere,
brightly reflecting the evening sky, and encircled by an army of
mountains, lifting their bristling pikes as if to defend it, like a
virgin sister in her loveliness. Who can forget Dr. Arnold’s
enthusiastic return to this dear spot, from the Continent: his just
comparison of its charms with those of foreign scenes, and his close
noting of the very minutes that lingered as he hasted to his home at Fox
How? To me, there is all the heart of poetry in his honest effusion of
genuine English feeling. “I see the Old Man and the Langdale Pikes,
rising behind the nearer hills so beautifully! We open on Windermere,
and vain it is to talk of any earthly beauty ever equalling this
country, in my eyes. No Mola di Gaeta, no Valley of the Velino, no
Salerno or Vietri can rival, to me, this Vale of Windermere, and of the
Rotha. Here it lies in the perfection of its beauty, the deep shadows on
the unruffled water; and mingling with every form, and sound, and
fragrance, comes the full thought of domestic affections, and of
national and of Christian: here is our own house and home: here are our
own country’s laws and language: and here is our English Church!” Good!
glorious! every word. I can feel it all, and the last words more than he
did. It is to the Church that England owes all the rest, and yet that
_palladium_ (I hate the word) of England’s holiest, and dearest, and
best peculiarities, he would fain have Germanized! I believe, in my
heart, he was better than his theories, and would have been the first to
shrink from his own dreams of reform, had he lived to see them coming
into shape as realities. I cannot but follow his speaking
memoranda:—“Arrived at Bowness, 8.20; left at 8.31; passing Ragrigg
Gate, 8.37; over Troutbeck Bridge, 8.51; here is Ecclerigg, 8.58; and
here Lowood Inn, 9.04 and 30 seconds!” No fast man, at the Derby, ever
held his watch more breathlessly; he was speeding home, and there he was
in twenty minutes more, at his own “mended gate,” wife and darlings all
round papa, and so ends his journal! Oh, what so enviable as a home,
just here? My own is far away—and I stop at Lowood Inn, grateful for
such inns as England only affords, and proposing to spend such a Sunday
as England only hallows. I am not forgetful of my own dear land; I love
her Hudson, as I can never love even an English lake; but the janglings
of a Sunday in America, the unutterable wretchedness of perpetuated
quarrels among Christians, and all the sadness of religious disunion, in
its last stage of social disorganization, take away my sense of repose,
when I survey an American landscape, and the spires of our villages; and
who can measure the indifference, the atheism, and the godless contempt
for truth which all this breeds? Good Lord! when shall this plague of
locusts disappear from our sky? When shall all Christians who love
Christ in truth and soberness, agree to love one another?

At Lowood Inn I spent such a Sunday, as I had promised myself, at St.
Asaph. A morning and evening walk, by the lake, was its morning and
evening charm, and calm, sweet enjoyment of the service was its
substantial blessing. Here, Southey’s words came forcibly to mind, as I
recalled the common worship, in which my beloved friends, at home, were
uniting with me; the Prayer-book its blessed telegraph!

        “Oh, hold it holy! it will be a bond
         Of love and brotherhood, when all beside
         Hath been dissolved; and though wide ocean roll
         Between the children of _one_ fatherland,
         This shall be their communion: they shall send,
         Linked in one sacred feeling, at one hour,
         In the same language, the same prayer to heaven,
         And each remembering each in piety,
           Pray for the other’s welfare.”

Early on Monday morning, in a fairy-like little steamer, I made a
circuit of the lake, enjoying fine weather, and delightful views. The
clouds took the shape of everything beautiful during the day, now
hanging over the “Pikes,” like legions of angels, and now building
themselves up into domes and cathedrals, upon the summits of the
everlasting hills. As for the lake itself, it is something between Lake
George and Cayuga Lake: its scenery in some parts, even finer than the
finest of the one, and its tamer parts, almost always equal to the best
of the other. Lake George, however, in its exceeding wildness, has its
own special charm for me; and Windermere is too artificially beautiful,
on the whole, to rival it. Towards noon, I went, by coach, to Grassmere,
passing through Ambleside, and by the late residence of Wordsworth, and
enjoying the views of Rydalmere, and Knab Scaur, and then of Grassmere
itself, with its sweet church, deep in the vale. The inn at Grassmere is
well placed, on a slight ascent from the valley, and provides a
toothsome repast for the tourist. I went on horse-back, over hill and
dale, to “Dungeon Ghyll,” a cataract well known to readers of
Wordsworth, but less interesting in itself, though curious as well as
pretty, than the scenery through which one passes to get there. The
mountain ranges, and peaks, as they come into sight, and seem to shift
their positions, are sufficient, I should think, to make the region ever
new in its peculiar attractions, especially when one takes into account
the endless variety imparted to such scenes by the different seasons,
hours of the day, states of the atmosphere, and conditions of sky and
clouds. Wise poets were these Lakers! And how “Kit North” must have
revelled in these palaces of nature! As I slowly returned, I caught my
last glimpse of Windermere, and then saw the vale of Grassmere, in its
evening beauty. Arrived at the churchyard, I sought the grave of
Wordsworth. A plain grave, and his name merely. The river rushing by
lulls his repose. A carriage drove up, and seeing a female mourner
approach, attended by a servant, or waiting-maid, I withdrew, and
pretended to be otherwise engaged. The lady scattered flowers on the
grave of the poet, and stood there awhile, musing. It was his widow; and
when she had left the sacred spot, I returned, and admired the fragrant
and beautiful tokens of her affection, which, as I learned, she every
day renews. I gathered some wild flowers, growing by the grave, and
resolved to bear them to Keswick, and leave them on the grave of
Southey. This pilgrimage I was determined to make, on foot; and having
arranged for my luggage to be sent to a convenient point, I started
accordingly, late in the afternoon, with a walk of twelve miles before
me; to do which, I gave myself three hours for the walking, and one for
resting and idling. I expected to reach Keswick by early moonlight, for
the moon was new, and the days long. Mine host thought it too late for a
start, after a fatiguing day; but I had practised in Scotland, and knew
my strength, and the inspiration of the spot was such that I felt no
weariness. On the contrary, it is impossible to describe the flow of
spirits with which I began and ended this walk. Passing Helm Crag, I
decided that the “old woman” on the top, is far more like a millenial
group, in colossal sculpture, for it greatly resembles a lion with a
lamb in its embrace. At every step, Wordsworth and Southey revive in
memory; every pebble seems to have attracted their love, and taken its
place in their poetry. After a long, but gradual ascent, we reach the
cairn that covers King Dunmail’s bones, and looking back at the charming
view, say farewell to Grassmere. In the distance, ahead, what looms up?
The guide-book says Skiddaw. There once lived Southey; there now he
sleeps. As I left this neighbourhood, I observed to my surprise, another
group on the mountain, in all respects like the “old woman,” only turned
the other way. Both are formed by loose rocks on the height of the
mountain; but I have seen no mention of this one. And now my way lay
along the base of the “mighty Helvellyn.” The road was easy to the foot,
and innumerable are its charms. I came to the lovely Thirlmere, or
Leatheswater: the views of the surrounding crags, and of the water
itself, wearing a more beautiful aspect, for the hour and the departing
daylight. Blue-bells were everywhere growing by the road, in handfulls.
I stopped to examine a stone which seems to record the death of a
Quaker’s favourite horse. A carriage came along, which proved to be full
of cockney tourists. One of them descended and read, as
follows:—“Thirtieth of ninth month, 1843;

        “Fallen from ’is fellow’s side,
           The steed beneath (h)is lying;
          (H)in ’arness ’ere ’e died,
           ’Is (h)only fault was dying.”

The pathos with which these words were uttered was truly Pickwickian,
and the step from the sublime to the ridiculous was so effectually taken
by my feelings, that for a long way beyond, Helvellyn re-echoed to my
laughter. Passing Thirlmere, the sweet vale of St. John opened a
bewitching prospect, and I loved it for its name. Leaving it on my
right, I then turned toward Keswick, and as the last light of day
disappeared, there, before me, lay Derwentwater, the new moon shedding a
tremulous light on its bosom. This, then, was Southey’s own Keswick, and
Skiddaw rose over head! I slept soundly and sweetly at the “Royal Oak.”

In the morning, I took a barge, and was rowed round the lake, which did
not disappoint me. One of the men had been a servant of Southey’s, and
he told me many anecdotes of his master. “Yonder, it seems to me, I can
see him now,” said the fellow, “walking with a book in his hand.” He
described him as good to the poor, and said, “he often gave five
shillings, at a time, to my mother.” In wet weather he still took the
air, and walked well on clogs. I was much charmed with the islets of the
lake, and the singular traditions which invest them all with so much
interest. The romantic stories of the unfortunate family of
Derwentwater, whose earls were attainted for their share in the
Pretender’s rebellion, are partly connected with one of these islands,
and the lake itself seems made for a scene of romance. Windermere is not
to be compared with it. I was rowed to Lodore, and saw “how the water
comes down.” Sometimes ’tis a mere burlesque of the poem; but I saw it
in full force, and entirely justifying all the participles which the
genius of Southey has contrived to set going, like a cataract, out of
the fountain of his brain. After this, I swam in the lake, tempted to do
so by the double attraction of its pellucid waters, and its Castalian
associations.

I visited Southey’s grave, in Crosthwaite churchyard. ’Twas solemn to
see the grass growing, and its tall spears shaking in the breeze, over
the head of that fine genius, and the heart of that good and faithful
man. In the church, where he so often prayed, a superb statue of the
poet lies, at full length, on an altar-tomb. I placed in the marble hand
the flowers I had brought from the grave of Wordsworth, a tribute to
their friendship, and a token of my homage for both. Great and good men;
they were the “lucida sidera” of English literature, in a dark and evil
time and now that their sweet influence has triumphed over the clouds
and vapours which obscured their first rising, how calmly they shine, in
heaven, and brighten the scenes they have left behind!

Greta Hall, the poet’s late residence, stands a little back from the
road, in the shadow of Skiddaw. I paid a visit to a daughter of the
bard, who loves to linger near her father’s grave; and it was delightful
to observe the simplicity with which she entered into the enthusiasm of
a pilgrim to that shrine of her affections. The aged Mrs. Lovel, whose
name is familiar to the readers of Coleridge, and his contemporaries,
also allowed me to be presented to her. It was affecting to see a group
of Southey’s lovely little grand-children with her, in mourning for a
mother. They are richer in the heritage of his name and character than
if they were the heirs of the Derwentwaters, and restored to all their
honours and estates.

By coach to Penrith, by the vale of St. John, and Huttonmoor. On the
moor, I saw a cottage, with an inscription too deep for me, of which my
reader shall have the benefit. It was this:—

                   “I. W.
        This building’s age, these letters show,
        Though many gaze, yet few will know.
                 MD.CCXIX.”

A Waltonian puzzle in its quaintness, not to speak of the initials!
Driving by Graystoke, in which is an old town-cross, we had a sight of
its church and castle. But two odd-looking farm-houses, which we passed,
presenting at a distance the appearance of forts, surprised me more, by
their American names, “Mount Putnam,” and “Bunker-hill.” They were built
and named soon after the battle: and the whip laughed as he slyly
surmised, that the Duke of Norfolk, to whom they belong, “must have been
afraid the ’Mericans were coming over.” At Penrith, I visited the
extraordinary grave in the churchyard, called the _Giant’s_. Its history
is lost in the obscure of antiquity; but one _Owen_ is said to lie
there, at full length, the head and footstones being fifteen feet apart.
The stones are tall needles, of curious form, and covered with Runic
carvings and unintelligible words. Not far from Penrith, are some
ancient caverns, marked by traces of gigantic inhabitants, such as
iron-gratings, and other relics worthy of the habitation of Giant
Despair.

Next morning, we were favoured with a brilliant sky and cool breeze, and
I took the top of the coach for a drive across the country, through
Westmoreland, into Yorkshire. A sweet odour of hay-making filled the air
as we started; and soon we had fine views of Brougham-hall, and castle,
with a small adjoining park. A more interesting object to me was a small
column, by the roadside, celebrated by Wordsworth, called the Countess
of Pembroke’s Pillar. It was erected in the evil days of Cromwell, not
to celebrate a battle, or a crime, but as a monument of love. On that
spot, in her better days, the Lady Anne Clifford had parted, for the
last time, with her beloved mother, the Countess Dowager of Pembroke,
and she therefore caused this stone to be set as a memorial, and
inscribed accordingly. But she did yet more, for hard by is a stone
table, on which the anniversary of that parting is annually celebrated
by a dole of bread to the poor of the parish of Brougham, to pay for
which she left the annual sum of four pounds to the church forever. This
is giving a _stone_ to those who ask _bread_, in an orthodox way. The
inscription ends with _Laus Deo_; and my heart responded in the manner
which Wordsworth suggests. “Many a stranger,” he says, “though no clerk,
has responded Amen, as he passed by.” Our drive continued a pleasant one
till we came to Appleby, an interesting old town, through which runs the
river Eden. In its church are monuments of the Lady Anne Clifford and
her mother. At Brough, we came to an old castle, erected before the
Conquest. Its church has a pulpit, hewn of a single stone; and they tell
a good story of its bells. A worthy drover of the adjoining moors, once
brought a fine lot of cattle to market, promising to make them bellow
all together, and to be heard from Brough to Appleby. Accordingly with
the money they sold for, he gave the parish a peal of bells, which
constantly fulfils his vow. He deserves to be imitated by richer men. At
Brough the coach left me, and I took a post-chaise over the dreary
region of Stainmuir; dreary, just then, but not so in the
sporting-season, when the moor is alive with hunters and fowlers. At
Bowes, again, emerging from the moorlands, we came to the remains of a
castle, and to the less interesting relics of a school, which had
disappeared under the influence of a general conviction, that it was the
original “Dotheboys Hall.” A dull place is Bowes; but striking over a
rugged country, northward, I came soon into the charming valley of the
Tees, and so arrived at the secluded church and parsonage of Romaldkirk,
on a visit to a clergyman, who bearing my maternal name, and deriving
from the same lineage, in times long past, yet claimed me as a relative,
and welcomed me as a brother. I found a missionary from India,
addressing a few of his parishioners, in an adjoining school-house, and
there I first saw my hospitable friend, and joined with him in the
solemnities of a missionary meeting, among a few of the neighbouring
peasantry. With this estimable clergyman, and his family, I tarried till
the third day, enjoying greatly their attentive hospitalities, and
trying to catch trout in the Tees. The very sound of this rushing river
recalled the story of Rokeby, and amid its overhanging foliage, I almost
fancied I could see skulking the pirate-figure of Bertram Risingham.

I was not allowed to leave this happy roof unattended. The eldest son of
the family, a young Cantab, took me more than twenty miles, to Richmond,
through a most romantic country, allowing me to visit the ruins, near
Rokeby, and to stop at many interesting spots. We journeyed through
Barnard Castle, and by Egglestone Abbey, and met with several adventures
in our “search of the picturesque,” but at last emerged into the
surprising scenery of Richmond, which I found beautiful beyond all that
its name implies, and not unworthy of sharing it with its southern
namesake, on the Thames. It is the older of the two, and is remarkable
for something more than beauty. It has a touch of grandeur about it, and
the ruins of its old historic castle, on the banks of the Swale, full of
traditions of feudal sovereignty, and still massive and venerable in
appearance, give an imposing air of majesty to the town. The aspect of
the valley of the Swale is almost American, in its wildness, in many
parts, and I keenly relished even my railway journey through a region so
inviting to delay. I made my way to Leeds, where, amid smoke, and much
that is disagreeable, stands the interesting Church of St. Mary’s,
lately renewed and beautified by its faithful vicar, Dr. Hook. I had
barely time to visit this sacred place, and contenting myself with
having sighted Kirkstall Abbey, in the vale of Aire, I continued my
journey to my first English home, in Warwickshire. The glimpses of
Derbyshire scenery which I enjoyed, in my rapid journey, were full of
beauty: and the mishap of losing a trunk, gave me the opportunity of
putting to the test the fidelity of the English railway system. As soon
as I discovered that some blunder had been committed, I informed the
guard, and at the first station, telegraphic messages were despatched,
and in a short time my trunk followed me to the parsonage, where I
passed the Sunday with my friend.

                             CHAPTER XXXIV.

                          _Cowper—Greenwich._

More than once have I betrayed, in the course of my narrative, a strong
affection for the name and memory of Cowper. To his poetry and letters,
I was introduced in early childhood, by the admiring terms in which a
beloved parent often quoted and criticised them; and no subsequent
familiarity with them has, in the least, impaired my relish for their
peculiar charms. I regard him as the regenerator of English poetry, and
as the morning-star of all that truly illustrates the nineteenth
century. A gentle but powerful satirist of the evils of his own times,
he was a noble agent in the hand of God, for removing them, and making
way for a great restoration. Without dreaming of his mission, he was a
prime mover in the great action which has thrown off the lethargy of
Hanoverianism, and awakened the Church of England to world-wide
enterprises of good; and though the injudicious counsels of good John
Newton gave a turn to his piety, which may well be deplored in its
consequences upon himself, it is ground for rejoicing that the
influences of the Church upon his own good taste, were strong enough to
rescue his contributions to literature from the degrading effects of
religious enthusiasm. If any one will take the trouble to compare “the
Task” with such a production as Pollok’s “Course of time,” he will be
struck with the force of my remark, for there the same enthusiasm
exhibits itself as developed by sectarianism. I was surprised to find
how many places in England were fraught with recollections of this
retired and sedentary poet. A distant view of St. Alban’s, the banks of
the Ouse, the churchyard of St. Margaret’s, and the school-room, at
Westminster, the gardens of the Temple, and the little village of St.
Neot’s all recalled him to mind, in his various moods, of suffering and
dejection. Even the ruins of Netley Abbey revived his memory, for there
he seems to have been filled with novel emotions, as an unwonted
tourist, with whom romantic scenes were far from familiar. The opposite
pole of poetic association became electric in Cheapside, where so many
John Gilpins still keep shop, if they do not “ride abroad.” But I
frequently passed, on the railway, a village in Hertfordshire, which is
invested with memories of a more elevated and affecting character. It
was not only the birth-place of the poet, (as well as of Bishop Ken,)
but its church-tower is that from which he heard the bell tolled on the
burial-day of his mother. Its parsonage was the scene of all those
maternal tendernesses, which he has so touchingly celebrated; and who
that has shared the love of a Christian mother, can fail to reverence
the bard, who has so inimitably enshrined, in poetry, the best and
holiest instincts of the human heart, as exhibited in the mutual loves
of the mother and her son? I could not leave England without first
paying a pilgrimage to those scenes of his maturer life, which have
become classic from their frequent mention in his poems.

As I was taking my ticket for a second-class passage to the nearest
point on the railway to Olney, I happened to meet a gentleman who had
just bought his, and with whom I had the pleasure of some acquaintance.
Knowing him to be connected, by marriage and position, with some of the
most aristocratic families in the kingdom, I very naturally said to
him—“I’m going the same way with you, but shall lose the pleasure of
your company, for I’ve only a second-class ticket.” I was amused with
his answer:—“Yes, for I’ve only a _third_-class ticket.” He briefly
explained that he was forced to economize, and that, although he did not
like it, the inconvenience of a seat among a low-class of people, for a
short time, was not so intolerable as a collapsed purse, “especially” he
added, “as I am thus enabled to travel in the first-class carriages when
I travel with my wife.” Such is the independence as to action, and the
freedom as to confession of economy, which characterize a well-bred man,
whose position in society is settled; and I could not but think how
snobbish, in the contrast, is the conduct of many of my own countrymen,
who, if they ever use prudence, in their expenses, are afraid to have it
known. An aristocracy of money is not only contemptible in itself, but
it curses a land with a universal shame of seeming prudent. It makes the
dollared upstart fancy himself a gentleman, while the true gentleman is
degraded in his own eyes, as well as in the estimation of the vulgar, by
the fact, that his house is small, his furniture plain, and his table
frugal. Hence so much _upholstery_ in America; so much hotel-life; and
such a contempt for quiet respectability.

This anecdote is not out of place in a chapter devoted to Cowper. The
poet was a man of gentle blood, and, in every sense of the word, a
gentleman. Many an English nobleman is vastly inferior to him in point
of extraction. He was descended from the blood-royal of Henry Third, and
in divers ways was allied to the old aristocracy of England. He used to
be visited at Olney, by persons of quality, in their chariots; and
titled ladies were glad to accept his hospitalities. But his home at
Olney, where he lived for years, was one of the humblest in the place,
and even his darling residence, at Weston, was such a dwelling as most
country-parsons would consider barely comfortable. Now, I do not mean to
say that John Bull prefers such an establishment for a gentlemen’s
habitation; but I do mean that nobody in England would be so insane as
to think less of a gentleman, for living thus humbly, especially if he
lived so from principle.

As I came to Newport-Pagnel, a respectable elderly person drove by, in
an open carriage, whom the whip pointed out to me as Mr. Bull; the son
of Cowper’s old friend, whom he delighted to call his dear _Taurus_.
Having a few minutes to spare in the place, and a proper introduction, I
called at his house, and was glad to be shown a portrait of the
venerable personage himself—the “smoke-inhaling Bull” of the Letters. A
lady of the family politely gave me all needed directions, but assured
me I should be greatly disappointed in Olney, where “there was nothing
to see but old houses, and a general aspect of decay.” I said—‘Yes, but
the house is there—and the summer-house—and the spire—and the
bridge?’ I was answered that these were yet remaining, though somewhat
the worse for wear and weather; and so, having succeeded in hiring a
horse, off I went, alone. As I approached the neighbourhood of Olney,
the first truly _Cowperish_ sight that struck me—and I had never seen
such a sight before in my life—was a living illustration of his
lines:—

        “Yon cottager that weaves at her own door,
         Pillow and bobbins, all her little store!”

She little knew how much pleasure the sight of her gave to a passing
stranger, with whom her art had been rendered poetically beautiful, by
the charms of Cowper’s verse. This is, in fact, the secret of his spell
as a poet, the power of investing even homely things, in real life, with
a certain fascinating attractiveness. He avoids the romantic and the
poetical, in choosing his themes; but he elevates what is common to a
dignity and beauty unknown before. He is the most English of English
bards, and I love him for teaching me to see a something even in the
English poor, which makes them, to me, vastly more interesting than the
romantic peasantry of Italy. True, the latter tread the vintage, and the
other only stack the corn; but the English cottage has the Bible in it,
and its children learn the Ten Commandments, and also learn that
“cleanliness is next to godliness;” while in Italy, among fleas and
other vermin, the idle parents sit lazily in the sun, and the children
run after the traveller’s coach-wheel, lying while they beg, and showing
by their religious vocabulary, that Bacchus and Maria are confounded in
their imagination as saints of the same calendar.

At length I saw the spire of Olney, and soon I crossed the bridge, over
whose “wearisome, but needful length,” used to come the news from
London, to solace Cowper’s winter evenings. I was not long in finding
the poet’s most unpoetical home, now occupied by a petty shop-keeper,
who has turned his parlour into a stall. Here he lived, however, and
here he sang: here, motherly Mrs. Unwin made tea for him, and Lady
Austen gave him “the sofa” for his “Task.” Under these stairs once
lodged Puss, Tiney, and Bess; those happy hares which, alone of their
kind, have had a _local habitation_, and will always have _a name_. In
the garden, I saw where the cucumber-vine used to grow, and where Puss
used to ruminate beneath its leaves, like Jonah under his gourd. An
apple-tree was pointed out to me as “set by Mr. Cowper’s own hands.” The
garden has been pieced off, and to see the “summer-house,” I was forced
to enter, by a neighbour’s leave, another enclosure. Here is the little
nestling-place of Cowper’s poesy—the retreat where his Egeria came to
him. In the fence, is still the wicket he made, to let him into the
parsonage-grounds, when Newton was his confessor. ‘Here, then,’ I said,
‘one may fancy the lily and the rose, growing in rivalry; and another
rose _just washed in a shower_; and the _sound of the church-going
bell_, and a thousand other minute matters in themselves, all taking
their place in the poetic magazine of Cowper, and so coming into verse,
through his brain, as the mulberry leaf becomes silk, by another process
of spinning.’ It was a small field for such a harvest, and yet “the
Task” grew here.

And now, another mile brought me to the more agreeable Weston-Underwood,
the resort of all his walking days at Olney, and the dear retreat of his
later life; the dearer, because bestowed by the lovely Lady Hesketh.
This is, indeed, a residence worthy of a poet, and though all who once
rendered it so charming to Cowper have passed away, I was agreeably
surprised to find no important feature changed. A painful identity
belongs to it: you recognize, at every step, the fidelity of the poet’s
descriptive powers, and it seems impossible that he who has made the
scene part of himself, has been for half a century in his grave, while
all this survives. You enter the desolate park of the Throckmortons, and
there is “the alcove,” with its commanding view, so dear to the poet’s
eye, and Olney spire in the distance. You pass into “the Wilderness,”
now a wilderness indeed, for it is neglected and overgrown. Here are a
couple of urns, now green with moss, and lovingly clasped by ivy, but
each marked with familiar names, and graced by Cowper’s playful verse.
The one adorns the grave of “Neptune,” Sir John Throckmorton’s pointer;
the other is the monument of “Fop,” his lady’s favourite spaniel. I
hailed this memorial of “Lady Frog’s” pet; but was far more moved to
descry, before long, at the end of a flowery alley, the antique bust of
Homer, which Cowper so greatly valued, and to which he gave a Greek
inscription, which Hayley was proud to do into English:—

        “The sculptor? Nameless though once dear to fame;
         But this man bears an everlasting name.”

Here, then, that “stricken deer that left the herd,” was led to a sweet
covert at last, and went in and out, and found pasture, under the
guidance of one “who had himself been hurt by the archers.” With what
enchantment these haunts of hallowed genius inspired me! And yet never
felt I so melancholy before. The utter loneliness of the scene; the fact
that they who had bestowed its charm, were all, long ago, dead; and then
that painful reality—everything else there, as it should be; the Task,
no poem, but a verity, and before my eyes; but Cowper, Hayley, Austen,
Hesketh, all gone forever; these thoughts were oppressive. I sat down,
and almost wept, as I repeated the names of those who were so “lovely
and pleasant in their lives,” and who now are undivided in death! It was
an hour of deeper feeling than I had realized before, at any shrine of
departed genius, in England.

I went to the house, and rejoiced in the comfort it must have afforded
Cowper, in his latter days. It is neat and comfortable, and the village
is a pretty one, trim and thrifty in its look, and sufficiently
poetical. It has “an air of snug concealment,” which must have been most
congenial to its gifted inhabitant, and it was not unsuited to his
fondness for receiving his friends as guests. I went into the poet’s
chamber, and also into that which Lady Hesketh used to occupy. In the
former, there is a sad autograph of the poet, in lead-pencil, behind a
window-shutter. The window had been walled up, and only lately
re-opened, when the pencilling was found. It is one of the poet’s last
performances—an adieu to Weston, written there, as he left it
forever:—

        “Farewell dear scenes forever closed to me,
         O for what sorrows must I now exchange ye!”

No wonder he lamented a departure from such a retreat, into nearer
proximity to the bad world. Walking in the park, beneath its avenue of
ancient limes, I envied the nibbling flocks that were straying about,
and the cattle that were reclining in their shade. So peaceful! If life
were given us for ignoble devotion to self, I know of nothing within
reach of a clergyman’s humble fortune to which I should more ardently
aspire, than such an abode as Weston, where a golden mean between what
is common and what is poetical in scenery, and situation, still offers
every inducement to a man of taste to settle down, and live contentedly;
or, like Walton, “to serve God, and go a fishing.”

On returning to London, I was rejoiced to meet an old and intimate
friend, from America, whose genius has given him distinction, at home
and abroad—Mr. Huntington, the artist. With him I, once more, visited
the Crystal Palace, and enjoyed the benefit of his criticisms in
surveying the works of art, there displayed. We were interested to
observe a constant group of admiring spectators hanging around the Greek
Slave, of our countryman, Mr. Powers. Other nude figures, although many
of them were far better calculated to appeal to coarse curiosity, were
comparatively neglected, so that we could not but consider the amount of
interest which this work secured, a proof of something superior, in its
character. I own that, for my own part, I do not like it. The subject is
a sensual one, and does not appeal to any lofty sentiment. Beauty in
chains, and exposed in the shambles, is a loathesome idea, at best.

I went with Mr. Huntington to the rooms of the British Institution, in
Pall-Mall, where is a fine collection of paintings, by British and
foreign masters. It was a great advantage to me to be prepared by the
hints of so eminent an artist, for my continental tour, and often, in
the galleries of Italy, I had occasion to thank my friend for enabling
me to appreciate many things which would, otherwise, have escaped me. At
the exhibition of water-coloured paintings, I was astonished, by the
rich collection, and the exceeding beauty of many of the pictures. The
fruit, and flower pieces, of Hunt, were almost miracles. He paints a
bird’s nest, with the eggs, and every straw, so perfect, that the bird
would infallibly attempt to sit in it, and he contrives to bestow it in
a hedge of hawthorn, so green and white, and so entirely natural, that
you would not think of taking the nest, without making up your mind to
be sorely scratched. It would make May-morning of a winter-day, to have
a few such paintings to look at, and no one who loves nature could ever
be tired of them.

The weather was as hot, at this time, in London, as it is ordinarily, at
the same season, in Baltimore or New-York. It was the middle of August,
and the moon being near the full, the nights were very beautiful; and I
observed it the more, because neither sun nor moon have much credit for
making London attractive. Late at night, I could see the Wellington
statue almost as distinctly from the Marble arch, as at Hyde-park
corner, and the scenery of the Park, by moonlight, was enchanting. When
shall we have such parks in all our large towns?

Next day, with Huntington, and Gray, both of our National Academy, I
went out to Greenwich Hospital, to survey the place, and to enjoy a
parting white-bait dinner. We went down in a steamer, enjoying the
excursion the more for our comparisons of all we saw with the Bay of
New-York, and the Hudson. It was pleasant, now and then, to discern an
American vessel, and to know her at once, by her graceful form, amid a
forest of masts.

Greenwich is the great _outside_ park of London, the resort of thousands
of her pleasure-seekers, of the humble class. The Royal Observatory
stands on a commanding eminence, and the slope of its hill towards the
river, is the favourite sporting place of mammas and children. As a
prime meridian, however, I always regret that it is not deposed, by the
religion of England, which ought to take the lead in making Jerusalem
the starting point for all Christian reckonings. The wings of the
morning should rise every day, from the Holy Sepulchre, and there
evening should come down to brood, with everything to make it the first,
and the last place, in the minds and hearts of a ransomed world.

Greenwich Hospital is, indeed, a palace of the poor. On the terrace,
between its wings, one cannot but be impressed with a sense of the
greatness of a nation which thus lodges the humblest of its worn-out
defenders. The old pensioners, hobbling about, in their blue uniforms,
and cocked-hats, move your profound respect. Their wounds, and battered
visages, seem to speak of storm and shipwreck, and of shell and
broadsides, in every climate under heaven. They can tell wonderful
things of Nelson and of Collingwood; and all seem to address you, like
Burns’ hero, with the tale,

        “How they served out their trade
         When the Moro low was laid,
                 At the sound of the drum.”

In “the Painted Hall,” which is full of pictures of naval battles, one
sees how terribly their pensions have been earned. There, too, is shown
the coat worn by Nelson, when he fell, and it is stained with his blood.
It was a comfort to turn from this temple of the Maritime Mars, to that
of the Prince of Peace. The old sailors have a superb chapel,
elaborately adorned, and furnished with an altar-piece, by West, “the
shipwreck of St. Paul.” From a little book which I picked up in Paris,
written by a Frenchman, and a Romanist, I gather that the service, in
such places, in England, is very impressive, and that the contrast, in
France, is not in favour of the Romish religion. He describes the
chaunting, and apparent devotion of the soldiers, as very striking; and
he seems to have been especially struck with their responses to the Ten
Commandments. He adds—“all that would make us laugh in France:” and he
goes on to say—“if it be answered that our soldiers are at liberty to
go to mass, I reply, that’s true; but for all that, a young conscript,
religiously educated at home, would be ridiculed so unsparingly for
continuing in his pious habits, that he could not long resist the bad
examples of his comrades.” At Greenwich, the Bible and Prayer-book are
the constant companions of many an old salt; and bad as all armies and
navies must be, I could not but think that there is a great advantage,
in the _morale_, of Chelsea and Greenwich, as compared with the
Invalides.

We adjourned to our _White-bait_—a fish, according to the same French
authority, most delicate and delicious, and to be eaten only at
Greenwich, because it is necessary to transfer them, instantly, from the
water to the frying-pan, and thence to the plate, and because they are
fished only in the Thames. I fully agree with Monsieur, as to the
attractions of the _plat_, especially when enjoyed in good company. The
dinner ended, my friends accompanied me to the Southwark station, at
London, where I had all things in readiness for a start: and bidding
them a warm farewell, I reached Dover in a few hours, and soon embarked
for Ostend. The sea was calm, and heaving in long, broad, glittering
swells; and as the chalky cliffs of Dover, gleaming in the cloudless
moonlight, gradually sank in the distance, I felt that no native Briton
ever waved a more affectionate salute to the bright isle, than that with
which I said _good-night_ to Albion.

                             CHAPTER XXXV.

                          _Return—Conclusion._

It was four months later than the incidents of my last chapter, when
after a tour on the Continent, I found myself safely landed at Dover, in
the gray dawn of a winter’s morning. I had left Paris, in all the
frightful confusion consequent upon the _coup d’état_ of Louis Napoleon.
In touching, once more, the free and happy soil of England, if I could
not say—“This is my own, my native land,” I could yet feel that it was
the sacred land of my religion, of my parentage, and of my mother
tongue. I was, once more, at home, and ceased to feel myself a
foreigner, as I had done in France and Italy. How good and honest,
sounded again in my ears, the language of Englishmen! As “bearer of
despatches” from Paris, to our ambassador at London, I was landed with
the advantage of precedence, and very rapidly passed through the
custom-house. The state of things in France, and the feverish anxiety,
in England, to learn the changes of every hour, invested my trifling
diplomatic dignity with a momentary importance, strikingly diverse from
its insignificance at other times: and I was amused to see how much
curiosity was felt by the officials as to the mighty communications
which might be going up to London in my portmanteau. Even an old salt,
as I stepped ashore, could not forbear accosting me with—“Any news this
morning, yer honour?” ‘Bad news,’ said I, ‘the Frenchmen are going to
have a bloody day of it; be thankful you are an Englishman.’ “So I am,
your honour,” was his hearty, and most honest reply.

I had been travelling in Southern Europe, where, to borrow a thought of
Dr. Arnold’s, no one can be sure that anything is real, which he seems
to see: where _Savans_ are not scholars—where captains are not
soldiers—nor judges lawyers—where noblemen are not men of
honour—where priests are not pure—nor wives and matrons chaste. I was,
again, in the land of facts, a land deeply involved, indeed, in the sins
and miseries of a fallen world; but still a land, where, for centuries,
everything has been steadily advancing towards a high realization of
human capabilities, alike in the physical, and mental, and moral of
man’s nature. I was once more in a land where it is base to lie; where
domestic purity and piety find their noblest illustrations, whether in
palaces or cottages; and where not even luxury and pride have been able
to vitiate the general conviction of all classes, that righteousness
alone exalteth a nation, and that sin is a reproach to any people.

On arriving in London, my very first employment was to visit the tomb of
the holy Bishop Andrewes, at St. Mary’s, Southwark. The prelate is
represented, at full length, stretched upon his sepulchre, and right
dear it was, after long tarrying amid the monuments of popes and
cardinals, to behold, once more, that of an honest and true man, and a
saint of God, who, in his day and generation, was “a burning and a
shining light.” The tomb of the exemplary and amiable poet Gower, is
also in this Church, and has often been described.

Attending Evening Service at Westminster Abbey, on the following Sunday,
I was so much struck with the effect produced by the light of candles,
in the choir, that it seemed to me, I had never before fully felt the
wonderful impressiveness of that Church, nor even of the church service.
The surpliced singers, ranged in their stalls—the many faces of the
worshippers—and the lofty arches of the sombre architecture received a
new aspect, from the mingled light and shade, and the tones of worship
were imbued, by association, with something strange and solemn. Deep
under the vaultings lay the shadows, and here and there shone out a
marble figure, or glimmered a clustered column. When the organ sent its
tremulous tide far down the nave, it seemed to come back in echoes, like
the waves of the sea—the more effective, because of the distance
through which it had stretched and rolled the surge of sound; and when
the responsive _Amens_ rose, one after the other, from the voices of the
singers, plaintively interrupting the petitions, and marking the
impressive stillness of the intervals between, which were filled only
with the low monotone of prayer, then I felt how amiable are the temples
of the Lord of Hosts, and how fair a resemblance of that temple not made
with hands, where they rest not, day nor night, from their hymns, and
responsive praises. By the sides of the altar fared two immense wax
lights, giving a fine effect to the sanctuary. After the Second Lesson,
the preacher, Canon C——, ascended the pulpit, in his surplice, and
preached the sermon; after which, the Evening Prayer continued, as after
a baptism, the choir taking up the _Nunc dimittis_, followed by the
creed, the collects, the anthem, and the prayers, while the organ
thundered through the lengths and heights of the abbey. I joined the
throng which passed down the nave, and looking back again and again, I
received such powerful impressions of the sublimity of the place, as had
been wholly wanting to the effect by daylight, as experienced on former
occasions. One parting look through the western door, through the dimly
illuminated perspective, and then I turned slowly and thoughtfully away.
On the preceding Sunday, I had left the cathedral service, at Rouen, in
circumstances precisely similar, and my mind naturally fell into a
comparative train of thought. There was a great similarity in the
effects produced on the senses by the two services. A stranger to the
Latin and English languages, would have failed to note any marked
difference between them. He would have recognized the Catholic unities
of the two rites, and would have failed to observe their diversities,
papal and reformed. The French sermon had been vastly better than the
English one: the former was preached by an orator, the latter by a
spiritless and formal favourite of Lord John Russell. Yet, between the
two solemnities, in their entire effect, the disparity was greatly in
favour of the English service, which was audibly and reverently
performed, while the other was mumbled, and not understood by the
congregation. I felt that the Church of England was strong, if compared
with that of France, in her heritage of Catholic and Apostolic truth, as
distinguished from the systematic falsehoods, which have made the
religion of the other, a mere fable, in the general estimation of the
French people.

At a later hour, the same evening, it was my lot to preach in St.
Bartholomew’s, Moor-lane, in the pulpit once filled by the worthy
Archbishop Sharpe. The incumbent of this Church had lately discovered at
Sion College a collection of papers and books once belonging to the
saintly Bishop Wilson; and he placed in my hands, for that evening, the
original _Sacra Privata_ of that holy and venerable prelate. I could not
but think how much we may owe it to his prayers, that the Church of
England is now what she is, as compared with what she was in his day;
and, in preaching, I took great delight in paying a parting tribute to
that Church, as compared with the churches of the continent.

I am convinced that the debt which England and the world owe to the
Anglican Reformers of the sixteenth century, has never been properly
appreciated. Like the air which we breathe, but do not perceive, the
spirit with which they have invested the religion of England, is that of
life and health. They banished nothing but the fogs and noxious
exhalations of the middle ages; and, as the result, we find England hale
and hearty, and bearing more fruit in her age, while the churches which
allowed the Tridentine vapours to become their atmosphere, are perishing
in the agues and fevers of a long and ghastly decline. Look at Spain and
Italy!

And I cannot forbear, in conclusion, to remark, that when American
travellers go to England, and copy the false statistics of some infidel
almanac, to justify their railings against the National Church, they are
about as wise as John Bull is, when he takes the statistics of our
(immigrant) pauperism and crime, as a test of the true state of American
society. It is true that there are great abuses connected with the
establishment; and it is also true that they are deplored by no class of
Englishmen, half so much as they are by the true churchman. If the
Church could be left to herself, they would be immediately reformed; but
the very creatures who rail at her, because of them, are they who refuse
to give her the freedom which she claims, and who do the most to enslave
her to the State power. I am no friend to that power in the Church of
God; but they who prate against the church, because of her misfortunes,
deserve the rebuke of all thinking men, whose knowledge of history, and
of the existing state of the world, enables them to compare what has
been done for England, by that church, even in her fetters, with what
all other religions put together have done for the residue of the world.
When we reflect upon the three great achievements of that Church for
English liberty—the Reformation, the Restoration of the Constitution
and Monarchy, and the repudiation of the Popish Stuarts, we may well
afford to laugh at such sneers as a Macaulay endeavours to raise against
her, on the ground of blemishes with which his own reckless and
treacherous political allies have deformed and afflicted her. And when
we attempt to estimate the blessings she has diffused through the whole
Anglo-Saxon people, and by them through the world, who can refrain from
blessing the dear Church which has placed the English Bible in every
cottage, and which, for three centuries, has read the _Ten