_Hyde Park—Excursion to Oxfordshire._
My plan was to fix my head-quarters in London, and to make excursions
thence into the various parts of the country which I desired to see.
This enabled me to choose my times for being in the Metropolis, and also
for visiting other places; and I found it better, on many accounts, than
the more usual method of seeing London all at once, and then going
through the rest of England in a tour. I took lodgings in Bury-street,
St. James’s, a time-honored place for the temporary abode of strangers,
and in all respects convenient for my purposes. On looking into _Peter
Cunningham_, I found I had unwittingly placed myself near the old haunts
of several famous men of letters. Dean Swift lodged in this street in
1710, and Sir Richard Steele about the same time. Crabbe took his turn
here in 1817, and here Tom Moore was sought out by Lord Byron, a few
years earlier. Just round the corner, in Jermyn-street, Gray used to
sojourn; and there, too, Sir Walter Scott lodged for the last time in
London, after his return from the Continent in 1832. Hard by, still
lives old Samuel Rogers, and Murray’s famous publishing-house is but a
few steps out of the way. I was, at first, a little provoked at
_Cunningham_ for getting up a book which tends to put the most stupid
visitor of London on a footing with the man whose general reading has
fitted him to enjoy it: but many little pleasures which he thus supplied
me, by recalling things forgotten, quite altered my humour towards him;
especially as I soon reflected that the traveller to whom he only
restores such information, must always have the advantage over one who
gains it for the first time, at second hand.
I could now step into St. James’s Park, and freshen my appetite for
breakfast, while enjoying its delightful air, and venerable
associations. I soon learned how to protract my walk, passing Buckingham
Palace, up Constitution Hill, and so into Hyde Park—where one may spend
the day delightfully, and almost fancy himself in the country. Indeed,
stretching one’s rambles into Kensington Gardens, it is not easy to be
moderate in the enjoyment, or to return without fatigue; so vast is the
extent of these successive ranges, and so much of England can one find,
as it were, in the midst of London. Oh, wise and prudent John Bull, to
ennoble thy metropolis with such spacious country-walks, and to sweeten
it so much with country air! Truly these lungs of London are vital to
such a Babylon, and there is no beauty to be compared to them in any
city I have ever seen. Talk of the Tuilleries—talk of the _Champs
Elysées_—you may throw in _Luxembourg_ and _Jardin des Plantes_ to
boot, and in my estimation Hyde Park is worth the whole. I do not think
the English are half proud enough of their capital, conceited as they
are about so many things besides. They are ashamed of Trafalgar Square
and some other slight mistakes, and they always apologize for London,
and wonder what a foreigner can find to please him, in the mere exterior
of its immensity. But _foreigner_, forsooth! I always felt that an
Anglo-American may feel himself far more at home in London, than many
who inhabit there. Who are the reigning family, but a race of Germans,
never yet completely naturalized either in Church or State? What is
England to Prince Albert, except as he can use it for his own purposes?
But to me, and to many of my countrymen, it is as dear as heart’s blood;
every fibre of our flesh, every particle of our bone, and the whole
fabric of our thought, as well as the vitalizing spirit of our holy
religion, being derived from the glorious Isle, in whose own tongue we
call her blessed. It is not as unfilial to America, but only as faithful
to the antecedents of my own beloved country, that I ask no Englishman’s
leave to walk the soil of England with filial pride, and in some sense
to claim “a richer use of his,” than he himself enjoys. He dwells in it,
and uses it of necessity for some ignoble purposes; but I have no
associations with the malt-tax, or with manufactories. England reveals
herself to me only in her higher and nobler character, as the mother,
and nurse, and glorious preceptress of the race to which I belong.
Hence, I say, it is only a true American who can feel the entire and
unmixed sentiment and poetry of England.
It was soon after my arrival in the Metropolis that I went, one
afternoon, to see the display of horsemanship, in Hyde Park. Strange
that the scene of so much aristocratic display should be known as
“Rotten-Row!” It is a road for saddle-horses exclusively, and very
exclusive are the equestrians generally, who enjoy their delightful
exercise in its pale. Here you see the best of horse-flesh, laden with
the “porcelain-clay” of human flesh. The sides of the road are lined
with pedestrians, some of whom touch their hats to the riders, and are
recognized in turn; but most of them look wishfully on the sport of
others, as if they were conscious that they were born to be nobody, and
were unfeignedly sorry for it. Ha! how dashingly the ladies go by, and
how ambitiously their favored companions display their good fortune in
attending them! Here a gay creature rides independently enough, with her
footman at a respectful distance. She is an heiress, and the young
gallants whom she scarcely deigns to notice, are dying of love for her
and her guineas. Here comes an old gentleman and his two beautiful
daughters. It is Lord ——, and the elder of the twain is soon to be
married, the fortunate expectant being a nobleman of large estates. We
look in vain this afternoon for “the Duke.” But very likely we shall see
him before our walk is done. Yonder whirls a barouche, with outriders.
It is the Queen and Prince Albert taking an airing. A Bishop comes along
on horseback. “It must be one of the Irish Bishops,” said the friend
with whom I was walking, “for I certainly have never seen him before.”
I now saw the Crystal Palace for the first time, and scarcely looked at
it at all. It was just what every body knows, from ten thousand
pictures. I had a prejudice against it, at this time, heightened by the
fact that many, whom I had met, had innocently taken it for granted that
an American must, of course, have come to England to see the show. The
idea of going to England to look at anything short of England itself!
Besides, I supposed it a mere toy of Prince Albert’s—just the thing for
a Dutch folly—or, like the Russian ice-palace,
————“Work of imperial dotage,
Shining, and yet so false!”
I looked, therefore, and passed by. A fine walk we had to Kensington
Gardens, and round by Bayswater, returning across Hyde Park. It was
pleasant to see the good use to which these vast grounds are put by the
People proper. Children and their nurses seem to take their fill of
them. It was George the Second, I think, who asked Walpole what it would
cost to fence in St. James’s Park, so as to keep the people out. “Only
_three crowns_,” was the reply; and the heavy Hanoverian learned an
important lesson, as to the difference between British freemen, and the
sort of people he had been wont to deal with, in his darling Electorate.
One morning I attended a meeting of the Venerable S. P. G. The estimable
Bishop of Bangor presided, and the ordinary monthly business was
despatched. On this occasion, I was so happy as to meet with Lord
Lyttleton, Mr. Beresford Hope, and others, whose names are familiar to
American Churchmen, as identified with zeal and devotion to the noble
work of Evangelization. The American Church, and her relations with her
nursing Mother, were frequently alluded to; and, as an act of Christian
recognition, I found myself admitted a corresponding member of the
Society. Though I could not suppose the compliment a personal one,
designed as it was in honor of the Orders of our Church, I felt it no
small privilege to receive this humble share in the noble organization
to which, under God, our Church owes its existence; and I felt it the
more, as being myself the descendant of a lowly but devoted Missionary,
who died in the service of the Society. I was pleased with the earnest,
but very quiet and affable spirit of this meeting. No show, nor swelling
words; and yet the spiritual interests of empires, and of national
Churches, present and yet to be, the fruits of the Society’s labors,
were deeply and religiously weighed, and dealt with. Beautiful tokens of
the Society’s fruitfulness hung round the walls—portraits of English
Missionary Bishops, such as Heber, and Selwyn, and Broughton. These are
its trophies.
My first excursion into the country was made somewhat earlier than I had
forecasted, in accepting a kind invitation to Cuddesdon, from the Bishop
of Oxford. This promised me the double pleasure of an immediate
acquaintance with Oxford itself, and of a no less agreeable introduction
to the eminent prelate, whose elevation to that See has so highly served
the dearest interests of the Church, not in England only, but also
throughout Christendom. The name of Wilberforce has received new lustre
in the person of this gifted divine; and certainly there was no one in
England whom I more desired to see, for the sake of the interest
inspired by public character and by published works. His known
hospitality, and interest in visitors from all parts of the world,
relieved me from surprise in receiving this unexpected attention, and I
felt sure I should experience no disappointment in indulging the
confidence and affection inspired by such cordiality. Arriving in
Oxford, I threw myself into a cab, and set off for the Bishop’s
residence, about eight miles distant—taking a drive through
High-street, in my way. Every object seemed familiar; I could scarcely
believe that I was, for the first time, looking at those venerable
walls. Here was St. Mary’s—here All Souls—here Queen’s—and there is
the tower of Magdalen. Even “the Mitre” and “the Angel” looked like
Inns, in which I had often “taken mine ease.” A few gownsmen were
loitering along the streets, but the town was quite deserted, it being
the Easter holiday time. Here, at last, were the old gables of Magdalen;
and now I pass the Cherwell, and get a view of Magdalen-walks on one
hand, and of Christ Church meadows on the other. And now a tollgate, and
now the country road—and I can scarce conceive that I have passed
through Oxford, and that mine eyes have really seen it, and that fancy,
and the pictures, are no longer my chief medium of knowing how it looks.
How rapidly I have lost the use of helps on which I have depended for
years! Like the lame man healed, I can hardly believe that I have gone
on crutches. But honestly, now—is the reality up to what I looked for?
Thus I thought, and questioned, as I jogged along.
Cuddesdon is the name of a little hamlet in Oxfordshire, on a wooded
hill, overlooking a wide extent of country, besprinkled with many
similar hamlets, and distinguished by a pretty parish Church, and the
adjoining residence, or palace, of the Bishop. The residence is one of
those rambling and nondescript houses, of ecclesiastical look, which one
associates with English rural scenery; but of a class which it is
difficult to characterize, except as something too modest for a
nobleman’s seat, and something too lordly for a vicarage. The nearness
of the parish Church might, indeed, suggest the idea of the parson’s
abode—but what should a parish priest want of so large a house, or of
the little private chapel which, on one side, makes a conspicuous part
of the pile? On the whole, one might conceive it the residence of a
Bishop without being told the fact, or before descrying the arms of the
See, over the entrance, encircled by the Garter, of which most noble
Order, the Bishop is Chancellor. Nothing could exceed the kindness and
affability with which the estimable prelate received me, and made me
welcome as his guest: his manner, at once dignified and engaging,
sufficing immediately to make a visitor at home in his presence, however
deeply impressed with reverence for his person. I esteemed it an
additional privilege to be presented to the Bishop’s brother, Archdeacon
Wilberforce, then just arrived at the palace from his own residence in
Yorkshire: and I soon found, among the guests of the Bishop, several
other persons of eminent position in society, from whose agreeable
intercourse I derived the highest satisfaction. I had arrived on a
Saturday, and, after a pleasant evening, the week was solemnly closed in
the private chapel, with appropriate prayers. Here, twice every day, all
the members of the household, the family, the guests, and the servants
together, are assembled before the Lord their Maker, while the Bishop,
like a patriarch, assisted by his chaplains, offers the sacrifices of
prayer and thanksgiving, and sanctifies his house. It was beautiful, on
one occasion, to see such a household together receiving the Holy
Eucharist, and it was good to participate in the solemnity. The sanctity
of my privilege, as the guest of such a family, forbids any further
allusion to the delightful scenes of domestic piety of which I was so
confidingly made a sharer; but I cannot withhold a tribute to the
character of a true Bishop, who has incidentally enabled me to testify
of at least one English prelate, that “he serves God with all his
house,” and makes that service the one thing indispensable and most
important, in all the distributions of private life, its kindly offices,
and endearing charities.
I accompanied his Lordship, next day, into Oxford, where he preached at
St. Ebbe’s to a very large congregation. This Church is very plain and
countryfied—astonishingly so for Oxford; but the worshippers were
devout and earnest in their attention. The sermon was suited to the
Service for the day, and I was not disappointed in the manner, nor yet
in the matter, of it. The Bishop is a truly eloquent man. His voice is
sweet, and often expressive of deep feeling, or of tender emotion. He
uses more action than most English preachers, or rather he has much less
of inactivity in his preaching. Occasionally he looks off from his
manuscript, and launches into warm extemporaneous address. Altogether, I
regard him as very happily combining the advantages of the English and
American pulpits. More than any other of whom I know anything, he unites
the delicacy and refinement of the former with the earnestness and
practical effect of the latter.
After a short visit to Wadham College, where I had the pleasure of
meeting the late Vice-Chancellor of the University, Dr. Symmons, we
returned to Cuddesdon. Our road lay through the village of Wheatley,
where the bells were chiming for service as we passed. Ascending the
hills, we alighted and walked; and, by and by, the good Bishop, pointing
to a little hamlet not far off, said to me, “there lived, once upon a
time, a man named John Milton. There is Forest Hill—there is
Shotover—and walking over these hills, he composed _Allegro_ and
_Penseroso_.” How it thrilled my soul, as I listened to his words, and
looked delightedly over the scenes to which he directed my attention! We
soon reached Cuddesdon, and attended divine service in the parish
Church, which was filled chiefly with a rustic people, many of them in
hob-nailed shoes, and brown frocks, neatly arrayed, but in the manner of
a peasantry, such as we know nothing about in America. The chancel of
the Church has been lately restored by the Bishop, and is in excellent
taste and keeping throughout. The Church itself is a cruciform one,
originally Norman, but much altered, and in parts injured, during
successive ages. Its aisles are early English; but many details, in
perpendicular, have been introduced in different portions of the pile.
Here and there in the wood-work are touches of Jacobean re-modeling.
Still, altogether, it is a most interesting Church, and it afforded me
great pleasure to worship there, with the rustics and their Bishop, and
with a pretty fair representation of the divers ranks of English
society, all uniting, happily and sweetly, in their ancestral worship.
It was a delicious day, and the glimpses of sky and country, which we
gained through the portals and windows, were additional inspirers of
gratitude to God. After service, the Bishop led me round the Church, and
showed me the grave where one of his predecessors had laid a beloved
child. A stone lay upon it, containing the exquisite lament of Bishop
Lowth for his daughter, which I remembered to have seen before, but
which never seemed half so touching and pathetic as now, while Bishop
Wilberforce repeated it from the chiseled inscription:—
“Cara Maria, Vale; at veniet felicius ævum
Quando iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero:
Cara redi, læta tum dicam voce, paternos
Eja age in amplexus, cara Maria, redi!”
That evening, as we sat at the Bishop’s table, the bells of Cuddesdon
pealed forth a curfew chime. Oh, how sweet! A lady then reminded me that
Cuddesdon was one of the “upland hamlets,” alluded to in _L’Allegro_,—
“Where the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound.”
And so happily closed my day, that, but for some reverting thoughts to
the dear home I had left behind me, I must say I went as sweetly to
sleep, in the spell of its delights, as did poor Pilgrim in that chamber
of his Progress, from whence he was sure of a view of the Delectable
Mountains as soon as he should awake in the morning.