_Oxford—Martyrs—Boat-race._
My reader will be ready to forget London for a time; and perhaps also to
accompany me on an excursion. I went to Oxford, for a few days, to keep
some appointments, and found it far more delightful than before, as the
men were all up, and everything looking bright and lively. The trees in
the gardens and meadows were in fine leaf; and many shrubs in full
blossom, so that what Nature has done for Oxford began to be as apparent
as the enchantments it derives from Art. In the gardens of Exeter
College I observed a Virginia creeper, luxuriantly covering the walls,
and had a good opportunity of contrasting its effect with that of the
ivy, for which, in our country, it is so generally substituted. It is
certainly more cheerful, but lacks the dignity of its sullen rival.
There is a fig-tree trained against the college walls, said to be that
favourite of one of its former worthies, which a graceless Soph once
stripped of its fruit, leaving only a single fig, which he labelled, “a
fig for Dr. Kennicott.” Many are the minor traditions of Oxford, of a
similar sort. Every tree and shrub seems to have a history, and “green
memories” are here something more than a figure of speech.
A Sunday at Oxford affords one, at least, the opportunity for constant
attendance upon Divine Service. I went, at 7 o’clock, to St. Mary’s,
where the Holy Eucharist was celebrated, and where I thankfully received
the Sacrament, with a considerable number of the parishioners, and
members of the University. After breakfast, at Jesus College, I returned
to St. Mary’s, to hear the Bampton Lecturer—Mr. Wilson, of St John’s.
The lecture was delivered, of course, before the University, the
Undergraduates filling the gallery, and the Dons the nave below. The
lecturer, preceded by the bedels, entered in company with the
Vice-Chancellor, to whom he bowed, as he turned to the pulpit stairs.
Mounting to his place, and covering his face with his cap, he offered
his private prayers, and then began the bidding-prayers, in the usual
form—making special mention of St. John’s College, and of its
benefactors, “such as were Archbishop Laud, etc.” But let no one imagine
that this was an instance of spontaneous reverence for the Anglican
Cyprian, for the lecture which followed might have moved the very bones
of the martyr in his grave, so utterly did it conflict with the
doctrines of the Church. It was evidently received with great
dissatisfaction. It was decidedly clever, as to form and structure; but
savoured of _Bunsenism_ quite too much for the taste of a genuine
Churchman. It was read in a dull, dry manner, more befitting the
doctrine than the occasion. But, I must own that I greatly admire this
way of University preaching; and the freedom of a sermon, thus
delivered, by itself, apart from the service, and as a distinct thing,
having its own time and object. Subsequently, the Church having been
emptied, and filled again by a different congregation, the parochial
service and sermon went on in all respects, as usual. Then, in the
afternoon, there was a sermon before the University, preceded by the
bidding-prayers, as in the morning; save that the preacher made special
mention of Oriel College, of which he was a member, commemorating its
benefactors, “such as were King Edward the Second, etc.” Then followed a
powerful sermon, which evidently produced a great sensation. The Church
was crowded, for the preacher was a general favourite. His manner was
earnest, and often eloquent: and, in tones of most solemn and vigorous
rebuke, he protested against the slavish dependence to which the State
seemed resolved to reduce the Church. The Gorham case seemed to be in
the preacher’s mind, and perhaps the flagrant elevation to the
Episcopate of Dr. Hampden.
The parochial service again followed; after which I dined in the Hall of
Oriel, where I met the preacher among his old collegians, and greatly
enjoyed the company in general. After dinner, we went to service in the
College Chapel; and after this there were still services in several
places, though I did not attend them. It would have been hard to have
named an hour in the whole day when services were not going on somewhere
in this City of Holy Places.
In the Common-room of Oriel, I met with a very agreeable person, to whom
I owed not a little of subsequent pleasure, and to whom I became warmly
attached. At his instance, during the week, I substituted the more
_recherché_ pleasure of a visit to Nuneham Courtenay, for the more
ordinary cockney pilgrimage to Blenheim. I went in his company, and in
his own carriage, and had no reason to regret my adoption of his advice.
The grounds of Nuneham are proverbial for the beauty of genuine English
landscape, and a range in this noble park affords continual prospects of
cultivated fields, and snug hamlets, and the silvery windings of the
Isis through the meads. The gardens and shrubbery are interspersed with
urns and tablets and inscriptions, in the Shenstone style, and among
them I observed a cenotaph of the poet Mason. The taste of the more
artificial charms of Nuneham is somewhat antiquated, and smacks of the
Hanoverian age, now happily departing: but it does one good to see these
things, as illustrating the period to which they belong. I was all the
time thinking of Jemmy Thomson, as I rambled among the elms and yews of
Nuneham; and especially when I came to a clump of those spreading
beeches, with smooth columnar trunks, on which his swains were wont to
endite their amatory verses. Glimpses of Oxford, which one catches now
and then, add a special charm to this noble demesne, and the Thames
glitters here and there in the view to enliven a broad survey of rural
scenery, which can hardly be said to lack anything appropriate to its
English character. The Church of Nuneham is the grand mistake. It looks
like a fane erected to the goddess of the wood, by some ancient Grecian,
and provokes something less pleasing than a smile, when one learns that
it is the successor of a genuine old English church, which was judged a
blemish to the classical charms of the house and gardens. Of the
rectory, although it is of modern design, I can speak with more
satisfaction. It is a charming residence, such as an American parson
seldom inhabits, but which one loves to see others enjoying, and
adorning with every domestic grace. Here we lunched, substantially,
concluding our repast with gooseberry-tart and cream, such as no one
ever tastes except in England; thus gaining a conception of the rich
glebe and pasturage of Nuneham, which a more sentimental tourist might
fail to carry away from a mere feast of the eye.
We visited the parish-school, and I was particularly struck with the
neatness and order of the little academy, and not less with the
exactness of the instruction. The children of the peasantry were the
scholars, and, instead of jackets, the boys nearly all wore the little
plaited shirt of coarse brown linen, so familiar to us from pictures,
but so unlike anything worn by American children, however humble in
station. They were very closely examined by their teachers, and their
answers were generally correct. America was pointed out on the map, and
when I was introduced to the little urchins as an American, it was
amusing to see their surprise. They seemed to pity me for living so very
far away! Then they were catechized. It did me good to hear the familiar
words, so often uttered by little voices around the chancel rails of my
own parish-church, now repeated, in the same way, by these little
English Christians. Some of the subsidiary questions amused me, and not
less the answers, especially those under the phrase—“to honour and obey
the Queen, and all that are put in authority under her.” Then came the
clause—“to order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.” “And
who are your betters?” asked the master: to which, “Lady Waldegrave,”
and other names of the gentle inhabitants of Nuneham Courtenay, were
most loyally responded. In practical matters of a more strictly
religious character, the questions and replies were highly gratifying,
and often caused the tears to spring in my eyes, in view of the manifold
blessings which such instructions cannot fail to convey to a nation, and
to the souls of all who receive them. Alas! for the schools of our
country, where the children come together under the blight of divers
creeds, or of utter unbelief, and where in solemn deference to the
spirit of sect and party, religion is daily less and less a tolerated
element in the training of immortal souls!
We drove pleasantly back to Oxford, passing Sanford, and Cowley, and
Iffley, and stopping at the Church of Littlemore, which has been lately
much improved, and in which we found service going on. A drive into
Oxford, from almost any direction, cannot fail to please, so inspiring
is the sight of the city itself, and our return from Littlemore
afforded, at least to myself, some new and charming views of its
prominent features, which were now becoming quite familiar.
For several days I lingered in the bewitching society of the University,
sharing its hospitalities, and daily revelling in the inspection of its
curiosities and antiquities. With what a spell does the enjoyment of
those mornings and evenings revive in my fancy as I write. A
breakfast-party at Merton, the cool breeze of the morn coming in at the
windows, fragrant from the meadows; an extemporary lunch in the crypts
of St. John’s, tapping the college beer, and inspecting the ancient
masonry of its Gothic vaults, once the substructions of a monastery; a
dinner in the lordly hall of Magdalen, with dessert and conversation in
the Common-room; an evening party at Oriel, among wits, and poets, and
divines! Who would not allow that such are substantial pleasures,
realizing “those Attic nights, and refections of the gods,” of which our
fancy is full, in the earlier enthusiasm of classical pursuits! And then
the discourse was so animating and refreshing. No hackney talk of dull
common-place sentiment, or of small-beer literature; but a roving,
haphazard, review of grave and gay together; a deep and earnest
discussion of religious themes; a sprightly dash into politics; quick
questions and replies about America, and republics, and democracies;
illustrative quotations of a fresh and spontaneous character, often
garnished with some ingenious misapplication, or original supply of
words, for the sake of sport; a sharp debate about the civil wars; a
dissection of Macaulay; a clever story of old Parr; and reviving
anecdotes of Oxford and old times; with a glow of kindly and religious
feeling in all, without cant or ostentation; these were the filling up
of successive days and nights in those halls and chambers of dear, dear
Oxford, which I cannot remember without a grateful thrill, and which I
can only put aside from covetous regret, by calm faith that “it is more
blessed to give than receive.” After all, it is in every way more worthy
of a Christian, to toil in the wilderness, than to recline in the
bowers, and to enter into the labours of by-gone generations. Yes—dear
as are the delights of a life in academic shades, and unparalleled as
are the advantages of mind and body with which Oxford ennobles her
children, I would prefer a Divinity chair at Nashotah, to a fellowship
at Magdalen, or to the richest benefice which the University can bestow.
It is hazardous to enjoy too much; and how great the responsibility in
such a world as this, of receiving anything for which we may fail to
make a return to God and men, and which must go to make our stewardship
more fearful, against the day of account!
We have gifts differing. Far be it from me to insinuate that the life of
an Oxford Fellow is ordinarily an idle or useless one. Many of them are
as laborious and as useful men as ever wrote or thought, and great are
the blessings which they diffuse around them. Too often have their
generous hospitalities been mistaken for habitual self-indulgences; and
even guests who have tasted their wine without a murmur, have sometimes
gone away to complain of convivialities, of which they were themselves
the exacting proponents. But when the question is not as to them, but as
to ourselves, we are surely at liberty to prefer our humbler and less
favoured lot! Shall we repine because we are Americans, and because we
shall never live to see an Oxford in our own dear country? God forbid! I
love to think that it is theirs to enjoy, and mine only to remember; and
that if toil and self-denial are the lot of an American clergyman, he
is, nevertheless, fulfilling a mission more immediately like that of his
glorious Master, and less fraught with temptations to make one’s heaven
this side the grave.
I had seen the Duke of Wellington and Samuel Rogers. There was one whom
I desired to see besides, and on some accounts, with deeper interest, to
complete my hold upon the surviving past. For sixty years had Dr. Routh
been president of Magdalen, and still his faculties were strong, and
actively engaged in his work. I saw him in his 97th year; and it seemed
as if I had gone back a century, or was talking with a reverend divine,
of the olden time, who had stepped out of a picture-frame. He sat in his
library, in gown and bands, wearing a wig, and altogether impressing me
as the most venerable figure I had ever beheld. Nothing could exceed his
cordiality and courtesy, and, though I feared to prolong my visit, his
earnestness in conversation more than once repressed my endeavour to
rise. He remembered our colonial clergy, and related the whole story of
Bishop Seabury’s visit, and of his application to the Scottish Church,
which Dr. Routh himself first suggested. ‘And now,’ said I, ‘we have
thirty Bishops and 1,500 clergy.’ He lifted his aged hands, and said, “I
have, indeed, lived to see wonders,” and he added devout expressions of
gratitude to God, and many inquiries concerning our Church. I had
carried an introduction to him from the Rev. Dr. Jarvis, and at the same
time, announced the death of that lamented scholar and divine, whose
funeral I had attended a few days before I sailed from America. He spoke
of him with affection and regret, and also referred to his great regard
for Bishop Hobart. I could not say farewell to such a patriarch, in the
meaningless forms of ordinary intercourse, and, as I rose to depart, I
craved his blessing, and humbly knelt to receive it. He placed his
venerable hand upon my head, and said—“God Almighty bless you, for
Jesus Christ’s sake,” and so I took my departure, with my heart full,
and with tears in my eyes.
Going, quite alone, to St. John’s College, I indulged myself in
delightful meditations as I lounged in its gardens, and watched the
young gownsmen shooting arrows at a target, or enjoying themselves about
the walks. I went into the quadrangle, that munificent monument of
Laud’s affection for his beloved college. I passed on to the chapel. The
door was not locked, and I entered it alone. Beneath the altar lies the
Archbishop’s mutilated corpse; and there, too, lies the stainless Juxon,
whom he loved so well, and who served the last moments of Charles the
First with the holy offices of the Church. I gave myself up to the
powerful impressions of the spot, and spent a few minutes in very solemn
meditations. In the library of the college I afterwards saw the pastoral
crook of the martyred Primate; the little staff which supported his
tottering steps on the scaffold, and the cap which covered his venerable
head only a few minutes before it fell from the block.
In the street, before Balliol College, the martyrs Latimer and Ridley
were burned. Perhaps the precise spot is not known; but among the
paving-stones, there is fixed in the earth a little cross, sunk to a
level with the street, and simply designating the supposed site of the
stake. It was one of my pleasures, during this visit to Oxford, to meet
with Bishop Otey, then just arrived from America; and I had the pleasure
of conducting that excellent missionary prelate to this sacred spot of
suffering for Christ. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which he
uncovered his head, as he stood there, and blessed God for the testimony
of His Martyrs; and I am sure he will forgive this allusion to the
scene, for it greatly impressed me at the time, and even now seems very
striking. “We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, as
shall never be put out”—said old Latimer to Ridley, in 1555, and in
spite of fire and faggot, and Armada, and Gunpowder plot, and Father
Petrie, and Father Newman, there stood in 1851, the Bishop of Tennessee,
blessing God for the light of that candle in the wilds of America! A
superb memorial of the three Oxford Martyrs stands not far from the
place where they suffered—and should have stood just here, where it
would have been more conspicuous and appropriate—but I felt that such
an incident far more powerfully attested the prophecy. How strange it
seemed, in St. Mary’s, on the preceding Sunday, to reflect that from
those very aisles, not longer since than three such lives as Dr. Routh’s
might measure, the venerable Primate of all England had been ruthlessly
dragged forth, by the hands of brethren in the priesthood, and by the
same hands burnt to death, hard by, with the mockery of thanksgiving to
God, and in the name of zeal for His glory! Truly, Rome may thank
herself for the abhorrence with which the universal Anglo-Saxon race
(among whom a few emasculate exceptions are not to be reckoned,) regard
alike her blandishments and her cruelties.
How rapidly flew the hours in which I lounged in the Bodleian and other
libraries, or went from college to college, to inspect its pictures and
antiquities! Here, a manuscript of Cædmon, which the Anglo-Saxon
professor kindly interpreted to me as I inspected it; and there, a
_Chaucer_, and “the Game of Chesse,” from the primitive press of Caxton,
exposed to my admiring gaze the small beginnings of the wonderful
Literature of the English tongue. In the Ashmolean Museum I beheld, with
still greater reverence, the jewel once worn by the immortal Alfred, to
which I felt that Victoria’s _Koh-i-noor_ was but a twinkling and
lack-lustre pendant. In the curious old muniment-room of Merton, I was
scarcely less pleased to behold the venerable charters and patents,
engrossed in ancient characters, and sealed with quaint historic seals,
by which their lands and hereditaments are still retained, and from
which the whole Collegiate System of Oxford is derived. The chapel of
this charming college is worthy of the noble foundation to which it
belongs; and, as my amiable _cicerone_ was an accomplished architectural
artist and antiquarian, I was not allowed to inspect its details
superficially. His own hand had, very recently, restored the elaborate
decorations of the vaulting, in beautiful colours and designs; and he
appeared to appreciate the high privilege which he had enjoyed, of
mingling his own handiwork, in this manner, with that of ancient and
inventive genius. His mediæval tastes had perhaps become a hobby with
him; I observed, with pain, some morbid symptoms of unreality in his
excessive devotion to the mere æsthetics of religion; but did not then
suppose, as since has proved the sad result, that he was destined to add
another to those children of the captivity, who, by the rivers of
Babylon, have so estranged themselves from Sion, that their tongue seems
indeed to have been smitten with the palsy of untruth, and their right
hand to have forgotten its cunning.
I saw, one pleasant evening, the first boat-race of the season. Going
into Christ Church Meadows, in company with several gownsmen, we soon
joined a crowd of under-graduates, and others who were seeking the banks
of the Isis. The rival boats were still far up the stream, but here we
found their flags displayed upon a staff, one above the other, in the
order of their respective merit, at the last rowing match. The flag of
Wadham waved triumphant, and the brilliant colours of Balliol, Christ
Church, Exeter, etc., fluttered scarce less proudly underneath. What an
animated scene those walks and banks exhibited, as the numbers
thickened, and the flaunting robes of the young academics began to be
seen in dingy contrast with the gayer silks and streamers of the fair!
Even _town_, as well as _gown_, had sent forth its representatives, and
you would have said some mighty issue was about to be decided, had you
heard their interchange of breathless query and reply. A distant gun
announced that the boats had started, and crowds began to gather about a
bridge, in the neighbouring fields, where it was certain they would soon
be seen, in all the speed and spirit of the contest. Crossing the little
river in a _punt_, and yielding to the enthusiasm which now filled the
hearts and faces of all spectators, away I flew towards the bridge, and
had scarcely gained it when the boats appeared—Wadham still ahead, but
hotly pressed by Balliol, which in turn was closely followed by the
crews of divers other colleges, all pulling for dear life, while their
friends, on either bank, ran at their side, shouting the most
inspiriting outcries! The boats were of the sharpest and narrowest
possible build, with out-rigged thole-pins for the oars. The rowers, in
proper boat-dress, or rather undress, (close-fitting flannel shirt and
drawers,) were lashing the water with inimitable strokes, and “putting
their back” into their sport, as if _every man_ was indeed determined
_to do his duty_. “Now, Wadham!” “Now, Balliol!” “Well pulled, Christ
Church!” with deafening hurrahs, and occasional peals of laughter, made
the welkin ring again. I found myself running and shouting with the
merriest of them. Several boats were but a few feet apart, and stroke
after stroke not one gained upon another, perceptibly. Where there was
the least gain, it was astonishing to see the pluck with which both
winner and loser seemed to start afresh; while redoubled cries of “Now
for it, Merton,” “Well done, Corpus,” and even “Go it, again”—which I
had supposed an Americanism—were vociferated from the banks. All at
once—“a bump!” and the defeated boat fell aside, while the victors
pressed on amid roars of applause. The chief interest, however, was, of
course, concentrated about “Wadham,” the leader, now evidently gained
upon by “Balliol.” It was indeed most exciting to watch the half-inch
losses which the former was experiencing at every stroke! The goal was
near; but the plucky Balliol crew was not to be distanced. A stroke or
two of fresh animation and energy sends their bow an arm’s length
forward. “Hurrah, Balliol!” “once more”—“a bump!” “Hurrah-ah-ah!” and a
general cheer from all lungs, with hands waving and caps tossing, and
everything betokening the wildest excitement of spirits, closed the
contest; while amid the uproar the string of flags came down from the
tall staff, and soon went up again, with several transpositions of the
showy colours—Wadham’s little streamer now fluttering _paulo-post_; but
victorious Balliol flaunting proudly over all. It was growing dark; and
it was surprising how speedily the crowd dispersed, and how soon all
that frenzy of excitement had vanished like the bubbles on the river.