_Glastonbury—Wells—The Jubilee._
I found in the ruins of the abbey at Glastonbury a full reward for my
efforts to pay them a visit. The architecture of these ruins is of a
character widely different from that of Tintern; and the surrounding
scenery, though marked by one bold eminence called the Tor, is that of a
fat agricultural region, wholly unlike the romantic valley of the Wye.
Yet the old wattled church of the early Britons which once stood here;
the tradition that Joseph of Arimathea proclaimed the gospel on this
spot; the legendary interest that attaches to the memory of St. Dunstan,
and the superb remains of what was once the richest monastery in the
kingdom, invest the now silent precincts of the Abbey with peculiar
charms. The chapel called St. Joseph’s is still an exquisite specimen of
art, and in its crypt is a spring reputed to derive extraordinary
virtues from some association with his visit. A huge stone coffin, lying
empty and dishonoured in the aisle of the Abbey Church, was shown to me
as having once contained the corpse of King Arthur. Here again was the
figure of an old abbot; and as I strode over the clovered floor of the
holy place, amid broken corbels and shattered columns, I found an artist
seated among them, at his task, sketching the beautiful remnant of an
old turret, which rises amid the surrounding wreck, almost the only
uninjured memorial of the former glory of the pile. At a distance, which
gives one an idea of the great extent of the old establishment, stands
the kitchen of the monastery still entire. It is an octagon, of vast
circumference, and contains several curious relics of the Abbey. I next
visited St. Benedict’s Church, which disputes with several others the
claim of being the oldest in the kingdom; and so, taking a post-chaise,
drove back to Wells, after a due reverence to the celebrated thorn which
is said to be the lineal successor of St. Joseph’s walking-stick, and
which blooms every year, at Christmas as well as in the early summer. Of
its blossoming at Christmas, or Epiphany, I suppose there can be no
doubt. I was assured, on the spot, that such was the case. King Charles
used to make merry with the papists by calling their attention to the
fact that it refused to observe the Gregorian Calendar; and when, in
1752, New Style was introduced into England, some two thousand of the
neighbouring peasantry assembled to watch this thorn on Christmas-eve,
who, when they found it stubbornly postponing its homage, but punctually
putting forth blossoms at Old Christmas, as usual, refused to recognize
the novelty, and kept their holidays accordingly. It must be supposed,
therefore, that Twelfth day is the real festival which it honours with
its strange efflorescence.
The cathedral of Wells struck me as surpassing all that I had yet seen,
in its way. The exterior view is fine, and the front is enriched with
the most lavish display of sculpture, kings, queens, and saints, each in
an embellished niche, and all together conveying a most gorgeous
impression to the beholder. But the interior was far more impressive.
Its nave was fitted with a pulpit and benches, and had the appearance of
being used and frequented. But the choir and Lady-chapel were in process
of restoration, on a magnificent scale, and appeared, indeed, quite new.
Here was a modern work, not inferior to the old: and when I observed the
rich effect of the creamy Caen stone, contrasted with the dark and
polished pillars of Purbeck marble, and marked the effective
introduction of colours and gilding, amid the delicate foliations and
tracery of stalls and tombs, then, first, I understood what must have
been the magnificence of these cathedrals, when new and entire! It was
pleasing to see such proof that the Church is still instinct with all
the spirit of mediæval taste, under the influences of restored purity of
religion; and that all the cunning of Bezaleel can be still employed by
our reformed ritual, though the craft of Demetrius, in making shrines
for idolatrous services, is no longer required.
I will not weary my reader with the numerous details of this glorious
pile, nor with those of the Bishop’s palace, its moat and drawbridge;
nor yet with memories of the blessed Bishop Ken, which still linger in
fragrance about these holy places: but I must observe, that the present
Bishop has done a good work in restoring to his cathedral the important
feature of a theological school. In his palace is their chapel, a most
appropriate one; and as I went through the cathedral, it was pleasant to
see several students in their gowns, lingering here and there in the
aisles, and vanishing and re-appearing amid the columns.
A romantic drive from Wells, full of interesting views, brought me to
Bath. Here, too, was much to see; but its Abbey is a poor object after
Wells, and the town of Beau Nash need not long detain an ecclesiastic. I
left, in the night, for Berkshire; and next day, which was Sunday, was
present at an Ordination, held at Bradfield Church, by the Bishop of
Oxford. The Church, and neighbouring College, at which I was a guest,
are well worthy of description; but I have only space to add, that the
ceremonial of Ordination differed from our own only in the minute
particulars of the oath of supremacy, and in the Bishop’s sitting in his
chair while administering the imposition of hands. Thirteen priests, and
a larger number of deacons, were admitted to Orders. The preacher was
the estimable Sir George Prevost; and at Evening Prayer, I had the great
satisfaction of addressing the newly ordained clergy, by appointment of
the Bishop, and afterwards of dining with him, and them, at the College,
where I am happy to testify that all things were done unto edifying,
until the close of the day. I was charmed with the Bishop’s manner in
private intercourse with his younger clergy; and not less gratified to
learn that the Ordination had been preceded by his personal conference
with each individual, in which the awful responsibilities of the
ministry had been freely enforced, and fully recognized. Those whom I
had seen ordained, had come to that solemnity, therefore, with the
fullest sense of its unspeakable consequences to their souls; and, so
far as could be ascertained, with holy resolutions to be faithful unto
death.
The solemnities of the Jubilee of the Venerable S. P. G., now called me
back to London, and to a renewal of its social pleasures. On the morning
of the 16th of June, I attended, at Westminster Abbey, with a large
number of the clergy, the opening services. It was a memorable occasion;
the choir of the Abbey being filled with a dense crowd of worshippers,
among whom, to judge by their looks and complexions, were men “out of
every nation under heaven.” The Bishop of London was the preacher, and
gave us an appropriate sermon, characterized by the finish for which his
performances are noted, and not deficient in feeling or fervour. It
contained gratifying allusions to the American Church, one of whose
prelates, Bishop Otey, was present, in the sanctuary, and assisting in
the services. A large number of communicants knelt at the altar; and
while several of my English friends made an effort to receive at the
hands of the Bishop of Tennessee, in gratifying their feelings of
Catholic intercommunion, I found an equal satisfaction in receiving the
Holy Sacrament from the Archbishop of Canterbury. During the whole
solemnity, which filled up several hours, my mind was powerfully
impressed with the historical spirit of the place; and while I listened
to the sermon, glancing occasionally upward to the vaulted roof, or
allowing my eye to wander away among the columns of the nave or choir,
it was impossible to divest myself of associations the most sublime,
that seemed to swarm around me, like “a cloud of witnesses,” blending
the interminable past with the momentary present. Here we were, in our
turn, upon the stage, the great actors of past centuries lying all
around us! Through yonder gate, beneath the great rose-window, pomp and
procession have entered this holy place, age after age; and here, one
after another, each as real in its time as that which occupies us now,
have the great solemnities of the nation been celebrated. These arches
and aisles looked just as they look this minute on the day when Laud
ushered in King Charles to receive his crown, and when, just here, he
was presented, to the Lords and Commons assisting at that pregnant
moment, as their anointed Sovereign. The thought of all that has since
passed on the same spot, seemed to compress into the mere drama of an
hour, the mighty history of which such was the opening scene. Then the
thought of the entire ignorance of futurity, by which such a pageant was
made real in its time! Imagination places us back among the men of a
by-gone age; but we cannot strip our individuality of its historic
knowledge, and we behold their doings with the eyes of a seer. I seemed
to be listening to the shout of “Long live King Charles”—and at the
same moment foreseeing the scaffold at Whitehall. I seemed to wonder
that others could be ignorant of what was coming: and to feel compelled
to forewarn the King of the dreadful future. Just so the jubilant
coronation of Charles the Second, and the melancholy inauguration of his
successor, flitted before me, with the events of years condensed into a
moment: and then again I found myself going back to the days of
Elizabeth and her hateful sire; and so mounting to the Plantagenets and
Normans. It is said that we cannot think of two things at once: but
certainly, while I was absorbed in the sermon, I was yet occupied with
such thoughts as these, and, in fact, was giving the preacher the full
benefit of all this as a background, while I looked on him as the
prominent figure of the picture. The psalms for the day had been
exceedingly suggestive and appropriate; they were the _Deus venerunt_,
the _Qui regis Israel_, and the _Exultate Deo_; and all the while I was
mentally contrasting 1851 with 1651, and saying, “What hath God
wrought!” That day, two hundred years ago, the Puritans were in the
Abbey, making havoc of its holy things, and exulting over the
annihilation of the Church of England. They supposed her exterminated,
“root and branch:” it was a felony to read one of her ancient Collects
in the poorest cottage of the land. And now! I was surrounded by
representatives of her communion, who had come up to keep her one
hundred and fiftieth missionary festival from the uttermost parts of the
earth. Beside the Primate of all England, stood before me the Bishops of
Argyle, of Jamaica, and of Tennessee. Around me were kneeling Africans,
Asiatics, and Americans, with the islanders of the South Seas, all
partakers of her holy fellowship: and passing from such a past to such a
present—what a leap my spirit took into the future. Another
jubilee—and another! Who shall set a limit to the ingathering of
nations; to the latter-day triumphs of the Gospel!
“Visions of Glory, spare my aching sight;
Ye unborn ages crowd not on my soul.”
When the services were over, it took some time to emancipate myself from
the spell of the place, and I wandered to and fro in the Abbey. A dear
friend, a fellow of Oriel College, caught me by the hand, and pointed to
the slab beneath my feet. It covered Samuel Johnson. “Surely old
Samuel’s bones must have been stirred to-day by the Church’s Jubilee,”
said I, “but don’t think you have shown me his grave for the first time;
I already know all the choice spots in this floor, and have knelt on
that very slab, and given God thanks for his servant Samuel.”
I dined that day with a party of zealous Churchmen, and supporters of
the S. P. G.; and, in the evening, went to an ecclesiastical
conversazione at Willis’ Rooms. We drove, in a private carriage, through
Hyde Park and St. James’s, and were set down at “Almack’s” as superbly
as if we had come on as gay an errand as is the more usual one of its
visitors. But those brilliant rooms were now thronged with a graver
company, the object of the festivity being to do honour to foreign
ecclesiastics and pastors, who might be in London on occasion of the
Jubilee and the Crystal Palace. I was presented to the Primate, who
conversed with a simplicity of manner the most impressive, and invited
me to Lambeth with a sort of cordiality, the very reverse of that
stateliness and etiquette which it was not unnatural to expect in the
address of one so exalted in station. I was much pleased with his
venerable appearance, and accepted the kind appointment of an hour,
which he named, for my visit to the Archiepiscopal palace, with peculiar
pleasure. His Grace was surrounded by his brother Bishops, among whom I
saw, for the first time, the Archbishop of Dublin; a prelate of
acknowledged talent, but whose gifts would have better fitted the
Academy than the throne of a Primate. An Oriental Archimandrite
completed the group in this quarter; and other parts of the rooms
swarmed with solemn looking men, talking German and French with their
English entertainers, or vainly essaying civilities in Low Dutch and
Danish. One of these personages, who looked as if he might have figured,
with credit to himself, at the Synod of Dort, attacked me in the dialect
of the Flemings, to my utter consternation. I could only stammer out a
little gibberish, as a reply, and precipitately sounded a retreat, in
utter distrust of my ability to sustain a further conversation with my
unknown colloquist to mutual satisfaction. I soon afterward made the
acquaintance of the Chevalier Bunsen, with whom, as one of the
curiosities of the age, I was not sorry to have this opportunity of
exchanging a few words. The Chevalier is at home on every subject, and I
found him communicative on the favourite topic which I ventured to
start, by referring to a common friend, whom he had known very well in
Rome. One after another I encountered, during the evening, many eminent
and agreeable personages, among whom were officers of the army,
dignitaries of the Church, several Bishops, and the Earl of Harrowby.
The company was altogether a brilliant one, in spite of the polemical
figures who constituted so important a part of it; and the stars and
decorations of the nobility, and of foreign officials, were quite
conspicuous, among the white neckerchiefs and black broadcloth of the
ecclesiastics and pastors.
I breakfasted, next morning, with the Rector of St. Martin’s in the
Fields, and then accompanied him, on a visiting tour, about his parish.
First, I went to the parish-school, which had lately been rebuilt, and
was deemed a model. Prince Albert, who interests himself in such things,
was to visit it that very day, and I was kindly asked by the Rector to
be of the company, but was otherwise engaged. One of the peculiarities
of this building was its ingenious contrivance of a play-ground—if that
may be so called, which was some fifty or sixty feet above the earth.
Land being costly in the parish of St. Martin’s, the building was
planned with a double roof, the lower one being flat, and surrounded
with a high fence, affording a safe and ample space for the recreation
of the children; while the roof above them served as an awning against
the sun, or as a shelter from the rain. A fine view, and as pure an
atmosphere as London can afford, were additional advantages of the
arrangement. Next, we visited the parochial baths and wash-houses, in
which the poor have the best opportunity for washing and drying clothes,
and also of keeping their persons in a neat and wholesome condition, at
the cost of a few pennies. The benevolence and utility of the
establishment must be obvious. Next the Rector took me to see Coleman,
one of his parishioners, who was then in his 102d year, and a fine and
healthy-looking man at that. What is better, he is unfeignedly pious,
and joined devoutly in the prayers which were offered by his pastor,
responding with fervour, and saying, in reply to one of his
questions—“I know that my Redeemer liveth.” This aged Christian owes
his serene and consoling faith, under God, to his early training in the
charity school, established in this parish by Archbishop Tennison. He
was a pupil in that school when George the Second died, and remembers
the tolling of the great bell of St. Paul’s, to announce the event. He
also remembers the Coronation of George the Third, and the procession,
which he saw as it went to the Abbey, on that occasion. Think of his
living to see, as he did, the procession of Victoria to the Crystal
Palace, with the same pair of eyes! It was gratifying to hear his
testimony to the vast improvement in manners which has been going on in
London since he was a boy. He remembers the nights and days which
Hogarth has so frightfully depicted; and he says, too truly, that to be
a gentleman, was to be a rake, almost universally, when he was a boy.
“It was as much as one’s life was worth,” he says, “to walk the streets,
at night, in those days.” The same day, I heard Mr. Sydney Herbert
remark, in his speech at St. Martin’s Hall, that this age is reputed
better than its antecessors, chiefly because, while it cares not what a
man may be at heart, it compels him to be decent.
This meeting at St. Martin’s Hall, by the way, must not be forgotten. It
was part of the Jubilee. Prince Albert presided, and did so, I must
allow, in a very princely style, so far as his personal bearing was
concerned. As he entered, which he did with great dignity, the whole
assembly rose, and sang _God Save the Queen_. This struck me as
exceedingly handsome and appropriate: but I was not so well pleased with
the fulsome adulation with which some of the speakers, afterwards,
seemed to think it necessary to bedaub him. He was himself guilty of a
flagrant breach of propriety, as it struck me, in alluding to William of
Orange, who happened to be on the throne when the Charter of the S. P.
G. was signed and sealed, as “the greatest sovereign who ever reigned in
Great Britain.” To this ill-judged compliment to one of the foreign
adventurers who have succeeded in planting themselves in British
palaces, a few gaping mouths in the auditory ejaculated the response,
“hear, hear”—for which the sentence was evidently a studied catch: but
I am glad to say that the greater part of the assembly was not such as
to be so entrapped. It was a failure, absolutely, though the _Times_
reported “great applause,” as a matter of course. When a prince
condescends to set up for a critic upon royalty, he deserves no better
success: and the ill taste of this particular attempt, on such an
occasion, seemed to me offensive in the extreme. It is plain that the
prince has learned his historical alphabet from Macaulay, and has
studied no further: but I considered this straw as indicative of a
coming wind, with which the founder of the House of Coburg should not
have threatened the Church so soon. He may yet reap the whirlwind
himself, or bequeath it to his children: for it is evident, to me, that
amiable and estimable as he is, in many respects, and beloved as he is
by a loyal people as the consort of their Queen, he is an alien to true
British feeling, and an enemy to the Anglican Church. He would Germanize
the nation if possible; above all, he longs to Bunsenize the national
religion.
On the whole, I found myself too much of an American Churchman to relish
this meeting. It was humiliating to see the venerable Archbishop paying
such deference to one who, though so nearly allied to the throne, is in
no wise entitled to especial homage from so august a personage as the
Primate of all England: and I considered it insufferable that such
official personages as Lord John Russell, and Earl Grey, should be chief
speakers, merely because of their position, although flagrant enemies of
the Church’s holiest principles. A more turgid piece of bombast than the
former delivered, I have never chanced to hear, and his whole appearance
was, to me, ludicrously revolting. It must not be supposed, however,
that the meeting went off without effect. It was nobly redeemed by
admirable speeches from Sydney Herbert, the Duke of Newcastle, Sir
Robert Inglis, and the Earl of Harrowby, as well as from the Bishops of
Oxford and London. Lord Harrowby, in particular, reflecting on the
Walpoles and the Graftons of former ministerial epochs with just
severity, gave Lord John some wise counsels, while apparently
congratulating him on his widely different policy, in patronizing
Missions! Mr. Sydney Herbert was truly eloquent, and threw out several
sparkling abstractions, which greatly raised my estimate of his mental
power; but the natural orator, among them all, was the Bishop of Oxford,
whose delightful voice, pleading for the creation of a staff of native
Missionaries in Africa, India, and China, infused a thrill of feeling
through every heart, as he wound up with the scriptural example of those
whose first transports, in receiving the Gospel, found vent in the
expression—“We do hear them speak, _in our tongues_, the wonderful
works of God.”
As duly appointed, I waited on the Archbishop at Lambeth, and was
received with very little ceremony, into his study,—a spacious
apartment, plainly furnished, and overlooking the garden of the Palace.
His manner was, as before, extremely simple and affable; and he
conversed upon divers ecclesiastical subjects with an appearance of
zeal, and with a general tone of elevated churchmanship, for which he is
certainly not celebrated as a Primate. It was with the profoundest
reverence that I listened to the successor of Augustine and of Cranmer;
and not without deference did I venture to express myself, in his
presence, even on American subjects. As I rose to depart, he followed me
to the door of the room, with something exceedingly winning and paternal
in his farewell; and kindly invited me to dine with him, on a day which
he named, as the only one when he expected to be at home for some time.
This pleasure I was forced to deny myself, owing to a previous
engagement; and I accordingly concluded my visit to Lambeth, at this
time, by going the usual rounds in company with an official, to whom His
Grace committed me. My readers may well imagine my emotions in surveying
the Lollard’s Tower, the gallery of historic portraits, the library, and
other apartments, of this most interesting pile; but perhaps they might
not wholly appreciate the feelings with which I knelt in the chapel, and
returned thanks for our American Episcopacy, on the spot where it was
imparted to the saintly White. I lingered, for a long time, in the
gardens, thinking of Laud, of Juxon, and of Sancroft; and dwelling, with
peculiar gratification in my imagination, upon the scenes between Laud
and “Mr. Hyde,” of which these gardens were the witness, as mentioned in
the pictured pages of Clarendon.
The solemn octave of the Jubilee included Sunday the 22d of June, on
which day special sermons were preached in many pulpits, in London, and
collections made in behalf of the Society. I received an appointment to
preach at Bow Church, and accordingly did so, taking as a text Genesis
ix. 27, and endeavouring to show that the existence of our own Church,
in the Western World, is a fulfilment of the prophecy, “God shall
enlarge Japhet, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem.” But a greater
privilege awaited me in the evening of the same day, when it was my
happy lot to perform a similar duty, in the Temple Church, standing in
Hooker’s pulpit, and preaching to a congregation of the highest
intelligence and character, upon the spread of the Church in America. It
was a fine afternoon, and that glorious Church was filled with such an
assembly as I had never before seen gathered together on an occasion of
ordinary worship. Besides the Bishops of Winchester and Edinburgh, who
happened to be present, with the Master of the Temple, and other clergy,
the benchers were numerously represented, and the finest legal talent of
the empire was undoubtedly there collected. To judge by the large
attendance of ladies, (some of them of the highest rank,) the Templars
were also accompanied by their families: to whom, I suppose, the music
furnishes a powerful attraction, as it is justly celebrated; and the
organ, though selected two hundred years ago, by the critical ear of the
bloody Judge Jeffreys, is of a tone proverbially sweet. The attendance
of strangers, drawn together by the same attraction, was also very
large, the round church as well as the choir, being apparently filled. I
was much moved by the anthem—“Tell it out among the heathen that the
Lord is King”—and when it was time for me to ascend the pulpit, and to
preach to such an Areopagus, it may be imagined that it was not without
feelings of emotion, such as I had never before experienced in the
performance of my official duties. That old historic spot, where Hooker
had struggled to preserve the falling Church of a single kingdom, was
now occupied by my pilgrim feet; and coming from a new world, I was to
attest, before such an assembly, and in the presence of God, the
blessings which that noble struggle had secured, not to England only,
but through her to the wilds of America, and to the unborn generations
of a new and mighty people in another hemisphere. The text was the
prophecy of David, (Psalm xlv. 17,) “Instead of thy fathers thou shalt
have children, whom thou mayest make princes in all lands:” and it was
my effort, (as I trust I may say, without too free a personal
confession) to improve so interesting an opportunity, in commending my
country to the respect of those who heard me, while confessing the just
claims upon her gratitude, of the Mother land, from which she is proud
to derive the blessings of the Gospel, and the institutions of
enlightened freedom, guarded by the supremacy of law. After service, the
Master of the Temple, taking me into his adjoining residence, showed me
a table which once belonged to his great predecessor, Hooker, and
allowed me to sit down in Hooker’s chair. He also showed me some
memorials of Bishop Heber, whose missionary labours in India he had
assisted, as his chaplain. The evening was passed under the domestic
roof of Dr. Warren, the eminent bencher, whose remarkable production,
“Ten thousand a-year,” has added to his other distinctions, that of
reforming the romance literature of the age, and of introducing a tone
of high Christian morality, in place of that fashionable depravity which
Bulwer had caught from Byron, and substituted for the decent propriety
of Scott. To his polite hospitalities I was indebted for some of my
happiest hours in London: and the conclusion of this Holy Day was
rendered memorable by many warm expressions of regard for my country and
her Church, inspired by his conversation, in the genial society of his
family and friends.