_Lord Mayor’s Banquet—Eton College—Hampton._
The Jubilee festival at Westminster Abbey was not allowed to supersede
the annual sermon at St. Paul’s; and accordingly, on the 18th of June, I
attended the service in the cathedral, and heard the Bishop of St.
Asaph. The service was performed with the aid of “all the choicest music
of the kingdom,” for the choirs of the royal palaces of Windsor and St.
James’s were added, on this occasion, to the ordinary musical force of
the cathedral, with very great effect. The clergy, with the Bishops,
entered in procession through the nave, and the Lord Mayor in robes, and
with the civic sword borne before him, figured in the pageant, and
occupied his stall. The sermon was scarcely audible where I sat, within
the rails of the sanctuary, but it seemed to be earnestly delivered.
Then came the Hallelujah Chorus—which I certainly never before heard so
impressively performed. “And He shall reign for ever and ever—King of
kings, and Lord of lords!” The reverberations of the dome, and the long
resounding echoes of those noble aisles prolonged the strain, and made
it like the voice of many waters in the new Jerusalem.
It was _Waterloo-day_; and, while the Duke was supposed to be feasting
his friends at Apsley House, the Lord Mayor, at the Mansion-house, gave
a city feast to the Clergy of London, with others, among whom I had the
honour of being numbered. It was, in fact, a dinner given to the S. P.
G., in honour of its Jubilee; and I owed my invitation to the kind
offices of the Bishop of Oxford. The Mansion-house is the official
residence of the Lord Mayor, and it is a conspicuous object in
Lombard-street, near the Bank of England. On arriving, we were shown
into an ante-room, where the Lord Mayor received us, and we were
presented to the Lady Mayoress. The room was filled with company, and
here I met several distinguished personages whom I had not seen before.
I was particularly pleased with being introduced, by Dean Milman, to Dr.
Croly, for whose genius and productions I have a high regard. The dinner
was served in the Egyptian Hall, so called from its original resemblance
to a hall described by Vitruvius. It is a spacious banquet-room, and
looks very well when lighted, although destitute of such specimens of
art as would best furnish its nudity of wall, and its many “coignes of
vantage.” The chief table crossed the hall at one end, and at right
angles with this, four long tables stretched through the apartment. The
Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress sat in state at the head, the former
wearing his glittering collar and jewel, as well as his robes, with the
city mace, sword, and other splendid insignia displayed before him. The
Archbishop, with the Bishops, were seated on his right and left, dressed
in their silk gowns and cassocks, in which costume all the clergy
present were attired. The ladies made a very superb appearance, and I
should suppose the whole company numbered about two hundred persons. The
display of plate, and the general show of splendour, was sumptuous, in
all respects, answering to one’s ideas of a Lord Mayor’s feast. An
old-fashioned civic custom, moreover, was observed with a certain degree
of punctilio, which, while highly becoming, was yet to me highly
amusing, and made me feel, all the time, as if I were dining with the
great Whittington himself, especially when his Lordship sent me a glass,
and invited me to the high honour of drinking with him. The mayor of
such a metropolis is, indeed, for the time, a right worshipful
personage, and in the then incumbent I saw before me a most pleasing
representative of the magistracy of the greatest capital of Christendom.
He is attended with a degree of state quite worthy of a sovereign. It
was odd, I must own, to see his chaplain come forward, in the style
described by the cynical Macaulay, and, after saying grace, retire. So,
too, the presence of his post-boy, in flaming jacket and short-clothes,
and glittering cap, with many other servants, in showy and old-fashioned
liveries, gave an antique appearance to the magnificence of the scene.
The dinner was served with like attention to ancient ceremonies, soup,
venison, comfits and all. Before the dessert, instead of finger-glasses,
golden ewers were borne about, filled with rose-water, and thus every
body performed his abstersion most fragrantly. At the head of each table
was then set an enormous golden chalice, with a cover curiously wrought,
the Lord Mayor having a still more magnificent one placed before him.
What next? The toast-master appeared behind his lordship’s chair, and
began—“My Lord Archbishop of Canterbury, my Lord Bishop of London”—and
so on through the roll of Bishops—“my Lords, Ladies and gentlemen! the
Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress greet you in a loving cup, and give you a
hearty welcome.” The Mayor and Mayoress then rose, and taking the loving
cup in hand, she uncovered it for him, with a graceful courtesy, to
which he returned a bow, and then drank, wiped the chalice with his
napkin, allowed it to be covered, and then sat down, while the lady,
turning to the Archbishop, who rose accordingly, repeated the ceremony,
save that he uncovered the cup, and it was her turn to taste the
draught. Thus the cup went round. It was my duty to begin the rite at
the table at which I sat, and happily I received the kindest
instructions beforehand from my partner, so that I did my duty well
enough for a novice: but a more beautiful ceremony, as the pairs
successively rose and sat, along the splendid room, I never beheld. I
thought of Vortigern and Rowena: but the origin of the custom is said to
have been even before the days—
When they carved at the meal
In their gloves of steel,
And drank the red wine thro’ the helmet barr’d;
and when, as one lifted his arm to drink, it was deemed a necessary
precaution that one should stand up to guard him from a fifth-rib. With
less ceremony, the custom still obtains in the halls of Oxford; but
where the ladies take a part in it, it is certainly a most graceful
embellishment of feasting.
Instead of the usual grace after meat, a party of male and female
singers appeared at the foot of the hall, and reverently sang a little
hymn, all the company rising. His Lordship then informed the company
that “on occasion of receiving his friends at the Mansion-house, it was
his privilege to dispense with all rules save those which governed the
ancient entertainments of the city of London, one of which enabled him
to request the ladies to remain at the table, and to hope for the
continued honour of their company during the evening.” After this
velvety preface, he pronounced the first toast, with a similar softness,
and then the toast-master shouted—“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, the
Lord Mayor has given _the Queen_.” All rose, and drank loyally, and then
came “God save the Queen,” which was heartily sung. “Please to charge
your glasses for the next toast,” was the perpetual cry of the
toast-master for the next hour, and always the toast was announced with
like formality, the speeches and the music, that followed, being all
that could be desired. The venerable Archbishop, whose wig gave him a
reverend air of the last century, was peculiarly happy in replying to
the usual compliments to their right reverend lordships, who all stood
while he spoke in their name. The Bishop of Winchester, his younger
brother, who wore his jewel as prelate of the order of the Garter, made
a very fine appearance. The Bishop of Oxford also wore his decoration as
chancellor of that order; and I observed that, on such occasions, he
always wore it with the rosette face displayed, while, in divine
service, over his Episcopal costume, the other face was exhibited; and
very appropriately, as it consists of a pearl ground, with a simple
cross, as in an armorial shield. A trifling fact! and yet where one is
closely observing the peculiarities of a Church, thus intimately working
in with all the civil and social institutions of a mighty empire, the
man is a fool who would not be willing to note it. It is with a view to
a just delineation of these workings, as they are, that I often refer to
incidents, of little account in themselves. This dinner at the
Mansion-house was especially noteworthy, as contrasted with the spirit
of a civic banquet in our own great towns; and I must own, that if it be
desirable that the genius of Christianity should interpenetrate, and
transfuse all the forms of civilized life, the contrast is not in our
favour.
The entertainment concluded at a comparatively early hour; and then I
drove to another, at the residence of the estimable Miss Burdett Coutts,
in Piccadilly. Here, among other celebrated men, in the most brilliant
party I ever saw, I first met Lord Nelson; and yet again next morning, I
met him, before breakfast, attending the daily service at Curzon chapel.
The week passed delightfully, in frequent social festivities; and I
cannot but particularize a pleasant breakfast party at Mr. Beresford
Hope’s—and one of those admirably contrived ones, at Sir Robert
Inglis’, in which everybody is so sure to meet with everybody and every
thing that is agreeable. On another occasion, at his table, I sat next
to Lord Glenelg, and ventured to engage him in conversation on the
subject of the hymns of his brother, the late Sir Robert Grant, which
are so prominent in our Church Collection, alike for their scholarly and
refined taste, and their devotional fervor. He seemed pleased to learn
of the value set upon them in America; and soon after, on returning to
my lodgings, I found upon my table, as a present from his lordship, a
beautiful copy of his brother’s poems, which I shall always highly
value.
During the week, I went up to Eton—the place of places, which I had
longed to see, and where I was now invited to visit an enthusiastic
Etonian. This excursion involved, of course, a visit to Windsor, whose
imperial towers so magnificently over-shadow the nest of the choicest
progeny of England. Never did I receive such ideas of the moral grandeur
of the British Constitution, as comprehending Church, State and Society,
as, when, from the fields of Eton College, I surveyed the unparalleled
abode of the British sovereign; and then, from the terrace of the
castle, looked back upon that nursery of British youth; its studious
halls, its venerable chapel, its ample fields for sport, and the crystal
waters of the Thames, flowing between; fit emblem of joyous youth,
passing on to the burthen of the world and the ocean of eternity.
When Gray looked from that terrace, over the same scene, and conceived
his incomparable Ode, he said all that one ought to say, and I will
attempt no more. One question, however, which he could only ask, it is
reserved for us to answer.
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm thy glassy wave, &c.?
Among the boys whom he then saw running and swimming, and driving hoop
and playing cricket, in the old familiar scene, was he who afterwards
conquered Napoleon. I saw the name of Wellesley, with those of Fox and
others as celebrated, carved in the college oak. There, too, were the
busts of Hammond and Pearson, and of Gray himself. The famous men of
Eton seemed to be around me in legions. Who could not catch manliness
and might amid such associations? All day I loitered about those meads,
and towards evening went upon the Thames with a merry party, to see a
juvenile boat race, in the Oxford fashion. Oh, the sport of those happy
boys! One boat swamped, but the little fellows swam lustily to shore,
and ran home laughing. It was the fragrant hay-time. Every
prospect—every breeze was pleasing. As the boats hurried by, and those
patrician lads pulled away at their oars, like day-labourers, I saw how
the mind and muscles are alike developed at Eton. How can the body be
feeble, that is reared with such lusty exercise: how can the mind but
conceive high thoughts, that pursues its very sports with “those antique
towers” on one hand, and that stupendous castle, lifting its gigantic
bulk, and stretching its majestic walls, upon the other? The boys look
upon the right, and there sages, patriots, heroes, priests and princes
have been bred: they turn to the left, and there their Sovereign lives
in august retirement; her imperial banner waves above the keep; and
beneath that solemn chapel sleeps the Royal Martyr, and the dust of
mighty kings, whose names are the material of history.
I made the usual circuit of the castle; but with the details which every
guide-book furnishes, I would not fatigue my readers. For the mere show
of royal furniture, my mind could find little room; and mere
State-apartments, as such, were even a distasteful sight. But the noble
architecture, and unrivalled site of the castle; its histories, and the
charm which association gives to every tower and window, and to the
whole scene with which it fills the eye—these are the sublime elements
with which Windsor inspires the soul, and impregns the imagination. _Hoc
fecit Wykeham_—is the inscription one catches, deep cut in the wall of
one of the towers: an _equivoque_ which the ambitious architect is said
to have interpreted, as implying that _the work was the making of him_,
when asked by his royal patron how he dared to claim the castle as a
creation, and turn it into a memorial of himself. But who can
appropriate Windsor? The humble poet, by a single song, has taken its
terrace to himself; and every stone, and every timber, might bear some
appropriate and speaking legend. I thought chiefly of Charles the First.
How he loved this castle! How he would have adorned it, and what a home
of worth and genius he would have made it, had he not fallen on evil
times! That truly English heart beat warmly here, a few weeks before it
ceased to beat forever; and along this esplanade was borne his bleeding
body, (on which fell the symbolic snow of a passing cloud,) to its last
sublime repose. “So went the white king to his rest,” says a quaint
historian: and when, at Evening Prayer in St. George’s chapel, I
reflected that his solemn relics were underneath, I felt a reviving
affection for his memory, almost like that of personal love. The dying
sunbeams gilded the carvings of the sanctuary and the banners of the
knights; I sat in one of the stalls near the altar, and observed near me
the motto—_cœlum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt_. When at
length the anthem swelled through the gorgeous chapel—_Awake up my
glory_—I could not but respond, inwardly, that it was meet that the
glory of God should be thus perpetually uplifted in the palace of a
Sovereign, whom he has so magnified in the earth. And to which of her
Sovereigns does England owe it, that she is not now either a cracked
Commonwealth, without God and without government, or else an iron
despotism, in the grasp of successful usurper? He who sleeps under that
chapel said that he died “a martyr for the people:” and so he did. On
the principle by which Macaulay attributes the liberties of England to
her Cromwells, we might attribute salvation to Judas and Pontius Pilate.
In the twilight I returned to Eton, and went and mused in the chapel,
after searching out the slab that covers Sir Henry Wotton. Then to one
of the _Dames’_ houses, (a tasteful abode,) where several oppidans were
domiciled, with whom I attended family prayers. These oppidans are the
_day-scholars_ of Eton: having no rooms in the college, and sharing none
of its funds. They are the greater part of the Etonians, the sons of
gentlemen and of the nobility, who, of course, do not require the
scholarships. After a sweet sleep, interrupted by hearing the clock
strike and the chimes playing at Windsor, I rose to another delightful
day, and soon after breakfast attended the service in the chapel. Five
hundred and fifty boys were here gathered as worshippers. The service
was an hour long, it being the Anniversary of the Queen’s Accession.
Yet, for the whole time, did those youths maintain the decorum of
gentlemen, and worship with the fervor of Christians. This reverence in
worship is said to have greatly increased during late years among the
Eton boys, many of whom are communicants. It speaks well for their
homes, as well as for their college. What promise for the future of the
Empire!
In short, the boys of Eton seem to study well, to play well, to fare
well, to sleep well, to pray well. It was a holiday, and I went into the
grounds to see the cricket match: I visited the library, the boys’
rooms, and the halls. It is a literal fact, that they still revere their
“Henry’s holy shade;” for pictures of “the meek usurper,” are to be
found in almost every chamber. Last of all, I went to the river with an
Etonian friend, stripped, and plunged in. I could not leave that spot
without a swim; and accordingly, after a struggle with father Thames, I
emerged, and soon after left Eton in a glow of genial warmth and lively
enthusiasm. If “manners maketh man,” Eton cannot fail to be the nursery
of great men, so long as it is true to itself and to the Church of God.
My next visit was to Hampton Court, for which I found a day quite
insufficient, when reduced to the actual hours which one is permitted to
devote to the survey of such a wilderness of natural and artificial
charms, and to the enjoyment of their historical interest. In the
grounds of the palace, and in Bushy Park, I found a formal grandeur, so
entirely becoming a past age, and so unusual in this, that it impressed
me with feelings of melancholy the most profound. Those avenues of
chestnuts and thorns, those massive colonnades and dreamy vistas, wear a
desolate and dreary aspect of by-gone glory, in view of which my spirits
could not rise. They seemed only a fit haunt for airy echoes, repeating
an eternal _Where?_ Nothing later than the days of Queen Anne seems to
belong to the spot. You pass from scenes in which you cannot but imagine
Pope conceiving, for the first time, his “Rape of the Lock,” into a more
trim and formal spot, where William of Orange seems likely to appear
before you, with Bishop Burnet buzzing about him, and a Dutch guard
following in the rear. Then again, James the Second, with the Pope’s
nuncio at his elbow, and a coarse mistress flaunting at his side, might
seem to promise an immediate apparition; when once more the scene
changes, and the brutal Cromwell is the only character who can be
imagined in the forlorn area, with a file of musketeers in the
back-ground, descried through a shadowy archway. Here is a lordly
chamber where the meditative Charles may be conceived as startled by the
echo of their tread; and here another, where he embraces, for the last
time, his beloved children. There, at last, is Wolsey’s Hall, and here
one seems to behold old Blue-beard leading forth Anne Boleyn to a dance.
It still retains its ancient appearance, and is hung with mouldering
tapestry and faded banners, although its gilding and colors have been
lately renewed. The ancient devices of the Tudors are seen here and
there, in windows and tracery, and the cardinal’s hat of the proud
churchman, who projected the splendors of the place, still survives, in
glass, whose brittle beauty has thus proved less perishable than his
worldly glory.
Yet let no one suppose the magnificence of Hampton Court to consist in
its architecture. One half is the mere copy of St. James’s, and the
other is the stupid novelty of Dutch William. The whole together, with
its parks, and with its history, is what one feels and admires. I am not
sure but Royal Jamie, with his Bishops and his Puritans on either side
was as often before me, when traversing the pile, as anything else: and
for him and his Conference the place seems fit enough, having something
of Holyrood about it, and something Scholastic, or collegiate, also.
Queen Victoria should give it to the Church, as a college for the poor,
and so add dignity to her benevolence, which has already turned it into
a show for the darling “lower classes.” I honour the Queen for this
condescension to the people; and yet, as I followed troops of John
Gilpins through the old apartments, and observed their inanimate stare,
and booby admiration, it did strike me that a nobler and a larger
benefit might be conferred upon them, in a less incongruous way. Perhaps
the happiest thought would be to make it for the clergy just what
Chelsea is to the army, and Greenwich to the naval service.
Among the interminable pictures of these apartments, some most precious,
and some execrable, the original Cartoons of Rafaelle of course arrest
the most serious and reverent attention. There hang those bits of paper,
slightly colored, but distinctly crayoned and chalked, on which his
immortal genius exhausted its finest inspiration! Who knows not, by
heart, the Lame Man at the Beautiful Gate, St. Paul Preaching at Athens,
the Sacrifice at Lystra, and Elymas struck blind? These are the
autographs of those sublime works; and the Vatican itself may envy their
possession to Hampton Court. But, beyond their antiquarian interest, I
must own they have not for me the attractiveness of a beautiful copy: it
would be a fine thing to own Shakspeare’s autograph of Hamlet, but who
would not rather read and study the play in the clear type and paper of
a modern edition? Next to the Cartoons, I found most interesting the old
historic canvas of Holbein, with its paste-board figures; and after
that, the intensely significant series, which may be picked out, from
room to room, as displaying the spirit of English reigns. Look at that
glorious Van Dyck! How the rich romance of the Cavaliers invests its
mellow lights and melancholy shades! There the voluptuous age of the
Restoration swims before the eye in the dreamy coloring of Lely. See how
old Kneller hardens every tint, and stiffens every line, as he essays to
paint for William of Orange! Then comes Reynolds, throwing a hectic
brilliancy over the starched figures and unyielding features of the
Georgian age; and last of all West, with his brick-dust Hanoverians,
surrendering art itself a prisoner to the intolerable prose and
incurable beer-drinking of his times! Here and there I found a Lawrence,
instinct with the spirit of a happy revival, and giving promise of
better things to come. The collections are also rich in specimens of
Flemish and Italian art; and warmed me with a desire hardly felt before
in England, to be off on a contemplated tour of the Continent.
On my way to Winchester, I was led to stop for an hour at Basing-stoke,
by an idle curiosity to behold a place in which some of my forefathers
once resided. It gave me an opportunity of visiting the tomb of the
elder Warton, close by the altar of the parish Church. From Winchester I
went by post, in the twilight, over downs, and through dingles and
dales, to Hursley, where I entered the Church, and found Mr. Keble and
his curate celebrating Evening Prayers. I had brought with me, from
Hampton Court, a feeling of overpowering depression, and having seen the
admired poet in circumstances so fitting to his character as a Christian
priest, I was about to turn away, and drive back to Winchester, when
another impulse suddenly prevailed, and I ventured to present myself. I
had a preconception of his piety and unworldliness, that affected me
with awe, and embarrassed me, in approaching him; nor did anything in
his cordiality divest him of something that restrained me in his
presence. Nothing could be more simple and unaffected than his manner;
and yet, in a word, it was as if George Herbert had risen from his
grave, and were talking with me, in a familiar way. He would not hear of
my departure, but instantly made me his guest; and thenceforth I was in
a dream, from the time that I first saw him till I bade him farewell.
Nothing could be more kind than his hospitality; nothing more delightful
than the vision on which I opened my eyes, in the morning, and looked
out on his Church, and the little hamlet contiguous. Hursley is a true
poet’s home. It is as secluded as can well be imagined. England might
ring with alarms, and Hursley would not hear it: and it seems all the
more lonely, when one learns that Richard Cromwell retired hither, from
a throne, and after waxing old in a quiet contentment, died here in
peace, and now sleeps beneath the tower of the Church, just under the
vicar’s windows, with all the cousinry of the Cromwells around him. A
wise fool was Richard! But to think of a Cromwell lying still, in such a
Church as Mr. Keble has made this of Hursley! It has been lately
rebuilt, from the foundation, all but the tower, and its symbolism and
decoration are very rich, though far from being overdone. The taste that
has enshrined itself in “the Christian Year,” has here taken shape in
stones. One of the windows, the gift of friends, is an epitome of that
delightful work, and displays the chief festivals, beginning with the
Circumcision. In the minute adornment of the corbels, my attention was
called to a beautiful idea, which runs through the whole series, and
which is said to furnish the hint for interpreting the ornaments of
older churches. Entering the south porch, you observe the sculptured
heads of the reigning sovereign and the present bishop of the See; and
then, at the door, those of St. Helena, and St. Augustine of Canterbury.
At the chancel arch are St. Peter and St. Paul; and over the altar,
beneath the arch of the East window, are the figures of our Lord, and of
His Virgin Mother. Thus, from the present, the mind is carried on to the
past; and from pastors and rulers, through doctors and apostles, up to
Christ. The north porch exhibits the heads of Ken and Andrewes, of
Wykeham and Fox; while the corbels of the exterior arch of the east
window, bear those of Ambrose and Athanasius. The tower of the Church is
finished by a graceful spire, and the gilded cock surmounts the pile—
“——to tell
How, when Apostles ceased to pray, they fell.”
A grateful feeling comes over me at every remembrance of my visit to
Hursley, for I felt all the time like an intruder, receiving privileges
beyond my power to repay, while my kind entertainer seemed as one who
desires no such tribute to his genius as mere tourists are wont to
afford. An inferior character might be flattered to find himself sought
out, of every traveller; but all the heartfelt kindness of the vicar of
Hursley was no disguise, to me, of a spirit that loves the Paradise of a
blessed seclusion from the world, and which nothing but benevolence can
prompt to welcome the stranger, that desires to see him face to face,
and to thank him for the soothing influences and inspiring harmonies of
his perennial songs.
At Winchester, there are three great sights, besides several of minor
interest: the hospital of St. Cross, the college of Wykeham, and the
cathedral. Let me first speak of the school, a sort of Eton, but less
aristocratic, and certainly far less attractive in its site and
circumstances. It glories, nevertheless, in its founder, and in his
fellow-architect, Waynflete, and in many eminent names in Church and
State. Enough that it bred Bishop Ken; and that his initials may be
found, cut with his boyish hand, in the stone of the cloisters. In the
chapel, what chiefly arrests the eye, is the gorgeous window, with its
genealogy of the Saviour, displayed in the richest colours and designs.
The library, within the area of the cloisters, was an ancient chantry,
designed for masses for the dead in the surrounding graves: and, I
confess, I wish it were still a chapel, in which prayers might be
offered, and the dead in Christ commemorated, although not as aforetime.
Without particularly describing the hall, or refectory, I must not omit
to mention the time-honoured _Hircocervus_, or picture of “the
Trusty-servant,” which hangs near the kitchen, and which emblematically
sets forth those virtues in domestics, of which we Americans know
nothing. It is a figure, part man, part porker, part deer, and part
donkey; with a padlock on his mouth, and various other symbols in his
hands and about his person, the whole signifying a most valuable
character. This for the college menials; but the boys also are made to
remember by it, that, for a time, “they differ nothing from a servant,
though they be lords of all.” In the lofty school-room, they are further
taught, in symbols, the Medo-Persian character of the laws of the
school. A mitre and crosier are displayed as the rewards of scholarship
and fidelity; an ink-horn and a sword intimate that a blotting-out and
cutting-off await the incorrigible; while a scourge suggests the only
remedy, known to the school, short of the final penalty. Under these
salutary emblems, the Wykeham boys of many generations have read and
pondered the legends, which explain them severally, thus—_Aut
disce—aut discede—manet sors tertia cædi!_ Tables of the college laws
are set up with like publicity, after the manner of the Decemvirs. It is
evident that the Wykehamists are in no danger of forgetting that
“manners maketh men.”
Through a pleasant meadow, and by a clear stream, I made my way to the
hospital of St. Cross, founded by Bishop De Blois seven hundred years
ago: yet, in conformity with the will of that prelate, when I knocked at
the porter’s lodge, I was duly presented with a slice of bread and a
horn of wholesome beer, which I was just then quite thankful to receive,
and to despatch in honour of his memory. To such a dole is everybody
entitled who applies in the same manner: and a larger charity is, at
stated times, distributed at the same place, to the neighbouring poor.
The establishment to which I was admitted, after such an introduction,
is one of the most interesting objects I ever saw. Its old courts and
halls reminded me not a little of Haddon; a pair of leathern pitchers
were shown me, as vessels which once held ale for Cardinal Beaufort: but
its chapel is indeed a relic of surpassing interest. It is built in
cathedral form, and combines both Saxon and Norman details, with the
first formal step towards the pointed arch. From the intersection of two
of its circular arches, according to some, sprang Salisbury
cathedral—the whole idea, from crypt to the vanishing point of its
spire. And from this last remnant of conventual life, why should not the
true idea of such establishments be in a similar manner revived
throughout Christendom? Here live some dozen poor and aged men, who else
would have no home on this side heaven. Each wears a flowing garment of
black, with a silver cross shining on its cape: they call one another
brother; they study to be quiet; prayer is their only business; and
order and neatness reign throughout the holy place. No one can visit St.
Cross without praying that the Church of England may be blessed with
hundreds more of just such homes for aged poverty, and that wherever
wealth abounds in her communion, it may be devoted to erecting them.