_St. Augustine’s Chapel—St. Martin’s—Addison—Thompson._
In the chapel of St. Augustine we kept St. Peter’s Day, and commemorated
the benefactors of the college. It was a cheering spectacle to behold
around me those missionary youths, devoted to the noblest warfare which
can enlist the energies of man, and destined, as I could not but pray,
to see and to achieve great things in the extension of the kingdom of
Immanuel upon earth. And how inspiring to them the associations with
which they are surrounded! On the very spot which they inhabit, the
Missionary Augustine preached the Gospel to their ancestors, when
Anglo-Saxons were but pagans, and now they go forth from it, as from the
very centre of Christian civilization, to bear the precious seed to the
uttermost isles of the sea, so that what England is, Australia may
become.
In the afternoon, I preached in old St. Martin’s, which probably is the
very oldest Church in England. Its name of St. Martin is probably a
second designation, given to it when it was fitted up for the use of
good Queen Bertha, before the conversion of her husband, Ethelbert. Such
a Church is spoken of by Bede, as having been built before the Romans
left the island; and as Roman bricks, of unquestionable antiquity, are a
large portion of the material of this Church, it is on this and other
accounts generally dated from A. D. 187, and supposed to have been
originally erected by some good Cornelius of the Roman army. Be that as
it may, Queen Bertha’s tomb is in the choir to this day: and the ancient
font is with good reason supposed to be that in which Ethelbert was
baptized. What hoary antiquity, what venerable and august dignity invest
this sacred place! It is of humble dimensions, and both without and
within bears the marks of its primitive character, in its plainness and
simplicity, but it is kept in good repair, and regarded with the
affectionate reverence which is so becoming. The yews and the ivy which
adorn it with their shade, are, apparently, almost as old as the Church:
and the church-yard gently slopes from the church-door to the road-side,
giving a beautiful elevation to the old pile, and presenting a highly
picturesque effect to the passer-by.
But how shall I describe the cathedral, whose huge bulk everywhere lifts
itself into sight above this curious and reverend old town? The
metropolis of the Anglo-Catholic communion is graced by an
Archiepiscopal church, every way worthy of the majestic relations which
it bears to Christendom. There it stands, like the Church of England
itself, worthy to be “the joy of the whole earth,” and not more
magnificent and imposing, than harmoniously chastened throughout with an
air of sovereign splendour subdued by solemn propriety. There is about
it, as compared with other English cathedrals, a sort of aggregated
look, strikingly significant of the massively conglomerate body which
the Anglican Church has already become, and something of which has
characterized her from the beginning. The double cross, in form of which
the cathedral is built, very appropriately, in view of its primacy,
heightens this effect: and the result is, that its prestige is well
sustained, when the pilgrim sees before him the head church of his
religion. A blessing on its ancient towers, and may it more and more
become “dear for its reputation through the world.”
On Sunday and the day following, when I attended service in the
cathedral, I had the best opportunities for surveying it throughout,
under the attentive guidance of Lord Charles Thynne and the estimable
Archdeacon Harrison. I am glad to say that the service here was very
effectively celebrated, though a larger force would have been more
worthy of the place and of the work. The organ is quite concealed in the
triforia, and its sound is somewhat peculiar as it issues from those
high cells, in perfect unison with “the full-voiced choir below.” As to
the effect of the cathedral upon the eye, I remember no interior, save
that of Milan, which can compare with it for impressiveness; and if,
from general effect, we descend to details, this cathedral is vastly the
more solemn and magnificent of the twain. Its altar, for example, is one
of the most lofty in Christendom, the choir rising from the nave by a
long flight of steps, and the altar being elevated, in like manner, very
high above the level of the choir. The several ascents and various
levels of the Church, instead of too much breaking its whole, seem to
add an air of vastness and sublimity to the general design. But when one
surveys, now the nave, and looks upwards into the tower, and along the
far-sweeping vaultings, and now the choir and its intersecting arches
and vistas; or descends to that varied undercroft, with its chapels and
sepulchres, and twisted columns, and French inscriptions; or mounts to
make circuit of the tombs and chapels, pausing within “Becket’s Crown”
to admire its unique and anomalous elegance; and then makes his way
through the cloisters into the chapter-house, and finally escapes into
outer day, and looks up again at the vast pile, through which he has
been wondering and wandering so long—the impression left upon the mind
is one of astonishment, like that of the Queen of Sheba, when “there was
no more spirit in her.” I had seen the spot where Becket fell beneath
the stout blows of his murderers—the marble floor which received his
blood still exhibiting a speaking memorial of the tragedy, in a small
mutilation which was made in sawing out the bloody block, to be carried
to Rome as a relic; I had seen the remains of the same prelate’s shrine,
where his sovereign submitted to flagellation, where princes presented
so many costly oblations, and which once glittered with such gorgeous
wealth before the eye of Erasmus; I had seen the stone-stairs leading up
to his sepulchre, worn away by the thousands of devotees, among which I
reckoned those of certain Canterburie pilgrims, accompanied by Dan
Chaucer himself; I had seen the tomb of the Black Prince, with his
lion-like effigy—over which dangles his surcoat, a thing of tatters,
but which no one can behold without emotion, when he reflects that it
once encased the beating heart and chivalrous breast of that gallant
Plantagenet. I had beheld the recumbent effigies of the usurping
Lancaster, Henry IV., and his Queen, Joan of Navarre; and I had surveyed
the memorial works, or sepulchres, of the primates of all England, from
Lanfranc to Chichely; but after all, I bore away no remembrance more
pleasing than that of the monumental window and tomb of the late
Archbishop Howley, commemorating, as they do, a most worthy prelate, and
marking the great epoch of a revival of theology, and of practical
faith, throughout the Church of England. This tomb is surmounted by the
recumbent effigy of the Bishop, and presents a most graceful specimen of
reviving art. He is habited in his sacred vestments, to which the
addition of the cope gives completeness and effect; and as the
Archbishop wore that vestment at the coronation of Queen Victoria, there
was reality to justify its use. In short, I was glad to see that even in
the cathedral of Canterbury, and without servility in copying the
antique, our own age can erect a monument, and surmount it with a
figure, literally true to its original, which is worthy of the place as
a work of art; and which, if it is more modest than the mediæval
sepulchres which surround it, is still in perfect keeping with all their
splendour; while it tells the simple story of a primacy the most
brilliant in its contemporary achievements of any that has ever blessed
the Church of England, since the days of Augustine. It will be forever
celebrated as distinguished by the rapid extension of Anglican
Catholicity in all quarters of the globe, and by a holy effort for the
restoration of unity to the Church of God.
The city of Canterbury abounds in quaint nooks and corners—old gates,
and fragments of wall;—and, in particular, is marked by an ancient
mound, or artificial hill, called the _Dane John_, which is much
reverenced as a work of the aboriginal Britons. Some will have it that
it was raised against the Danes, as its name appears to import; but it
strikes me as something of religious origin, and not unlike those
mysterious _tumuli_ which abound in our own Western country. If truly
British, indeed, who knows but some primeval _Madoc_ built both it and
them?
It was my fortune to hear in the cathedral, as an anthem, that _chef
d’œuvre_ of Sternhold and Hopkins, which must have been written in some
fit of poetical inspiration, vouchsafed to them for those two verses
only—
“The Lord descended from above
And bowed the heavens high,” &c.
The extract has been set to noble music, but who was the composer I
cannot say. After a visit to the Deanery, and a gratifying survey of its
long gallery of ecclesiastical portraits, I was shown into the
surrounding gardens, and conducted to almost every part of the cathedral
precincts, and finally dismissed by an ancient gate, which, owing to
some tradition, retains the romantic name of Queen Bertha’s postern. But
let me not conclude my remembrances of Canterbury without a warm tribute
to the delightful society to which I was introduced at St. Augustine’s,
and among the dignitaries of the cathedral. The esteemed Warden, who
received me as his guest, and who so kindly entertained me, deserves my
most grateful acknowledgments.
On the morning of my departure, rising very early, and accompanied by a
friend, to whom I had become warmly attached since my arrival in
England, I drove out, through pleasant Kentish scenery, to the parsonage
of Borne, which is from Canterbury three miles distant, according to
Izaak Walton; following the example of the many, who once did so, to see
the face of the venerable and judicious Richard Hooker, though I could
only hope to see his tomb, and the church in which he ministered. I
shall never forget that morning drive, nor the reverence with which, at
length, I beheld Hooker’s own church, and the parsonage in which he so
loved to see God’s blessings spring out of the earth about his door. I
entered the holy place, and there was his bust, coloured by the old
artist to represent life: and looking at it, through my hands, so as to
shut out the surrounding parts of the monument, I was verily able to
conceive that I beheld good Master Hooker in his pulpit, about to speak.
It imprinted a live idea of the man upon my memory, which I would not
lose for many costlier things. The place called up many of those graphic
anecdotes which his quaint biographer has chronicled concerning him; but
I was especially reminded of that scene between the Puritan intruders
and the old parish clerk, who, when they sat down on joint stools to
partake their communion, said, as he resigned the keys with a heavy
heart, “Take the keys and lock me out, for all men will say Master
Hooker was a good man and a good scholar, and I am sure it was not used
to be thus in his days.” I could not but remember, moreover, that within
those walls Hooker had passed many a lonely Ember-day, locked up for
fasting and prayer; and ‘who knows’ said I to myself, ‘but we are even
now realizing the blessed answers to those intercessions for the Church,
in all parts of the world?’
On my way up to London, I paid a visit at S—— Park, the residence of a
young country squire, who had lately taken his degrees at Cambridge,
married, and settled here on his hereditary estate. The life of an
English gentleman, of this degree, has always struck me, as nearly the
most perfect realization of sublunary bliss, which the world affords.
Nor did the glimpse which I thus gained of such a life, in the least
disappoint me. The young mistress of the mansion, in the momentary
absence of her husband, kindly made herself my guide, over a portion of
the estate, in search of him. No ceremony—and no attempt to appear
fine. In a moment she was ready, and as she led me hither and thither,
she was not above taking me to her poultry-yard, and her dairy, and
showing me her amateur farming. We entered a fine field of standing
corn—the golden wheat of Kent—and as we passed through the narrow
foot-path, my fair guide informed me ’twas their way to parish church,
and just then I descried the church itself, at a little distance, in its
modest beauty, at the foot of a hill. A lark flew up, and she pointed at
the little fellow, as he mounted the skies, and poured out his song,
reminding me of a remark I had made to her, that we have no sky-larks in
America. She entered a pretty farm-house, where a decent-looking family
were just taking their tea: they treated her as they would have done a
descended angel, while she, in the prettiest tones, inquired whether
they “had seen their Master thereabout,” and so, thanking them,
departed. We soon encountered the young “Master,” who gave me a kind
welcome, and showed me the further attractions of the estate. Then home,
and soon to dinner, and after that, a pleasant summer evening sauntering
about the doors and under the old trees of the park, where the rooks
kept up a great cawing in consequence of our intrusion. In many
respects, the place did not differ much from many American residences
that I have visited; but in others it did, and chiefly in the entire
ease and nature with which everybody, from the squire to his humblest
menial, nay, even the house-dog, fitted his place, and seemed to enjoy
it. We have no servants in America, though we have slaves. All
white-complexioned people scorn to obey. Hence the misery and the
stiffness of housekeeping, and the deplorable multiplication of those
vulgar establishments called “fashionable hotels.” Let me add,
concerning this happy abode of unostentatious English comfort and
refinement, that what especially pleased me was the devout appearance of
the household servants at family prayers. They all joined in the
devotions, and each had a Prayer-book in hand, which appeared to be a
cherished companion of their daily routine. Happy the household where
all the inmates, from the least to the greatest, have one Lord, one
faith, and one baptism.
The ancient castle and the cathedral of Rochester were taken in my way
up to London; but, interesting as they are in themselves, I might fail
to make them attractive, in a description so vague as I should be
obliged to give them, and so, with a passing tribute to their merits, as
religious and feudal monuments of the past, I must again return to
London.
In frequent visits to Westminster Abbey, I had become familiar with
every portion of it, including cloisters, chapter-house, and library. In
the library, by the politeness of one of the dignitaries, I was favoured
with a minute inspection of some of its most precious historical
deposites. Such were the dies from which were struck the coins of Henry
Fourth, and many succeeding sovereigns, rude works of art, depending
upon blows of the hammer to produce their impression. In the
chapter-house is the original Domesday-book, and many other historical
documents. I was shown the instrument by which Edward I. was authorized,
by twenty-three competitors, to settle the Crown of Scotland upon one of
their number. The seal of Bruce’s father is very distinctly visible.
Here are Henry VII.’s very minute instructions to his commissioners to
examine the personal claims to his choice, of a young princess, whom he
proposed to marry, with their not over-gallant reports. A superbly
decorated instrument, dated at Amiens, August 18, 1527, and signed by
Henry VIII., and Francis, was also a great curiosity. It has a golden
seal, with the legend—_Plurima servantur fœdere, cuncta fide_. Among
other parchments, one signed by Mary, as Queen of France, with her
husband Francis II., was interesting. I saw also the stamp, used by
Henry VIII., to affix his signature to parchments, in his dying days; a
prayer-book of Queen Elizabeth’s; and a fine old Missal of 1380, from
which some zealous reformer had erased the service for Becket’s-day, and
several prayers for the Pope.
But all these were inferior in interest to the tombs and chapels of the
Abbey. Many of the monuments are in wretched taste, and a general
banishment to the cloisters, of those which are not in keeping with the
architecture of the church, would be a great improvement. The residue
should then be repaired and decorated. But even as they are, they
present a most interesting epitome of history, and a most affecting
commentary on the vanity of worldly grandeur and greatness. With Henry
VII.’s chapel, and its royal sepulchres, I was greatly impressed, and
the near neighbourhood of the tombs of Mary and Elizabeth, struck me as
forcibly as if I had never heard of the strange proximity, in which
they, who once could scarcely live in the same world, here mingle their
dust with the same span of earth, and side by side, await the judgment.
Oh, what pomp of sepulture attests the universal reign of death in this
ancient temple! Here, in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, stands the
throne, which has been the glory and the shame of so many who lie
sleeping around it. The rough old stone, inserted in its base, is the
Scottish palladium; and the old monkish fable makes it one of the stones
of Jacob’s pillow, at Bethel. The monuments of Edward III., and Queen
Philippa, and that of Henry V., commanded my especial attention. Above
the latter, are preserved the saddle, shield, and helmet, which he used
at Agincourt. The body of Edward I. rests beneath a plain altar-tomb. In
the centre of the chapel is the shrine of St. Edward: and it is as near
as possible to these relics of their predecessors, that English
sovereigns are still anointed and crowned in the adjoining choir. At
such times, if these silent tombs are startled by the shouts of the
multitude that cry—_Long live the King_, how much more forcibly they
must speak to him, in their mute expressiveness, reminding him of his
nothingness, and calling him to prepare for a long home in the dust!
To the reflections of Addison and of Irving, in this consecrated pile, I
shall not attempt to add my own. The sweet interpreter of the moral of
this wonderful place, sleeps appropriately under its tutelage, and few
are the graves within it, which more affect a kindred heart. To see the
grave of Addison, which was lately marked by a small white stone, in the
pavement of one of the chapels, suggests a kind of postscript to his own
musings; and, as I stood, thoughtfully, over it, I seemed to hear his
voice, out of the sepulchre, confirming his living words. I thought,
moreover, how much has been done, since his day, to add to the interest
of the holy place—even in addition to his own grave! How many tombs I
saw, which he did not—his own among them! Addison knew nothing of
Johnson’s sepulchre; stood not by the rival relics of Pitt and Fox;
thrilled not as he approached the resting-place of a Wolfe, or a
Wilberforce; and little dreamed how much more than the shrine of Kings,
his own last bed would impress a stranger from America, in the
nineteenth century. How transcendant the enchantment with which genius
invests its possessor, where it is paired with virtue! With what
refreshment I often turned from the royal tombs to the Poets’ Corner;
and there, with what reverence did I turn most frequently to the
monuments of those whose high artistic inspiration was characterized by
the pure spirit of love to God. It was pleasing to behold the memorials
of Chaucer, and of “rare Ben Jonson;” but with a fonder veneration I
paused more frequently before that of the stainless Spenser. I thought
of his words concerning “the laurel”—and how fittingly they apply to
this Abbey, as the—
“——Meed of mighty conquerors
And poets sage.”
With a different sort of pleasure I surveyed the wonders of the British
Museum. There, a scholar can find all he needs in the way of literary
food, freely bestowed. I do not admire the new buildings; but the
Institution is worthy of a great nation, and reflects eternal honour on
George the Third. Will the Smithsonian, at Washington, ever rival it?
Its newest and its oldest treasures, were the great stones from Nineveh,
so cleverly described by the _Quarterly_. With what emotions I surveyed
those illegible hieroglyphics; and scraped acquaintance with those
“placid grinning kings, twanging their jolly bows over their rident
horses, wounding those good-humoured enemies, who tumble gaily off the
towers, or drown, smiling in the dimpling waters, amidst the ἀνήριθμον
γέλασμα of fish.”
The English, though a proud people, are really very moderate in their
appreciation of the manifold charms of their incomparable isle. When I
surveyed the river-view from Richmond-hill, I recalled the glorious
waters of my own dear country, and many a darling scene which is
imperishably stamped in my mind’s eye, and asked myself whether, indeed,
this was more delightful to the sight than those. I was slow to admit
anything inferior in the scenery of the Hudson and Susquehanna, when I
compared them with so diminutive a stream as the Thames, and I even
reproved myself for bringing them into parallel; but over and over again
was I forced to allow, that “earth has not anything to show more fair,”
than the rich luxuriance of the panorama which I then surveyed. A river
whose banks are old historic fields, and whose placid surface reflects,
from league to league of its progress, the towers of palaces and of
churches which, for centuries, have been hallowed by ennobling and holy
associations; which flows by the favourite haunts of genius, or winds
among the antique halls of consecrated learning; and which, after
sweeping beneath the gigantic arches, domes and temples of a vast
metropolis, gives itself to the burthen of fleets and navies, and bears
them magnificently forth to the ocean; such an object must necessarily
be one of the highest interest to any one capable of appreciating the
mentally beautiful and sublime; but when natural glories invest the same
objects with a thousand independent attractions, who need be ashamed of
owning an overpowering enthusiasm in the actual survey, and something
scarcely less thrilling in the recollection! When I afterward looked
towards Rome, and descried the dome of St. Peter’s from Tivoli, I felt,
as Gray has somewhere observed, that nothing but the intellect is
delighted there, while on Richmond-hill, the soul and the sense alike
are ravished with the view, and fail to conceive anything more
satisfying of its kind. If ever, which God forbid, the barbarian should
overrun this scene, and make ruins of its surrounding villas and
churches, the contemplative visitor of a future generation will still
linger on those heights with far more of complicated and harmonious
satisfaction than can possibly refresh the eye that wanders over the
dreary Campagna. Yet how few of the great and fashionable in England
have ever allowed themselves to appreciate the glories of their own
scenery after this sort!
But whether on those lofty banks, or down by the river-side, or wherever
I wandered amid their green retreats, I owned to myself one sad
disappointment. I repeated over and over again those verses, learned in
school-days, in which Collins bewails the poet of the Seasons:—
“Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is dressed,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit rest.”
Where was “yonder grave,” and where “yon whitening spire?” It was with
some chagrin that I followed my directions into the dullest haunts of
the town, and into a modernized church, in an unromantic street, and
there soliloquized, over a miserable brass plate, amid a pile of
pew-lumber—“In such a grave your Druid lies!” It is amusing, on a few
square inches of worthless metal, as entirely devoid of artificial value
as it is of intrinsic worth, to observe the vanity with which a man of
rank has contrived to write his own name in as large letters as those of
the poet’s. “The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man, and so
sweet a poet, should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his
interment, &c.”—so reads the inscription. The Earl has at least the
merit of having exactly expressed the character of his tribute, for it
_denotes_ the place, and that’s all. One would think a Scottish nobleman
might have spared a few guineas in doing something better for the grave
of his countryman.
A glimpse of Twickenham, and of the spire of the church where Pope is
entombed, were all that I allowed myself, in honour of a bard whose
faultless verse is no excuse for the frequent indecency and paganism of
its sentiment. It is a curious and revolting fact that his skull has
been purloined, and now belongs to a phrenologist. I caught a railway
view of Dachet-lane, famous for Falstaff’s experiences in the
buck-basket, and so once more to Windsor! I stopped, over a train, to
enjoy one more walk on the castle terrace, and one more look at Eton
college, and then hastened on to Oxford, to attend the Commemoration. I
accepted the hospitalities of my friends of Magdalen, who lodged me in
the rooms formerly occupied by the Bishop of Exeter.
During my visit I did not fail to see the celebrated Dr. Pusey, who
struck me as a younger man than he is generally supposed to be. His
appearance indicates nothing eccentric or ascetic, and his manners are
those of a gentleman at home in the society of his fellow-men. He has
friends and foes at Oxford, as well as elsewhere, but all seem to regard
him with respect as a man of piety and learning. To me he was less a
lion, however, because I have always regarded the application of his
name to the great movement of 1833, as a mere instance of popular
caprice. His share in it has been less than that of many others; neither
the credit of its good, nor the disgrace of its evil, belongs to him in
any superlative degree. Its progress has left him, with others, far in
the rear of its existing interests; and what has been stigmatized as
_Puseyism_ is perhaps, when fairly distinguished from the extravagances
of a few fanatics and sophists, the English phase of a world-wide return
to principles that were the life of Christianity, long before Popery was
in existence, and ages before it had bred Protestantism by its violent
reaction.