We spoke, in the last chapter, of St. George’s as the church which the
mayor and corporation always attended. Once, when Mr. Jonas Bold was
Mayor, it happened that Prince William of Gloucester was present. By a
strange coincidence, which somewhat disturbed the seriousness of the
congregation, the preacher for the day took for his text, “Behold, a
greater than Jonas is here.” Both Mayor and Prince, we believe, as well
as the discerning public, fancied that there was something more than
chance in the selection of so very telling and apposite a text. It
reminds us of the Cambridge clergyman, who, when Pitt, Chancellor of the
Exchequer, while yet almost a boy, attended the University Church,
preached from the words, “There is a lad here which hath five barley
loaves and two small fishes; but what are they among so many?”
Some years since the Duke of Wellington, attended by a single
_aide-de-camp_, walked into a Church at Cheltenham. Here there could
have been no design; he was totally unexpected. But, when the text was
announced, out came the startling words, “Now, Naaman, captain of the
host of the king of Syria, was a great man with his master and
honourable, because by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria: he
was also a mighty man in valour, but he was a leper.” This chance shot
evidently told. A grim smile seemed for a moment to gather upon the
features of the “Iron Duke,” as he cast an intelligent look at his
companion, who telegraphed him in return with an equally knowing glance.
They were both particularly attentive to the sermon, in which there were
many hard hits, which might have been made to order, as they seemed to be
as applicable to Duke Arthur as to Duke Naaman.
But it is time that we should speak of the clergymen attached to St.
George’s Church, in the days we are writing of. They were rather a
superior lot. Archdeacon Brooks was one of them, and already looked upon
as a very promising young man. The Rev. T. Blundell was another. He
used to bring out occasionally, in preaching, very odd things in a very
odd manner, and sometimes very original things in a very original manner.
The Rev. Jas. Hamer was another of the preachers at St. George’s, and
very admirable sermons he gave. He was a sedate, grave, serious looking
man, a fair scholar, and had a good place in society. He was a fellow of
Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and, according to the universal
anticipation, would have been its next head, had he lived. But he was
cut off in the prime of his days, when all the toils and difficulties of
his career were surmounted, and, to human judgment,
“The world was all before him, where to choose
His place of rest.”
But here we must make room on our canvas for the portrait, if we can draw
it, of one of the most remarkable men whom Liverpool has ever produced.
We speak of Dr. Frodsham Hodgson, who, in our young days, was also among
the St. George’s preachers. His manner was pompous, and he had a catch
in his voice which may still be traced among Oxford men of the old
school, some having adopted it from admiration, and others having
mimicked it until they could not get rid of it. Never was the truism,
that “a prophet is not a prophet in his own country,” more wonderfully
illustrated than in the case of Dr. Hodgson. Here, in Liverpool, he was
neither known, valued, nor appreciated. He visited chiefly, when amongst
us, with the corporation, and those who met him came away with the
impression that they had spent their time with a very agreeable and
pleasant person, a jovial companion, with great conversational powers,
and, for a book-worm, wonderfully at home on every subject started and
spoken of on every occasion. This was the opinion generally formed of
him, this and nothing more. Our municipal magnificos, while
condescendingly patronising and listening to their chaplain, never seemed
for a moment to feel that Jupiter himself was among them in disguise.
But let us change the scene to the University of Oxford. Ha! who comes
here? “Richard’s himself again.” “The king’s once more at home.” It is
the principal of Brasenose College, the same Dr. Hodgson whom we lately
saw in Liverpool; but, _Quantum mutatis ab illo Hectore_, he is here
another and a different man. He is in the scene of his glory, his
triumphs, and his celebrity, among those who honour, respect, and look up
to him, and who are proud to be the followers of such a leader. He stood
out from among them as one of nature’s true nobility. Magnificent in his
manner and bearing, princely in his tastes, and habits, and notions, and
ideas, a scholar in every sense of the word, thoroughly acquainted with,
at home in, every branch of literature, and familiar with all the
mysteries and workings of the human volume, he was exactly the person to
perform a great part wherever his lot of life had been cast. Accordingly
he was a potentate even among the self-elated potentates of the
University. His will was law. His _sic volo sic jubeo_ was supreme. He
ruled without a rival near the throne. From time to time murmurs were
heard against the autocrat, and the whispering tokens of a coming storm
were frequently perceived. But mind triumphed over matter. He always
contrived to crush the incipient rebellion, and to rise, like another
Antæus, refreshed and strengthened from the struggle. And we may add
here that his ambition was as unbounded as his talents were great and
brilliant. The force of his genius, the power of his tact, and the
extent of his influence were never so remarkably proved as in the
management and clever combinations by which, with the help of Tory tools
subdued to his will, he contrived to return the Whig Lord Grenville, as
Chancellor of the University of Oxford, against Lord Eldon, the most
powerful opponent whom it was possible for Toryism to have selected for
the struggle in those days of its supremacy. The time at last arrived
when Dr. Hodgson was marked for the next elevation to the episcopal
bench, and he was spoken of for either an English bishopric or an Irish
archbishopric. But who can dive into the secrets of to-morrow? At the
moment when to his friends and family it seemed certain that all their
fond hopes and anticipations were about to be realised, he was suddenly
attacked by the fatal illness which brought him to the grave in a few
days. To the end of his life he retained all his influence over the
University, and, when he departed, it was as if Gulliver had been taken
from Lilliput, and the Lilliputians left to themselves. Nothing soaring
above the common place of mediocrity has since shown itself among the
college heads and rulers. When we heard of his death, we exclaimed,
“He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.”
Nor have we since had occasion to recall the exclamation, either with
regard to men in the Church or out of the Church. And we have yet a more
pleasing sight in which to view the character of Dr. Hodgson, namely, as
he was seen in the domestic circle. It was a positive treat to see him,
with all the pomp and pride of the outer world thrown off, in the bosom
of his family. Never was there so kind and affectionate a husband, never
so fond, and tender, and indulgent a father. In his home, surrounded by
those whom he loved, and who loved him, he seemed to forget at once all
things beyond, and to leave behind all the aspirations and longings,
pains and pleasures, sweets and bitters of ambition. You had thought
him, perhaps, a cold and calculating competitor in the race of intriguing
rivals for promotion. You had watched with pleasure his splendid career
at college and in the University. You had admired him as a scholar, been
dazzled by his literary attainments, or struck by his tact and bearing as
a polished and finished courtier, a character on which he laid such
stress that it was a frequent saying with him, that, “in his estimation,
manner was everything, next to religion.” But it was in the enjoyment of
his home, to him not figuratively, but really “home, sweet home,” that
you were at once startled and delighted by seeing him in the best and
most amiable point of view. Here the exquisite nature of the man was
beheld in in all its glory, affectionate, gentle, and earnest, with a
heart overflowing with every kindly feeling and domestic virtue. “The
most loveable man, perhaps,” as some one has written of the poet Moore,
“that ever lived, judging him in the shade of his own home, apart from
the artificial glare of society.” All selfishness was there renounced.
His happiness was in the happiness of those around, and that those
moments, stolen from his active and proud career, were the sweetest and
most delicious of his life it was impossible to doubt. He must, like
every other public man, often and often have been taught the bitter truth
that “all is not gold that glitters.” But, whenever the bubble of
popular applause in which he so delighted was grasped, only to burst in
his hand, whenever the seemingly gorgeous gems of ambition turned out to
be mere trash and tinsel, when they had passed from a dream or a hope
into realities, he could dwell upon his home treasures, which were to him
his greatest “joys for ever,” far more precious to him than the world’s
most approving smiles, and his best and truest consolation if ever it
frowned upon him. We respect and honour the name of Dr. Hodgson, when we
recollect him as the scholar, the gentleman, and the clergyman; but we
love it and fondly dwell upon it when we recall his memory as the husband
and the father. How little was he known and how ill understood in his
native town! and how few amongst us even remember him or his name at all!
And yet Liverpool, and she has been a fruitful parent of worthy children,
never had a son of whom she had more cause to be proud than FRODSHAM
HODGSON. We have but feebly sketched a character which, we trust, some
stronger pen will undertake to delineate in all its fair proportions and
colossal dimensions. Until this is done there will be a gap in biography
which certainly ought to be supplied, and the sooner the better.