[Illustration: THE LORD BISHOP OF RIPON.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
It was a long, cold journey to Ripon. When I reached the Palace the time
of five o'clock tea had long since passed--it only wanted half an hour
to the first dinner bell. But a cup of deliciously warming tea was ready
for me. This kindly thoughtfulness seemed to break down every barrier
calculated to make one feel anything but perfectly "at home." Then, when
the Bishop returned from a long day's work, the impressions gathered
over the refreshing cup with his wife became a reality. It may at once
be said that there is very little difference between him who preaches
from the pulpit and him who sits down and talks with you in his own
house.
The Bishop of Ripon is acknowledged to be one of the most eloquent
preachers of the day. He is as gentle in his manner as he is convincing
in his utterances. He is utterly free from anything suggestive of an
over-estimated "I." He seems always to speak from his heart, and
continually with the single thought of never giving a hurtful word. In
truth, he is as impressive in the home as in the cathedral. Yet, when he
is at home, there are his children, young and old. He is heart and soul
with them in their play. Little Beatrice--whose pet name is Daisy--and
five-year-old Douglas--familiarly known as Chappie--already know that
there are merry games to be enjoyed in which their father watches over
both.
We spent the evening after dinner in going through the house. The
Palace, Ripon, is a semi-modern building, having been built some fifty
years ago. The first stone was laid on Monday, 1st October, 1838, by
Bishop Longley, and its correct entire cost was L14,059 1s. 8d. Its
rooms are large and handsome. The entrance-hall abounds in flowers and
ferns, and contains at least two valuable canvases. One is a life-size
picture by Grant of Archbishop Longley--the first Bishop--the other, by
Watts, is that of Bishop Bickersteth, the second Bishop. Both of these
are heirlooms of the See of Ripon. Just beyond is a second hall, where
is the great oak staircase leading to the rooms above. This corner is
rich in etchings and engravings. Paul Sandby, R.A., is well represented
with his "Windsor"; works by Aumonier, Fred Slocombe, Charles Murray,
David Law, Joseph Knight, Meissonier, and a striking etching of
Napoleon, by Ruet, are noticeable. There are many quaint old views of
"Ripon Minster," a Soudanese sword which one of the Bishop's sons
brought from Egypt, whilst on a table is a very clever model of the
Bishop's father's church at Liverpool. It was made by an invalid lady,
and her ingenious fingers have handled the cardboard and gum most
artistically.
[Illustration: THE ENTRANCE HALL.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
Immediately opposite to the hall is the Holden Library. A picture of the
Rev. J. Holden, who not only founded it, but left a small endowment to
keep it in good order, hangs over the fireplace. Here the clergy of the
diocese may come and consult the volumes. It is a fine room, and its
outlook upon the rising ground of the garden is pleasantness itself.
[Illustration: THE INNER HALL.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
We were just leaving the library when a soft pit-pat, pit-pat at our
heels caused me to turn. The quiet, disturbing footfalls were made by a
beautiful blue Angora cat, which was accompanied by George, the pug, who
had made his presence known at the dinner table. Both Sultan, the cat,
and George proved to be the most interesting of animals imaginable.
Sultan's kittens are sold for charitable purposes and a little litter
realized L10 for the Wakefield Bishopric Fund. George used to worry the
sheep--he was the death of seven. He saw a St. Bernard causing trouble
amongst the universal providers of lamb and mutton, and he could not
resist the temptation to imitate his bigger brother. But he has long
since been forgiven.
[Illustration: THE HOLDEN LIBRARY.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
"Sultan and George," said the Bishop, "were the greatest of rivals when
they first came here--now they are the best of friends. One bitter cold
night George set up a terrible barking. I left my room, went
downstairs--nothing apparently the matter. But George would not let me
go. He barked and ran to the door. Then I heard a low, piteous cry. I
opened the door, and in walked Sultan from the snow-covered step,
perished with cold!"
I gave George a pat on the head--I fancy he knew what we had been
talking about. Away he cantered with Sultan, and we went into the
drawing-room. There are two such apartments at the Palace, each leading
into the other. Both look out upon the grounds, the trees in which now
bear the golden-tinted reminders of autumn upon their branches, and the
grass is plentifully strewn with the chestnuts blown down by the wind.
The smaller of the two rooms abounds with dainty water-colours--light,
bright and tiny paintings of sea-side views and flowers--numberless
portraits, and photographic reminiscences of travel. The curiosity,
however, of this apartment is a replica of the bust of Dante at Naples.
The Bishop of Ripon is a very earnest and enthusiastic student of the
great philosophical poet. Pictures of Dante, indeed, abound throughout
the house, and in the study--to be visited later--are to be found many
rare and valuable editions of him who conceived the never-to-be-excelled
"Inferno," including Lord Vernon's, the Landino editions of 1481, and
the Nidobeato of 1478.
[Illustration: "GEORGE" AND "SULTAN."
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
The large drawing-room affords a distant and picturesque view of the
great square tower of the cathedral. The Palace is really on a level
with it, so great is the rise in the ground. This apartment, like all
the rooms indeed, is richly perfumed by flowers; exquisite china and
silver nick-nacks are everywhere, and the Bishop evidently does not
believe in the untold troubles associated with the presence of peacocks'
feathers. There are several fans made from the "unlucky" stalks. One
table seems given up to the congregating of tiny china animals--the most
diminutive of pigs, kangaroos, rabbits, dogs, and ducks. The pictures
are mostly marine subjects: two fine dockyard scenes are by Charles
Dixon. Dixon--whose father, it will be remembered, painted "The Pride
of Battery B"--was only sixteen when he painted them. A grand skin from
a St. Bernard has its story to tell. The Bishop had two such dogs. His
lordship changed his coachman and groom. Together with his family the
Bishop left the Palace for a time, and the dog pined away. His skin now
lies by the window. Alas! his more callous wife is still alive in the
stable. Two of its offspring are in the safe keeping of a well-known
clergyman, who, being in doubt as to what name he should bestow upon his
newly-purchased pups, out of gratitude for the invigorating influence of
the Harrogate waters determined to call them Sulphur and Magnesia!
The dining-room need be of goodly size--frequently some thirty or forty
people sit down at its tables. There are many fine oil-paintings here.
Two bear the initials "A. S." "A. S." was Arthur Stocks. When the Bishop
of Ripon was vicar of St. James's, Holloway, Arthur Stocks was a
superintendent in the Sunday school. He used to travel backwards and
forwards twice every Sabbath to the school, and when he died he left a
wish that his quondam vicar should have one of his works. It has the
best place in the room, though there are several valuable works of the
Titian School, and a striking canvas, believed to be a Mazzoni, which
was picked up in a general shop in a western town.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
A long corridor runs level with the dining-room outside. Its walls are
lined with pictures and photographs, all reviving pleasant memories. A
dual picture of Mr. and Mrs. H. M. Stanley is autographed by nearly all
who signed the register on the occasion of their marriage--such names as
W. E. Gladstone, Sir Frederick Leighton, and the Baroness
Burdett-Coutts. It was the Bishop of Ripon who officiated at the
ceremony--probably the first and only Bishop who has conducted a wedding
service the whole of which was "received" into phonographs placed in the
Abbey. There are excellent portraits of Gerald Wellesley, Dean of
Windsor; whilst Archbishop Longley--who surely occupied more
ecclesiastical Sees than any previous prelate--has signed himself as
Ripon, Durham, York, and Canterbury to a striking portrait of himself.
Henry Irving is not forgotten; but perhaps the most striking sketch is
that of General Gordon--just by the side of a map of Khartoum. The
inscription reads: "General C. E. Gordon, from an hour's sketch I made
of him on 21st December, 1882.--Ed. Clifford." Mr. Clifford was the only
English artist the Hero of Khartoum ever sat to. Above the frame is a
_fac-simile_ of his last message: "I am quite happy, thank God; and,
like Lawrence, I have _tried_ to do my duty."
A photographic group of his lordship's working men's committee hangs
near--their willing and kindly work is much valued. The Bishop is a
purely practical prelate. This working men's committee has been formed
with the aid of the clergy in Leeds. Leeds has some fifty parishes, and
five working men are chosen out of each--giving a body of 250 strong.
They help chiefly at special services such as those held on Good
Fridays.
As we were discussing the peculiar advantages of soliciting the services
of the working man to meet his brother workman, the distant sound of
the chapel organ was heard. Its echo came very sweetly through the
corridor. It was the time of evening service. The dim glow from the
lamps lent an air of solemnity to the little chapel, and when the
service was over we remained behind for a few moments. I could just
distinguish the altar steps of white, black and red--the Dante
combination of colours--and the peaceful light from the moon streamed
through the stained glass windows on to the oaken stalls, showing
faintly the outlines of apostles and saints. One of these was put up in
1852, in remembrance of the Rev. Charles Dodgson, examining chaplain to
Bishop Longley and the father of the author of "Alice in Wonderland." It
was here in the morning that I witnessed the gathering together of
twenty or thirty clerics, who were licensed to new curacies and livings.
We left the chapel, and ascending the great oaken staircase entered the
study. This is essentially a room for work. The book-shelves contain
some thousands of volumes--the only photo about the place is that of a
family group. In one corner of the room stands a tin box, in which are
three volumes of autographs, and the pages of these valuable volumes may
be gone through, and the autographs of nearly all the Archbishops and
Bishops of England for the last 200 years may be seen, including Juxon,
Bishop of London, who attended Charles I. on the scaffold. A book
containing photographs of the churches in the diocese reveals that
Bishop Longley--the first Bishop of Ripon--was of a distinctly practical
character. He started this ingenious index to the state of his churches.
As soon as any alteration is made in a place of worship it is
photographed. This shows the Bishop at a glance exactly how his churches
are progressing from an architectural point of view.
[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
The Bishop sat down, and it was whilst listening to much of the deepest
interest regarding his work that I noticed the Prelate more closely. He
is a trifle below the medium height, slightly whiskered, with iron-grey
hair curled all about his head and brow. His face is intensely kind, and
his every word and action suggestive of true and unaffected humility.
Indeed, it is this very humility that has prevented his work becoming
wider known. He is remarkably simple in his dress. Bishops, we know,
have opportunity of seeing the sad, and indeed the seamy side of
clerical life. If a man is a Bishop, he can still remain a brother. The
putting on of the lawn lessens not his love for, and interest in, the
young curate who only wears the linen surplice. He lives a quiet,
homely, simple life, though always hospitable to others. How could he do
otherwise, when he hears of cases like that of the poor cleric with a
wife and eight children, who, after preaching his Sunday sermon, returns
home to a meal of oatmeal gruel, and that meal would have been wanting
had not a kindly farmer given it to his shepherd?
The Bishop of Ripon has a diocese extending over a million acres and
numbering a million people. Between seventy and a hundred changes take
place every year. He travels much. He estimates he covers between 10,000
and 12,000 miles every year.
We spoke about preaching. On this subject the Bishop believes that each
man must use the method best suited to himself. There have been
effective preachers both of written and extempore sermons. The question
of memory came up, and the Bishop said: "I learnt something of this
from the biography of Chancellor Bird, of Lincoln, who said, 'The memory
is very sensitive of distrust; if you trust it, it seldom fails you.' I
have tested this more than once. On one occasion I was preaching at St.
Paul's. When I got into the pulpit I thought I could not remember the
number of the verse of my text. I knew the chapter, and opened my Bible
there, but could not see it. People began to move about, but I hazarded
a guess, and fortunately it was right."
I learnt yet another example of this whilst in Ripon, though not from
the Bishop. He was preaching at Bradford one Sunday morning two years
ago. One of his many dramatic movements knocked his book from the pulpit
cushion. It was just in the middle of the sermon. He never so much as
glanced at the fallen volume, and my informant said he had never heard
the Bishop more eloquent.
"You ask me if I advocate the preaching of other men's sermons," said
his lordship, repeating my question. "There is one thing about it. It
behoves every man to advocate the simplest honesty. If any cleric
exchange his sermon with another, let him say from the pulpit, 'I'm
going to give you So-and-so's sermon to-day.'"
We talked on, being joined by Mr. Harry Carpenter--the Bishop's eldest
son--who frankly declared himself to be a happy, recently-called
barrister, and just now lecturing for the University extension movement.
We said "Good-night."
When I reached my room I sat down by the fire and remembered that the
Bishop was fond of his joke. He has a name--William Boyd Carpenter--the
latter of which is capable of a very merry conversion. The story is told
how, before being appointed to the See of Ripon, he once married a young
couple with the assurance that he was not only a Carpenter but a Joiner.
Only a few months ago he was about to lay the foundation stone of a new
vicarage. The architect handed him the trowel, etc., inviting him to
become "an operative mason for a few moments."
[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
"I would rather remain a working Carpenter," was the witty reply.
I stirred my fire, and amongst the flickering embers I could almost see
the faces of a happy pair at Christ Church, Lancaster Gate. The Bishop
was officiating. The charming though nervous bride experienced some
difficulty in taking off her glove at the right moment to receive the
wedding ring.
And a very soft whisper of kindly assurance came from the clergyman's
lips.
"Don't be flurried," he said, _sotto voce_; "there's plenty of time, and
they are bound to wait for us!"
When I awoke in the morning I looked from my window. It was very early,
and the sun was lighting up the tower of Ripon Cathedral as it rose
above the tree tops. It was a fair scene. You could count a dozen
rabbits hopping about on the grassy lawn leading down to the tennis
court, and sitting nervously for a few moments, and glancing anxiously
this way, that way, and every way in expectancy of a disturbing
footstep. And as I looked out upon the beautiful scene of autumn-tinted
trees and grassy mounds, with just a last rose of summer here and there,
I could almost distinguish those little Arabs from the by-streets and
slums of Leeds. They were running about in tatters, shouting themselves
hoarse with delight, and turning unlimited catharine-wheels in their
happy delirium. I could hear them distinctly clapping their hands; I
could not hear the patter of their feet, though--the poor little fellows
were bootless. Then they ceased their play for a moment. Somebody was
beckoning to them to follow him. He quietly led them beneath the
branches of the very biggest tree in the garden. He pointed his finger
upwards. It was a very short sermon--a sermon from a text set up by
Nature which the tiniest mite amongst this tattered congregation could
understand.
[Illustration: THE CORRIDOR.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]
"Little children," he said, "I want you to grow up like this tree--with
nothing between you and Heaven, nothing save the branches which you must
shoot out--branches of help to others."
And the children went to play again.
Then I spied from my window a fine piece of level ground. The railway
men were playing cricket there. How they seemed to enjoy the huge
plum-puddings after throwing down their bats and leaving the wickets!
The toothsome puddings had been contributed by the ladies of the city,
and made hot and steaming in the great copper of the Palace kitchen.
After breakfast, the Bishop and I went for a long walk around the
grounds--there are sixty or seventy acres of land here, and a small home
farm. The Palace--which I now saw properly for the first time--is built
of stone, the monotony of which is relieved by many a climbing
nasturtium and cluster of ivy leaves. The chapel stands at right angles
to the house. It was added later, and is the gift of the late Archbishop
Vernon Harcourt to the See of Ripon.
There is rather a curious thing about some of the decorative work on the
exterior of the Palace. An episcopal diary started by Bishop Longley,
and preserved at the Palace, mentions that amongst many carved "heads"
on the chapel was that of a Bishop. A strong gust of wind blew it down:
all the others, which were decidedly unclerical, remained! But the most
amusing entry in this book refers to two figures of angels at the
south-east and south-west corners. Seeing that the Queen and Prince
Consort had only been married a few months when the Palace was built,
instructions were given to imitate in the carving of the angels the
features of Her Majesty and her Consort. But the stone-mason, being
possessed of a certain prosaic mind, was not content with the attempt to
give the features of the Prince, but represented him as an angel arrayed
in a field-marshal's uniform and wearing the ribbon of the Garter! Of
course it was altered at once.
We had walked on and stood still for a moment at the end of a long
avenue carpeted with fallen leaves.
"Now you can see Norton Conyers! It is about four miles from here," said
the Bishop. "Charlotte Bronte once had a holiday engagement as governess
there, and a room is still shown where it is said the mad woman was
confined whose story the gifted authoress told in the pages of 'Jane
Eyre.'"
Then as we wended our way across to the farm, down paths lined with
hedgerows, and through many wicket gates, we paused at times as the
Bishop looked back upon his quiet though useful life.
The Right Rev. William Boyd Carpenter was born at Liverpool on March
26th, 1841. His father was vicar of St. Michael's there for twenty-seven
years. His first schooling was obtained under Dr. Dawson Turner, at the
Royal Institution School, and amongst famous boys of the Royal
Institution were Bishop Lightfoot, Canon Duckworth, Professor Warr, and
Mr. Crosse.
"Dr. Dawson Turner," said the Bishop, "was a sort of cosmopolitan--he
tried to teach a little of everything. He was a good-hearted man. He
loved to give threepenny-pieces to the boys who pleased him. I well
remember one day during prayers--we were all assembled in the big
hall--and the head master was reading them. Suddenly the door opened and
a big boy, very nervous and conscience-stricken, who thought he ought to
be at prayers, crept quietly in. Dr. Turner looked up and said, in the
same tone as he was reading, 'Go out--go out! Somebody put that idiot
out!' Then he went on with his reading exactly in the same voice.
"The man I learned most from was Albert Glyn, our mathematical
master--one of the best teachers that ever breathed. He would never let
you pass a thing unless you thoroughly understood it. It was he who made
mathematics an interesting and fascinating study to me."
We spoke of the time when the Crimean war broke out, when the Bishop was
full of the boyish ardour of thirteen years of age. His schoolmaster
would not give him a holiday to see the troops going off, but his father
did. It was a sight to be remembered when the troops embarked during the
war. The news was watched for eagerly, and talked over nightly. The
Bishop's family, like so many others, had relatives in the war. Captain
John Boyd, the Bishop's uncle, who was in command of the _Royal George_,
planted the only shot in Cronstadt. Later he lost his life in attempting
to rescue the crew of a small brig off Kingstown harbour. His monument
is in St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin.
At this point of our conversation the Bishop alluded to a well-known
story and epigram.
The story on which the epigram is founded is of two Irishmen, one of
whom challenged the other to a duel. But when the eventful hour arrived
one sat down and wrote that, were it only his honour at stake he would
meet his opponent, but his wife depended on him, so he begged to
decline. The other individual sent a message to say that if honour were
the only consideration he would come, but he had a daughter and
therefore prayed to be excused. So the epigram read:--
Two brave sons of Erin, intent upon slaughter,
Improved on the Hebrew's command:
One honoured his wife and the other his daughter,
That their days might be long in the land.
"This clever epigram," said the Bishop, "is popularly said to have been
written by Flood, but I have always understood that it was written by my
mother's mother."
[Illustration: GENERAL GORDON.
_From a Drawing by E. Clifford._]
That the Bishop's pen is occasionally employed in throwing off these
epigrams is shown by the following. It will be remembered that at the
time of the great storm at Samoa, Captain Kane, with a pluck and
judgment which evoked the applause of the American and German crews in
the harbour, took his vessel out to sea and so saved her. When questions
were asked in Parliament as to what honour would be conferred on Captain
Kane in recognition of his services, the First Lord of the Admiralty
replied "that Kane had only done his duty, and if he had lost his ship
he would have been court-martialled." So the Bishop wrote:--
What shall be done for Kane?
Who brought his vessel safe through wave
With skilful hand and heart as brave:
What shall be done for Kane?
What shall he have? "We solve the knot,"
Cries the First Lord, impartial;
"If Kane had failed, he would have got
Our pickle rod--court-martial."
Then talk no more of praise or gain,
Our English principle is plain:
When storm winds rise to hurricane,
If Kane escape he 'scapes the cane!
[Illustration: THE PRIVATE CHAPEL.
_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]