_RICHMOND_
But my Pakefield curacy was soon to terminate. Whether it was the cold,
or whether it was the pressure of ministerial interest, which I have
often known to break down young men in the outset of their ministry, or
whether it was the death of my dearest mother, or the three together, I
cannot say; but I had a bad cough, and I went away for a time to my
father’s home to nurse it. I had no idea at the time of leaving
Pakefield, but my kind and valued friend the Rev. J. W. Cunningham,
brother to my Rector, recommended me, without my knowledge, to the curacy
of Richmond, Surrey.
He was a true friend to me and to my family. He was a very different man
to his brother; he had taken a high degree at Cambridge, and he was a
polished scholar, one of the best writers of the English language that I
ever met with, an admirable friend as a scholarly critic to a young man
entering the ministry. I am much indebted to his advice, and only wish I
had followed it more carefully. It was his doing that introduced me to
the Rev. W. Gandy, Vicar of Kingston and Richmond; and through him the
curacy was proposed to me.
I must say that it was a desperate experiment on his part, for there were
peculiar circumstances connected with the position, and I had never run
alone in the ministry, but always had the friendship and counsel of my
beloved Rector.
The position of the parish was this. There were four parishes lying
together along the banks of the Thames—Kingston, Petersham, Richmond,
Kew—all in the gift of King’s College, Cambridge. It had been thought
desirable that there should be only two Vicars instead of four, and
therefore it had been arranged to group them, two and two. Of course the
most natural arrangement would have been to have put together the small
parish of Petersham and the large parish of Kingston to which it was
adjacent, and the small parish of Kew and the large parish of Richmond
which also adjoined. But in those days there used to be a good deal of
jobbery, and, for some reason or other which I never could explain, it
had been decided to unite together the two large parishes, Kingston and
Richmond, skipping over Petersham; and the two small parishes, Petersham
and Kew, skipping over Richmond; so that the Rev. Mr. Gandy was Vicar of
Kingston and Richmond, while another gentleman was Vicar of the other two
smaller ones.
Mr. Gandy was a man altogether incompetent to have the charge. He was a
most interesting man, and a deep student of Scripture—a man of heavenly
mind, one in fact who seemed so occupied with heavenly views that he was
unfitted for the practical business of this lower world. Mr. Simeon once
said of him, “All of us are going stumping along on the surface of earth,
but Mr. Gandy rises right into Heaven!”
It may easily be imagined that he found his great double charge far too
much for him, so Mr. Cunningham advised him practically to give up
Richmond into the hands of some trustworthy curate, who should find his
own assistant, and undertake the entire responsibility of the work. This
was the charge to which I was called by the providence of God in those
early days of my ministry. I have just said it was a desperate
experiment, and looking back to that time I can see plenty of mistakes,
and I learn from my own experience that it is a possible thing to mistake
the irritation produced by our own blunders for opposition to the Gospel
which we preach; a man may be true to the Gospel, but he may not
infrequently make very great mistakes in his mode of putting it forth.
In looking back to those days I am thankful to believe that I went to
Richmond true to my Master, and I am profoundly thankful for the help
given me; but I should make a great mistake if I were to lead anybody to
suppose that, in my earnest desire to exalt my Saviour, I never did
anything to irritate. At one time I had great difficulty with one of the
churchwardens, which led to a considerable correspondence. I kept that
correspondence carefully, and after ten years I looked it over. That
revision taught me a great lesson, for I found that in the heat of the
controversy I had written very differently to what I should have done in
the calmer review of ten years afterwards. That was one of the lessons I
learnt at Richmond.
That which I look back upon with the greatest thankfulness is a
confirmation by my Richmond experience of the great lesson I learnt at
Pakefield respecting the results to be expected from the ministry. Mr.
Gandy had been Vicar for some twenty-five years, during which time he had
appointed a series of curates, the first of whom was the Rev. Stephen
Langston, who resigned the curacy about twenty years before I was
appointed. But when I set to work in the parish, the first thing that
met my observation was a body of Christian men and women who owed their
conversion, through God, to Mr. Langston’s ministry. There they were
living consistent lives and most truly glorifying God, in some cases
under sharp opposition, and the twenty years that had elapsed since Mr.
Langston left only tended to confirm their faith and establish their
character.
Both in Pakefield and Richmond, therefore, it was my unspeakable
privilege to see the effects produced by the faithful ministry of the
Word of God. And yet the two cases were entirely different. Mr.
Cunningham was an admirable pastor, but not a particularly interesting
preacher; Mr. Langston was a poor pastor, but the grandest preacher I
ever heard. I have heard many able men preach many excellent sermons,
but there was a richness, a fulness, a power about Mr. Langston’s such as
I never met with in any other to whom I have listened. The two
instruments, therefore, were entirely different, but God made use of them
both. They were both blessed by Him; and it taught me the lesson that I
must be prepared to meet with great differences of administration, but in
the midst of those differences it is our privilege to look for a
blessing. God did not withhold from Mr. Cunningham His blessing, because
he had not the preaching power of Mr. Langston; nor did He withhold His
blessing from Mr. Langston, because he had not the pastoral zeal of Mr.
Cunningham.
The lesson taught me was not the only blessing bestowed upon me through
the friendship of those excellent people. I had in it the enormous
advantage of the ripened experience and tried wisdom of some of the most
excellent Christian people living. Never can I forget the friendship of
Sir Henry and Lady Baker, of Dr. Julius and of Mrs. Delafosse, to whose
loving sympathy and Christian counsel I used continually to resort; and
amongst the humbler classes there was Mrs. Abbott, a grand old Christian
who had loved the Lord before she heard the preaching of the Gospel, and
the moulding of whose faith was drawn from the Prayer-Book. She often
used to express to me her astonishment that when people were brought to
Christ it did not make them love their Prayer-Book more.
And down a row of cottages at the bottom of Water Lane there lived a
blind woman named Mrs. Woodrow, whom I shall ever regard as one of the
best of my many friends. I had been preaching one day on the importance
of praying for the ministry, and when visiting her a few days afterwards
I said, “I’m sure you pray for me.” “Indeed I do,” she replied with
great emphasis, “morning, noon, and night.” She spoke with such
earnestness that I could not refrain from asking her what she prayed for,
when she said, “They tell me you’re a very young man, so I pray that you
may be kept from the sins of young men.” How much do I owe to the
prayers of that blind widow!
In addition to these advantages I enjoyed the intimate friendship of my
beloved and honoured friend the Rev. James Hough, founder of the
Tinnevelly Mission. After his return from India he had settled in the
incumbency of Ham, and I never can forget his first visit to me. I had
taken a lodging just beyond the bridge, and I had scarcely finished my
breakfast on the first day after my arrival when the venerable man
entered the room. He spoke very kindly to me, and before he would say a
word upon any other subject, he told me that many Christian friends had
been praying that the right appointment might be made, and afterwards for
me when they heard that I was appointed, and that he had come on the
first possible occasion to commend me solemnly to the Lord. He then fell
on his knees and pleaded for me before God that I might have grace and
wisdom for the difficult post to which I had been called. His subsequent
intercourse with me was in harmony with that beginning. His house was
always open to me, and whenever I wanted counsel I always used to go to
him, as I never failed to find in him one who seemed to bring his wisdom
fresh from the throne of grace.
With these advantages I set to work. I wonder at the grace of God that
kept me from making more blunders than I did; for having had no
experience I had not the slightest fear of difficulty. Things in those
days were very different to what they are now. Ritualism had not then
been invented, nor had that loose vague system now so popular under the
name of Undenominationalism.
Among those who professed to be Churchmen there were only two
classes—those whose Churchmanship consisted in maintaining things as they
were, who were living for the world; who, if they cared for their own
souls, were utterly unconcerned about the souls of others; who showed not
the slightest sympathy in any Christian object, and who seemed to
consider that anything that disturbed them must of necessity be
unorthodox. To avoid such disturbance one of those gentlemen stumped out
of church every Sunday morning as I went up to the pulpit, and others
used to take refuge in the chapel of Archdeacon Cambridge on the other
side of the river.
On the other hand, there was a body of people, drawn from all classes of
society, who “had passed from death unto life,” who had been quickened by
the Spirit of God, and who were taking their stand nobly on the side of
their Saviour. Thus there was a much wider line of demarcation between
the converted and the unconverted than we meet with in modern times, and
a clergyman’s work was simpler than it is now, inasmuch as there was much
less to entangle and confuse the application of the message to individual
souls.
But there was in some cases sharp opposition. It may seem extraordinary
to some that at the visitation of the late Bishop of Winchester, {77}
then Archdeacon of Surrey, I was publicly presented before the Archdeacon
by one of the churchwardens for having been guilty of giving a Wednesday
evening lecture in the infant schoolroom! What was more extraordinary
still was that, when I was called up before the Archdeacon and all the
clergy to answer for my fault, the Archdeacon said with great solemnity
that it was an important matter, and he must refer it to the Bishop. And
what is more wonderful still, in consequence of that reference I had to
give up the lecture.
The Bishop was in a great difficulty. He thoroughly approved of such
lectures, and had advocated them in a charge recently delivered, but he
believed that they were not strictly in accordance with the Act of
Uniformity, so that he felt it impossible to support me, while at the
same time he did not at all wish to have the responsibility of stopping
me. This led to a somewhat painful correspondence with that excellent
man, and after full consultation with my dear friend Mr. Hough, I thought
it best to give up the lecture, stating that I did so in obedience to the
Bishop’s wish. One blessed result of that whole transaction was that a
bill was carried through Parliament distinctly legalising all such
services.
But of all those whom God raised up as counsellors and friends, there was
no one to be compared to the beloved one whom God gave me to be my loving
wife, {78} on July 10th, 1839. She combined the ability of her father
with the devotedness of her mother, and it is perfectly impossible for me
to say what she was to me in the parish, in her home, and our own private
intercourse. One thing only I would especially mention respecting her,
viz. that it was to her that I owe what I believe to be the most useful
characteristic of my ministry—I am thankful to say that from the very
beginning I always quoted a great deal of Scripture in my sermons, but I
used to do so interweaving those texts with my own composition. But she
taught me the use of proof texts—she said that my preaching was not so
profitable as that of the Rev. H. H. Beamish, to which she had been
accustomed, and instead of merely quoting a passage, he used to give a
chapter and verse, and allow the people time to look it out in their
Bibles.
As he was constantly engaged in the exposition of the Word of God, and
laid a solid foundation of the truth taught, I was thoroughly convinced
of the wisdom of her words; and for the last fifty years I have
systematically acted on her advice, so that, although I never heard Mr.
Beamish in my life, I have always regarded his ministry as the model on
which my own has been formed; and when I have seen the blessing which the
exposition of Scripture has been made to very many souls, I have never
ceased to thank God for that dear young wife who did not shrink from
pointing out to her husband his defects.
It was during the period of my Richmond curacy that I had the high honour
of being invited by my dear friend the Rev. Henry Venn to become a member
of the Committee of Correspondence of the Church Missionary Society. I
think it was in the year 1844. I am not quite sure respecting the date,
but I have no hesitation in expressing my thankfulness to our Heavenly
Father for the wisdom, the fidelity, for the true missionary spirit with
which the affairs of that great society have been conducted during the
many years of my intimate acquaintance with its business and its leaders.
My love for it when I was at Richmond once brought me into a serious
difficulty with the late Bishop Wilberforce, and taught me his marvellous
power in controlling the minds of men. He was at that time Archdeacon of
Surrey, and as such he proposed a scheme for doing away with all especial
interest in particular societies, and to raise one general fund to be
laid “at the feet of the Apostles,” and divided by them according to
their discretion.
We did not exactly know who the Apostles were. We thought that probably
they were to be the Archdeacon and the Bishop, as they were to be the
distributors.
Against this scheme the friends of the Church Missionary Society rose as
one man. We held a meeting to consider what should be done. We decided
that we would all attend the Archdeacon’s meeting in order to oppose the
plan, and engaged conveyances accordingly. When the morning came I had
such a headache as I never remember to have suffered from, either before
or since, and I was utterly unable to leave my bed, so off drove the
others, full of zeal and holy courage. But what was my astonishment when
they returned in the afternoon, and one of the most faithful, earnest,
and trustworthy of the whole party came to tell me the result. He said
they had found the plan was not so objectionable as they had thought, and
at length reluctantly acknowledged that the Archdeacon had not allowed
them to separate till he had made every one of them, dear old Mr. Hough
included, sign a paper agreeing to the introduction into their own
parishes of the Archdeacon’s scheme.
So then I stood alone, and thanked God for the headache which had saved
me from the fascination.
But Richmond was the parish that was doing more than any other in the
rural deanery for Missions, and it was most important for the success of
the plan that Richmond should be included. So nothing was left undone
that could induce me to join the others. But I was still free, as all my
other brethren began to wish they were, and I stuck to my point. I was
invited in the most cordial manner for a visit, with my dearest wife,
first to Alvenstoke and then to Farnham Castle. I was addressed in the
language of warm affection, not only towards myself, but to my beloved
mother. But I considered that by the Providence of God I had been
preserved from the fascinating power, and that my only wisdom was to keep
clear of it when I was free; so we went on independently till the next
visitation of the Bishop. My heart was filled with thankfulness when I
heard him announce in his charge that he had advised his beloved friend,
the Archdeacon, to give up his scheme.
This curacy I held for more than nine years, for seven of which I had the
unspeakable help of my dearly beloved, most faithful, and most able wife.
During the time I had different livings offered to me, and I believe
that, if I had regarded my worldly interest, I should have accepted some
of them. But I had a great conviction of the importance of my position,
and strong belief that the Lord had called me to it. So we both agreed
that we were most likely to do His will if we persevered in the curacy.
* * * * *
To Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham at Lowestoft Rectory:—
“RICHMOND, _February_ 19_th_, 1837.
“MY DEAREST UNCLE AND AUNT,—You will be glad to hear that I am myself
very comfortable. Of course there is a large field of enjoyment from
which I am wholly excluded; I am no longer a social being. In all
the difficulties and responsibilities of this place I am absolutely
alone. I have no dear Rector within two miles, whom I may consult
over all my affairs and discouragements. I compare myself to a ship
finding its way alone across the ocean, and sometimes well-buffeted
in the journey. I certainly miss friendship wonderfully, and I
cannot say how greatly I long after you all. My heart this day has
been full of tenderness to Pakefield. I think of that attentive
congregation at Kirkley, of the prayer-meeting, of the schoolroom
lecture, and of that close and, I trust, heavenly bond of union which
God permitted us to enjoy, and I know not how to bear the thought
that we are separated. However, the more I look at my present
position, the more am I satisfied that the change is of the Lord.
The need of this place is grievous. The little flock is scattered
and disheartened; the poor have been totally neglected, the sick
unvisited, and the societies are all fallen to decay. The short time
that I have been here has not been without its encouragements. Our
tender Father has been pleased to favour me with some cases in which
my private ministry has been greatly valued, and I hope blessed. I
think also He is with me in the pulpit; the evening congregation is
rapidly increasing, and we have had some very solemn occasions. All
this is encouraging, but I desire not to build upon it, for I well
know that such encouragement has not strength enough to bear weight.
In health I think I am better than I have been since August. I find
my power for work increases, and the cough is gone. Join with me in
praising a merciful Father. ‘Praise God, from whom,’ etc.”
To Mr. Cunningham:—
“RICHMOND, SURREY, _September_ 24_th_, 1838.
“MY DEAR UNCLE,—You ask how we are getting on here, and you must know
how difficult it is to answer such a question. I think that,
whenever God permits encouragement, He sends at the same time some
drawback, as if to prevent encouragement lapsing into
self-confidence, and self-gratulation taking the place of a spirit of
thankfulness. And this is just the case with our parish: there is
much to call forth the most unfeigned thanksgiving—great kindness
amongst the people, large congregations, a capital collection
yesterday for the Pastoral Aid Society—but on the other hand a
continual worry about our schools, and, what is most of all to be
considered, very little evidence of the regenerating power of the
Holy Ghost in individuals. I see that the messenger has a far wider
influence than he once had, but I do not see the message itself
attended with the same saving power. This is a cause of great sorrow
to me, and the more so because I fear it may be in a great measure
explained by a want of spirituality in myself. There is a
wonderfully close communion between the power of preaching and the
power of feeling, and when a man’s own heart is very dead, he is not
likely to produce much life in others. I think, moreover, there is
great danger of spending our energy on our machinery. I am doing all
I can to work the parish efficiently, and set all the machine in
active operation, and I feel the effect of it in a forgetfulness of
the spiritual end of the whole. It is something bordering upon
leaving the Word of God to serve tables. However, in the midst of
all, I trust there is a real progress. I find unspeakable comfort in
Hebrews xii. 2, and whether a want of spirituality in myself or a
want of spiritual power in my ministry be the cause of sorrow, I find
the universal remedy in ‘looking unto Jesus,’ and I believe that to
be the whole of the Christian’s secret. The more we can keep our eye
on Him the stronger shall we be in every point of view, and one
moment’s forgetfulness of Him must produce weakness, if not a fall.”
To his uncle:—
“_December_ 7_th_, 1838.
“I should be inclined to question how far it was well to leave a
curate altogether to himself, so as not to know what he is doing.
There seems to me a great difference between keeping him under
orders, and so checking his independent action, and by constant
intercourse maintaining a vigilant superintendence. The plan that I
adopted with —, —, and Frank himself was to point out clearly at
first their line of duty, and then to leave them entirely to
themselves in the discharge of it, at the same time making the
pastoral ministry a subject of constant conversation, so that I
always knew exactly what each was doing. By this means you get (1)
the advantage of division of labour; you (2) know exactly what is
going on, which parts are comparatively neglected, and which have an
extra supply, and, like a general, you can by a recommendation apply
your forces just where they are wanted. There is another thing which
I should be inclined to suggest, especially with a beginner, viz.
that you follow out the territorial system and assign him a district.
My own plan is this. I divide my visiting into the aggressive and
the extraordinary. By the aggressive I mean the regular stated
visiting from house to house. By the extraordinary I mean those
visits which I pay in consequence of some providential call, such as
sickness, affliction, religious impression, etc. I then divide the
parish into two parts, and give — the whole aggressive work for one
district, and take it myself for the other. For the extraordinary I
make no local divisions. I find then in practice that the calls are
sufficiently frequent to keep a measure of connection with the whole
parish, while the limitation of the aggressive brings each district
tolerably within the compass of its minister, so that he is able by
perseverance to gain an influence.”
To Mr. Cunningham:—
“RICHMOND, SURREY, _March_ 14_th_, 1839.
“MY DEAR UNCLE,—I am always greatly rejoiced to hear of your
well-doings at Lowestoft, but I am more pleased than ever now, for I
have something of a parental as well as filial interest—filial
because I was trained amongst you myself, and parental because Frank
stayed six months with me. I have no doubt that the change of
ministry is likely to prove a real refreshment to your people, and I
should not be surprised if it were to be the means of calling out
some, and leading to true conversions. You must not let all the
ladies turn Frank’s head by flattery, of which there always appears
to me great danger for young clergymen, for good people seem to
suppose that religious interest gives a licence which is allowed in
nothing else, and make the Gospel an occasion, rather than a check,
for unwholesome conversation. I have felt the danger of it very much
here, and though I have been very much preserved by a culpable want
of sentimentality, I fear that I have suffered from the evil. I find
that I often return from my intercourse with them thinking better of
myself instead of worse. I was much interested by your remarks about
the country. How completely does it prove that ‘Christ is the head
over all things to the Church’! Men appear with wicked designs and
ungodly purposes, but Christ is Lord, and when they are just ready to
strike He paralyses their aim. I regard these failures of wicked men
not so much as the effect of a state of society as evidences of the
controlling power of the Lord. He allows them to form their wicked
schemes, and just when all is ready for an explosion, He defeats
them, that so He may prove His power and their nothingness. Thus it
is that these very men who are most opposed to the Church of Christ
become the occasions for adding to its strength, for they call forth
the protecting power of God, and so increase faith by experience. I
have been inexpressibly cheered lately, amidst the sins of this
ungodly world, by the thought of the final triumph of the Church.
‘The God of Peace shall bind Satan under your feet shortly.’ It is
therefore certain that the day will come when Satan and all his
agents will be overthrown, when we shall no more suffer from sin and
its effects, and then all the elect people of God shall be visibly
gathered under one Head, enjoying a perfect union with each other and
with Christ. All this must take place. Popery, atheism, infidelity,
and the spirit of schism may unite their unholy ranks and lend all
their strength for the overthrow of our Lord’s kingdom, but ‘the
gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ How is it that our
hearts are not filled with holy joy at the prospect, and that we do
not ride triumphant over all the fears, the sorrows, the sins, with
which on every side we are beset?
“Your most affectionate Nephew and Curate,
“EDWARD HOARE.”
To Mr. Cunningham:—
“HAMPSTEAD, _April_ 6_th_, 1839.
“MY DEAR UNCLE,—How are the mighty fallen! I am going to be
married!! I have been spending a delightful week with the Brodies,
and am come home engaged hard and fast to Maria. I am exceedingly
happy, though I scarcely can believe it. I have the greatest hope
that the thing has been undertaken in a prayerful spirit, and that we
may look for God’s abundant blessing on us. We both particularly beg
that you will marry us.
“Your most affectionate Nephew,
“EDWARD HOARE.
“Give my dearest love to my aunt, Frank, etc.”
To Mrs. Cunningham:—
“RICHMOND, SURREY, _May_ 30_th_, 1839.
“MY DEAREST AUNT,—As for myself, I am exceedingly happy, though so
unusually busy that I hardly know how to think much about my happy
prospects. Never was a person less loverlike, for I am expecting a
confirmation here next week, and having more than one hundred and
thirty young persons under my care, I am so busy from morning till
night that I find my whole mind occupied. I think it is a good thing
for me, for it fixes my thoughts upon my work, which otherwise they
would be very much disposed to wander from. I am every day more and
more happy in the thought of my marriage, and more and more thankful
for the prospect of a wife who, I fully believe, has given herself to
God. There is not a single feature in the whole thing that I could
wish otherwise, and, besides all living circumstances, the
recollection of my dearest mother’s wish makes the connection to my
own mind quite a hallowed one. I only hope that we may be enabled to
devote ourselves unitedly, as we have desired to do separately, to
the service of that Heavenly Father who has laden us with so many
blessings. We expect to be married on the 2nd of July, about ten
days after their return; we then hope to go to the Isle of Wight for
a fortnight or three weeks. I do not wish to take a long holiday,
because of the expense, and because I am very anxious to take the
lady into Norfolk and to Lowestoft in the autumn. I doubt, however,
whether I shall be able to accomplish it.”
A letter from one of his sisters describing the wedding:—
“BROOM PARK, _July_ 9_th_, 1839.
“Here we are in peace and safety, Edward shut up with Maria, Kate and
I looking tolerably neat in white poplin, having just dressed in our
little room, our only misfortune being that we have no gloves. We
found dearest Edward most bright and sweet; the drive down with him
has been not a little pleasant; nothing could have answered better
than our journey with him, and we did quite enjoy it. Here is Maria
come for us! She looks so quiet, and is so nice, only she has got a
bad cold. When we went downstairs the Buxtons were just arriving;
they had joined our phaeton party, and all arrived together. The
only mishap has been that by going to London for her gown Miss
Foreman entirely missed them, and we are fearful that there is but
little hope of her arrival now; it is most provoking and quite a
tribulation. Caroline arrived from Bury Hill, looking most sweet
with a beautiful bouquet of orange flowers. Lady Brodie very kind
and like herself, Sir B. B. detained in town by patients. When we
had had a satisfactory tea, some went back to the drawing-room,
others for a walk; the party consisted of all our own clan, and, as
in most parties, there was a flock of girls in white, the belle on
the Brodie side being Miss Beamish, on ours of course Chenda. Mr. T.
Hankinson arrived in the middle of the evening, having stopped to
climb up Box Hill and ford a rivulet. The house is beautiful, and
the whole place pretty and cheerful. Maria behaves herself
capitally—so much spirit, yet so quiet, and thinking little of
herself; she looks two years younger than when we saw her last. _We_
are in Mr. Brodie’s room, and, as Laydon says, there is so much
_shooting tackle_ ‘she don’t know where to put away our things.’
Edward is most happy; it truly is a pleasure to look at his beaming
face. How I wish you could see them both together, dearest sister;
it is most interesting. . . . The party now assembling for church
all in good heart; Mr. Hankinson making the eight bridesmaids and
about six other ladies laugh in the dining-room, the rest dispersed.
. . . Half-past five o’clock (in the room which we had at Gurney’s
wedding). After the above followed a lengthy waiting—people
arriving, but no Bishop. Maria and Lady Brodie appeared, quite
ready, but had to abide for a long time till the Bishop had arrived
and arrayed himself. About eleven o’clock we went to the church, six
bridesmaids in one carriage, and two with Caroline in another, all
the gentlemen having walked previously and were ready at the
churchyard gate to receive us; four bridesmaids with their gentlemen
stood on each side of the path till the bride had passed and then
closed in behind her. In the church the positions were capital—the
relations round the altar, and her bridesmaids standing on a step
behind her. The Bishop read the service beautifully, and they both
spoke very clearly—she was perfectly composed. Signing and kissing
as usual afterwards, with the bells ringing, and home as we came.
After some congratulating in the drawing-room we all sallied forth
for a walk, stimulated, as in everything, by Mr. Tom Hankinson.
Maria then went in to rest awhile. We gathered in a group round Mr.
Hankinson (in the garden) and heard all the poem about Sir Rupert and
Lorline; then down to the water, where all the eight bridesmaids were
put into the boat and our dear bridegroom (taking off his coat) rowed
us about. This filled up the time capitally till the breakfast, for
which we were very ready, though we had to wait some period for the
Bishop, who was lost on the strawberry beds. The breakfast was very
nice and _very amusing_. The first health was proposed by the Bishop
in a most nice little speech; it was of course ‘Mr. and Mrs. E.
Hoare.’ Our sisterly vanity was amply satisfied, and how I wish you
could have heard Edward’s reply. It was so gratifying and nice to
have him make such a truly nice speech, which he ended by proposing
‘Sir B. and Lady Brodie.’ A most feeling reply from Sir Benjamin,
speaking so highly of both bride and bridegroom, but he could
scarcely get on once or twice from feeling it so much. He proposed
the Bishop of Winchester, and that was greeted by another three times
three; which he thanked for, observing that ‘he had not expected to
make so much noise in the world.’ Then Gurney proposed ‘The
Bridesmaids,’ and Mr. Goulburn thanked for us, though, alas! he
nearly stuck. Then ‘Papa’—and he made such a nice speech in return,
observing that his three daughters-in-law being an increasing and
untellable blessing to him, he had no small reason to rejoice in his
new acquisition. Breakfast done, we went away, Maria to dress. The
parting scene with her father and brother (in tears) upstairs was
trying; but she passed by all of us who were waiting in the hall and
went off very brightly. But I must leave off, though I fear this is
an unsatisfactory history, though in all the muddles we have done our
little best. Ever, dearest Sister,
“Most affectionately,
“C. E. H.”