back into the servile king-worship of an England that was passing away.
Within the closed gates of Lambeth he debated endlessly with himself and
with his fellow-bishops the questions of "de jure" and "de facto" right
to the crown. Every day he sheered further and further from the actual
world around him. Newton, who was with him at Lambeth when it was
announced that the Convention had declared the throne vacant, found that
Sancroft's thoughts were not with England or English freedom--they were
concentrated on the question whether James's child were a supposititious
one or no. "He wished," he said, "they had gone on a more regular method
and examined into the birth of the young child. There was reason," he
added, "to believe he was not the same as the first, which might easily
be known, for he had a mole on his neck." The new Government bore long
with the old man, and Bancroft for a time seems really to have wavered.
He suffered his chaplains to take the oaths and then scolded them
bitterly for praying for William and Mary. He declined to take his seat
at the Council board, and yet issued his commission for the consecration
of Burnet. At last his mind was made up and the Government on his final
refusal to take the oath of allegiance had no alternative but to declare
the see vacant.
For six months Bancroft was still suffered to remain in his house,
though Tillotson was nominated as his successor. With a perfect
courtesy, worthy of the saintly temper which was his characteristic,
Tillotson waited long at the deprived Archbishop's door desiring a
conference. But Sancroft refused to see him. Evelyn found the old man in
a dismantled house, bitter at his fall. "Say 'nolo,' and say it from the
heart," he had replied passionately to Beveridge when he sought his
counsel on the offer of a bishopric. Others asked whether after refusing
the oaths they might attend worship where the new sovereigns were prayed
for. "If they do," answered Sancroft, "they will need the Absolution at
the end as well as at the beginning of the service." In the answer lay
the schism of the Nonjurors, and to this schism Sancroft soon gave
definite form. On Whitsunday the new Church was started in the
archiepiscopal Chapel. The throng of visitors was kept standing at the
palace gate. No one was admitted to the Chapel but some fifty who had
refused the oaths. The Archbishop himself consecrated: one Nonjuror
reading the prayers, another preaching. A formal action of ejectment was
the answer to this open defiance, and on the evening of its decision in
favour of the Crown Sancroft withdrew quietly by boat over Thames to
the Temple. He was soon followed by many who, amidst the pettiness of
his public views, could still realize the grandeur of his self-devotion.
To one, the Earl of Aylesbury, the Archbishop himself opened the door.
His visitor, struck with the change of all he saw from the pomp of
Lambeth, burst into tears and owned how deeply the sight affected him.
"O my good lord," replied Sancroft, "rather rejoice with me, for now I
live again."
With Sancroft's departure opens a new age of Lambeth's ecclesiastical
history. The Revolution which flung him aside had completed the work of
the great Rebellion in sweeping away for ever the old pretensions of the
primates to an autocracy within the Church of England. But it seemed to
have opened a nobler prospect in placing them at the head of the
Protestant Churches of the world. In their common peril before the great
Catholic aggression, which found equal support at Paris and Vienna, the
Reformed communities of the Continent looked for aid and sympathy to the
one Reformed Church whose position was now unassailable. The
congregations of the Palatinate appealed to Lambeth when they were
trodden under foot beneath the horse-hoofs of Turenne. The same appeal
came from the Vaudois refugees in Germany, the Silesian Protestants, the
Huguenot churches that still fought for existence in France, the
Calvinists of Geneva, the French refugees who had forsaken their sunny
homes in the south for the Gospel and God. In the dry letter-books on
the Lambeth shelves, in the records of bounty dispensed through the
Archbishop to the persecuted and the stranger, in the warm and cordial
correspondence with Lutheran and Calvinist, survives a faint memory of
the golden visions which filled Protestant hearts after the accession of
the great Deliverer. "The eyes of the world are upon us," was Tenison's
plea for union with Protestants at home. "All the Reformed Churches are
in expectation of something to be done which may make for union and
peace." When a temper so cold as Tenison's could kindle in this fashion
it is no wonder that more enthusiastic minds launched into loftier
expectations--that Leibnitz hoped to see the union of Calvinist and
Lutheran accomplished by a common adoption of the English Liturgy, that
a High Churchman like Nicholls revived the plan, which Cranmer had
proposed and Calvin had supported, of a general council of Protestants
to be held in England. One by one such visions faded before the
virulence of party spirit, the narrowness and timidity of Churchmen, the
base and selfish politics of the time. Few men had higher or more
spiritual conceptions of Christian unity than Tenison; yet the German
translation of our Liturgy, stamped with the royal monogram of King
Frederick, which still exists in the library, reminds us how in mere
jealousy of a Tory triumph Tenison flung away the offer of a union with
the Church of Prussia. The creeping ambition of Dubois foiled whatever
dreams Archbishop Wake may have entertained of a union with the Church
of France.
From the larger field of political and ecclesiastical history we may
turn again ere we close to the narrower limits of the Lambeth Library.
The storm which drove Sancroft from his house left his librarian, Henry
Wharton, still bound to the books he loved so well. Wharton is one of
those instances of precocious developement which are rarer in the sober
walks of historical investigation than in art. It is a strange young
face that we see in the frontispiece to his sermons, the impression of
its broad, high brow and prominent nose so oddly in contrast with the
delicate, feminine curves of the mouth, and yet repeated in the hard,
concentrated gaze of the large, full eyes which look out from under the
enormous wig. Wharton was the most accomplished of Cambridge students
when he quitted the University at twenty-two to aid Cave in his
'Historia Litteraria.' But the time proved too exciting for a purely
literary career. At Tenison's instigation the young scholar plunged into
the thick of the controversy which had been provoked by the aggression
of King James, and his vigour soon attracted the notice of Sancroft. He
became one of the Archbishop's chaplains, and was presented in a single
year to two of the best livings in his gift. With these however save in
his very natural zeal for pluralities he seems to have concerned himself
little. It was with the library which now passed into his charge that
his name was destined to be associated. Under him its treasures were
thrown liberally open to the ecclesiastical antiquaries of his day--to
Hody, to Stillingfleet, to Collier, to Atterbury, and to Strype, who was
just beginning his voluminous collections towards the illustration of
the history of the sixteenth century. But no one made so much use of the
documents in his charge as Wharton himself. In them, no doubt, lay the
secret of his consent to take the oath, to separate from his earlier
patron, to accept the patronage of Tenison. But there was no permanent
breach with Sancroft; on his deathbed the Archbishop committed to him
the charge of editing Laud's papers, a charge redeemed by his
publication of the 'Troubles and Trials' of the Archbishop in 1694.
But this with other labours were mere by-play. The design upon which his
energies were mainly concentrated was "to exhibit a complete
ecclesiastical history of England to the Reformation," and the two
volumes of the 'Anglia Sacra,' which appeared during his life, were
intended as a partial fulfilment of this design. Of these, as they now
stand, the second is by far the more valuable. The four archiepiscopal
biographies by Osbern, the three by Eadmer, Malmesbury's lives of
Aldhelm and Wulstan, the larger collection of works by Giraldus
Cambrensis, Chaundler's biographies of Wykeham and Bekington, and the
collection of smaller documents which accompanied these, formed a more
valuable contribution to our ecclesiastical history than had up to
Wharton's time ever been made. The first volume contained the chief
monastic annals which illustrated the history of the sees whose
cathedrals were possessed by monks; those served by canons regular or
secular were reserved for a third volume, while a fourth was to have
contained the episcopal annals of the Church from the Reformation to the
Revolution.
The last however was never destined to appear, and its predecessor was
interrupted after the completion of the histories of London and St.
Asaph by the premature death of the great scholar. In 1694 Battely
writes a touching account to Strype of his interview with Wharton at
Canterbury:--"One day he opened his trunk and drawers, and showed me his
great collections concerning the state of our Church, and with a great
sigh told me his labours were at an end, and that his strength would not
permit him to finish any more of that subject." Vigorous and healthy as
his natural constitution was he had worn it out with the severity of his
toil. He denied himself refreshment in his eagerness for study, and sat
over his books in the bitterest days of winter till hands and feet were
powerless with the cold. At last nature abruptly gave way, his last
hopes of recovery were foiled by an immoderate return to his old
pursuits, and at the age of thirty-one Henry Wharton died a quiet
scholar's death. Archbishop Tenison stood with Bishop Lloyd by the grave
in Westminster, where the body was laid "with solemn and devout anthems
composed by that most ingenious artist, Mr. Harry Purcell;" and over it
were graven words that tell the broken story of so many a student
life:--"Multa ad augendam et illustrandam rem literariam conscripsit;
plura moliebatur."
The library no longer rests in those quiet rooms over the great cloister
in which a succession of librarians, such as Gibson and Wilkins and
Ducarel, preserved the tradition of Henry Wharton. The 'Codex' of the
first, the 'Concilia' of the second, and the elaborate analysis of the
Canterbury Registers which we owe to the third are, like Wharton's own
works, of primary importance to the study of English ecclesiastical
history. It was reserved for our own day to see these memories swept
away by the degradation of the cloister into a kitchen yard and a
scullery; but the Great Hall of Archbishop Juxon, to which by a happy
fortune the books were transferred, has seen in Dr. Maitland and
Professor Stubbs keepers whose learning more than rivals the learning of
Wharton himself. It is not without significance that this great library
still lies open to the public as a part and a notable part of the palace
of the chief prelate of the English Church. Even if Philistines abound
in it the spirit and drift of the English Church have never been wholly
Philistine. It has managed somehow to reflect and represent the varying
phases of English life and English thought; it has developed more and
more a certain original largeness and good-tempered breadth of view;
amidst the hundred jarring theories of itself and its position which it
has embraced at one time or another it has never stooped to the mere
"pay over the counter" theory of Little Bethel. Above all it has as yet
managed to find room for almost every shade of religious opinion; and it
has answered at once to every national revival of taste, of beauty, and
of art.
Great as are the faults of the Church of England, these are merits which
make men who care more for the diffusion of culture than for the
propagation of this shade or that shade of religious opinion shrink from
any immediate wish for her fall. And they are merits which spring from
this, that she is still a learned Church, not learned in the sense of
purely theological or ecclesiastical learning, but a Church which is
able to show among its clergy men of renown in every branch of
literature, critical, poetical, historical, or scientific. How long this
distinction is to continue her own it is hard to say; there are signs
indeed in the theological temper which is creeping over the clergy that
it is soon to cease. But the spirit of intelligence, of largeness of
view, of judicious moderation, which is so alien from the theological
spirit, can still look for support from the memories of Lambeth.
Whatever its influence may have been, it has not grown out of the noisy
activity of theological "movement." Its strength has been to sit still
and let such "movements" pass by. It is by a spirit the very opposite of
theirs--a spirit of conciliation, of largeness of heart, that it has won
its power over the Church. None of the great theological impulses of
this age or the last, it is sometimes urged, came out of Lambeth. Little
of the theological bitterness, of the controversial narrowness of this
age or the last, it may fairly be answered, has ever entered its gates.
Of Lambeth we may say what Matthew Arnold says of Oxford, that many as
are its faults it has never surrendered itself to ecclesiastical
Philistines. In the calm, genial silence of its courts, its library, its
galleries, in the presence of its venerable past, the virulence, the
petty strife, the tumult of religious fanaticism finds itself hushed.
Amongst the storm of the Wesleyan revival, of the Evangelical revival,
of the Puseyite revival, the voice of Lambeth has ever pleaded for a
truth simpler, larger, more human than theirs. Amid the deafening
clamour of Tractarian and anti-Tractarian disputants both sides united
in condemning the silence of Lambeth. Yet the one word that came from
Lambeth will still speak to men's hearts when all their noisy
disputations are forgotten. "How," a prelate, whose nearest relative had
joined the Church of Rome, asked Archbishop Howley, "how shall I treat
my brother?" "As a brother," was the Archbishop's reply.
CHILDREN BY THE SEA.
Autumn brings its congresses--scientific, ecclesiastical,
archaeological--but the prettiest of autumnal congresses is the
children's congress by the sea. It is like a leap from prose into poetry
when we step away from Associations and Institutes, from stuffy
lecture-rooms and dismal sections, to the strip of sand which the
children have chosen for their annual gathering. Behind us are the great
white cliffs, before us the reach of grey waters with steamers and their
smoke-trail in the offing and waves washing lazily in upon the shore.
And between sea and cliff are a world of little creatures, digging,
dabbling, delighted. What strikes us at first sight is the number of
them. In ordinary life we meet the great host of children in detail, as
it were; we kiss our little ones in the morning, we tumble over a
perambulator, we dodge a hoop, we pat back a ball. Child after child
meets us, but we never realize the world of children till we see it
massed upon the sands. Children of every age, from the baby to the
schoolboy; big children and tiny children, weak little urchins with pale
cheeks and plump little urchins with sturdy legs; children of all
tempers, from the screeching child in arms to the quiet child sitting
placid and gazing out of large grey eyes; gay little madcaps paddling at
the water's edge; busy children, idle children, children careful of
their dress, hoydens covered with sand and seaweed, wild children,
demure children--all are mustered in the great many-coloured camp
between the cliffs and the sea.
It is their holiday as it is ours, but what is a mere refreshment to us
is life to them. What a rapture of freedom looks up at us out of the
little faces that watch us as we thread our way from group to group! The
mere change of dress is a revolution in the child's existence. These
brown-holland frocks, rough sunshades, and sandboots, these clothes that
they may wet and dirty and tear as they like, mean deliverance from
endless dressings--dressings for breakfast and dressings for lunch,
dressings to go out with mamma and dressings to come down to dessert--an
escape from fashionable little shoes and tight little hats and stiff
little flounces that it is treason to rumple. There is an inexpressible
triumph in their return at eventide from the congress by the sea,
dishevelled, bedraggled, but with no fear of a scolding from nurse. Then
too there is the freedom from "lessons." There are no more of those
dreadful maps along the wall, no French exercises, no terrible
arithmetic. The elder girls make a faint show of keeping up their
practising, but the goody books which the governess packed carefully at
the bottom of their boxes remain at the bottom unopened. There is no
time for books, the grave little faces protest to you; there is only
time for the sea. That is why they hurry over breakfast to get early to
the sands, and are moody and restless at the length of luncheon. It is a
hopeless business to keep them at home; they yawn over picture-books,
they quarrel over croquet, they fall asleep over draughts. Home is just
now only an interlude of sleeping or dining in the serious business of
the day.
The one interest of existence is in the sea. Its novelty, its vastness,
its life, dwarf everything else in the little minds beside it. There is
the endless watching for the ships, the first peep at the little dot on
the horizon, the controversies as it rises about its masts or its flag,
the questions as to where it is coming from and where it is going to.
There is the endless speculation on the tide, the doubt every morning
whether it is coming in or going out, the wonder of its perpetual
advance or retreat, the whispered tales of children hemmed in between it
and the cliffs, the sense of a mysterious life, the sense of a
mysterious danger. Above all there is the sense of a mysterious power.
The children wake as the wind howls in the night, or the rain dashes
against the window panes, to tell each other how the waves are leaping
high over the pier and ships tearing to pieces on reefs far away. So
charming and yet so terrible, the most playful of playfellows, the most
awful of possible destroyers, the child's first consciousness of the
greatness and mystery of the world around him is embodied in the sea.
It is amusing to see the precision with which the children's congress
breaks up into its various sections. The most popular and important is
that of the engineers. The little members come toddling down from the
cliffs with a load of implements, shouldering rake and spade, and
dangling tiny buckets from their arms. One little group makes straight
for its sand-hole of yesterday, and is soon busy with huge heaps and
mounds which are to take the form of a castle. A crowing little urchin
beside is already waving the Union Jack which is ready to crown the
edifice, if the Fates ever suffer it to be crowned. Engineers of less
military taste are busy near the water's edge with an elaborate system
of reservoirs and canals, and greeting with shouts of triumph the
admission of the water to miniature little harbours. A corps of
absolutely unscientific labourers are simply engaged in digging the
deepest hole they can, and the blue nets over their sunshades are alone
visible above the edge of the excavation. It is delightful to watch the
industry, the energy, the absolute seriousness and conviction of the
engineers. Sentries warn you off from the limits of the fortress; you
are politely asked to "please take care," as your clumsy foot strays
along the delicate brink of the canal. Suggestions that have a
mechanical turn about them, hints on the best way of reaching the water
or the possibility of a steeper slope for the sand-walls, are listened
to with attention and respect. You are rewarded by an invitation which
allows you to witness the very moment when the dyke is broken and the
sea admitted into basin and canal, or the yet more ecstatic moment when
the Union Jack waves over the completed castle.
Indolence and adventure charm the dabblers, as industry absorbs the
engineers. The sands are of all earthly spots the most delightful; but a
greater delight than any earthly spot can afford awaits the dabbler in
the sea. It is mostly the girls who dabble; the gaiety and frolic suit
them better than the serious industry of castles and canals. Deliverance
from shoes and stockings, the first thrill of pleasure and surprise at
the cool touch of the water, the wild rush along the brim, the dainty
advance till the sea covers the little ankles, the tremulous waiting
with an air of defiance as the wave deepens round till it touches the
knee, the firm line with which the dabblers grasp hand in hand and face
the advancing tide, the sudden panic, the break, the disorderly flight,
the tears and laughter, the run after the wave as it retreats again, the
fresh advance and defiance--this is the paradise of the dabbler. Hour
after hour, with clothes tucked round their waist and a lavish display
of stout little legs, the urchins wage their mimic warfare with the
sea. Meanwhile the scientific section is encamped upon the rocks. With
torn vestments and bruised feet the votaries of knowledge are peeping
into every little pool, detecting mussel-shells, picking up seaweed,
hunting for anemones. A shout of triumph from the tiny adventurer who
has climbed over the rough rock-shelf announces that he has secured a
prize for the glass jar at home, where the lumps of formless jelly burst
into rosy flowers with delicate tendrils waving gently round them for
food. A cry of woe tells of some infantile Whymper who has lost his hold
on an Alpine rock-edge some six inches high. Knowledge has its
difficulties as well as its dangers, and the difficulty of forming a
rock-section in the face of the stern opposition of mothers and nurses
is undoubtedly great. Still, formed it is, and science furnishes a
goodly company of votaries and martyrs to the congress by the sea.
But of course the naval section bears away the palm. It is for the most
part composed of the elder boys and of a few girls who would be boys if
they could. Its members all possess a hopeless passion for the sea, and
besiege their mothers for promises that their future life shall be that
of middies. They wear straw hats and loose blue shirts, and affect as
much of the sailor in their costume as they can. Each has a boat, or as
they call it a "vessel," and the build and rig of these vessels is a
subject of constant discussion and rivalry in the section. Much critical
inquiry is directed to the propriety of Arthur's jib, or the necessity
of "ballasting" or pouring a little molten lead into Edward's keel. The
launch of a new vessel is the event of the week. The coast-guardsman is
brought in to settle knotty questions of naval architecture and
equipment, and the little seamen listen to his verdicts, his yarns, the
records of his voyages, with a wondering reverence. They ask knowingly
about the wind and the prospects of the weather; they submit to his
higher knowledge their theories as to the nature and destination of each
vessel that passes; they come home with a store of naval phrases which
are poured recklessly out over the tea-table. The pier is a favourite
haunt of the naval section. They delight in sitting on rough coils of
old rope. Nothing that is of the sea comes amiss to them. "I like the
smell of tar," shouts a little enthusiast. They tell tales among
themselves of the life of a middie and the fun of the "fo-castle," and
watch the waves leaping up over the pier-head with a wild longing to
sing 'Rule Britannia.' Every ship in the offing is a living thing to
them, and the appearance of a man-of-war sends them sleepless to bed.