The next day we went to hear a sermon in behalf of the ragged schools,
by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The children who attended the ragged
schools of that particular district were seated in the gallery, each
side of the organ. As this was the Sunday appropriated to the
exercise, all three of the creeds were read--the Apostles',
Athanasian, and Nicene; all which the little things repeated after the
archbishop, with great decorum, and probably with the same amount of
understanding that we, when children, had of the Assembly's Catechism.
The venerable archbishop was ushered into the pulpit by beadles, with
gold lace cocked hats, striking the ground majestically with their
long staves of office. His sermon, however, was as simple, clear, and
beautiful an exposition of the duty of practical Christianity towards
the outcast and erring as I ever heard. He said that, should we find a
young child wandering away from its home and friends, we should
instinctively feel it our duty to restore the little wanderer; and
such, he said, is the duty we owe to all these young outcasts, who had
strayed from the home of their heavenly Father.
After the sermon they took up a collection; and when we went into the
vestry to speak to the archbishop, we saw him surrounded by the church
wardens, counting over the money.
I noticed in the back part of the church a number of children in
tattered garments, with rather a forlorn and wild appearance, and was
told that these were those who had just been introduced into the
school, and had not been there long enough to come under its modifying
influences. We were told that they were always thus torn and forlorn
in their appearance at first, but that they gradually took pains to
make themselves respectable. The archbishop said, pleasantly, "When
they return to their right mind they appear _clothed_, also, and
sitting at the feet of Jesus."
The archbishop sent me afterwards a beautiful edition of his sermons
on Christian charity, embracing a series of discourses on various
topics of practical benevolence, relating to the elevation and
christianization of the masses. They are written with the same purity
of style, and show the same devout and benevolent spirit with his
other writings.
My thoughts were much saddened to-day by the news, which I received
this week, of the death of Mary Edmonson. It is not for her that I
could weep; for she died as calmly and serenely as she lived,
resigning her soul into the hands of her Savior. What I do weep for
is, that under the flag of my country--and that country a Christian
one--such a life as Mary's could have been lived, and so little said
or done about it.
In the afternoon I went to the deanery of St. Paul's--a retired
building in a deep court opposite the cathedral. After a brief
conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Milman, we went to the cathedral. I had
never seen it before, and was much impressed with the majesty and
grace of the interior. Nevertheless, the Italian style of
architecture, with all its elegance, fails to affect me equally with
the Gothic. The very rudeness of the latter, a something inchoate and
unfinished, is significant of matter struggling with religious ideas
too vast to be fully expressed. Even as in the ancient Scriptures
there are ideas which seem to overtask the powers of human language. I
sat down with Mrs. M. in one of the little compartments, or
_stalls,_ as they are called, into which the galleries are
divided, and which are richly carved in black oak. The whole service
was chanted by a choir expressly trained for the purpose. Some of the
performers are boys of about thirteen years, and of beautiful
countenances. There is a peculiar manner of reading the service
practised in the cathedrals, which is called "intoning." It is a
plaintive, rhythmical chant, with as strong an unction of the nasal as
ever prevailed in a Quaker or Methodist meeting. I cannot exactly
understand why Episcopacy threw out the slur of "nasal twang" as one
of the peculiarities of the conventicle, when it is in full force in
the most approved seats of church orthodoxy. I listened to all in as
uncritical and sympathetic a spirit as possible, giving myself up to
be lifted by the music as high as it could waft me. To one thus
listening, it is impossible to criticize with severity; for, unless
positively offensive, any music becomes beautiful by the power of
sympathy and association. After service we listened to a short sermon
from the Rev. Mr. Villiers, fervent, affectionate, and evangelical in
spirit, and much in the general style of sermonizing which I have
already described.
Monday morning, May 23. We went to breakfast at Mr. Cobden's. Mr. C.
is a man of slender frame, rather under than over the middle size,
with great ease of manner, and flexibility of movement, and the most
frank, fascinating smile. His appearance is a sufficient account of
his popularity, for he seems to be one of those men who carry about
them an atmosphere of vivacity and social exhilaration. We had a very
pleasant and social time, discussing and comparing things in England
and America. Mr. Cobden assured us that he had had curious calls from
Americans, sometimes. Once an editor of a small village paper called,
who had been making a tour through the rural districts of England. He
said that he had asked some mowers how they were prospering. They
answered, "We ain't prosperin'; we're hayin'." Said Cobden,
"I told the man, 'Now don't you go home and publish that in your
paper;' but he did, nevertheless, and sent me over the paper with the
story in it." I might have comforted him with many a similar anecdote
of Americans, as for example, the man who was dead set against a
tariff, "'cause he knew if they once got it, they'd run the old thing
right through his farm;" or those immortal Pennsylvania Dutchmen, who,
to this day, it is said, give in all their votes under the solemn
conviction that they are upholding General Jackson's administration.
The conversation turned on the question of the cultivation of cotton
by free labor. The importance of this great measure was fully
appreciated by Mr. Cobden, as it must be by all. The difficulties to
be overcome in establishing the movement were no less clearly seen,
and ably pointed out. On the whole, the comparison of views was not
only interesting in a high degree, but to us, at least, eminently
profitable. We ventured to augur favorably to the cause from the
indications of that interview.
From this breakfast we returned to dine at Surrey parsonage; and,
after dinner, attended Miss Greenfield's concert at Stafford House.
Mr. S. could not attend on account of so soon leaving town.
The concert room was the brilliant and picturesque hall I have before
described to you. It looked more picture-like and dreamy than ever.
The piano was on the flat stairway just below the broad central
landing. It was a grand piano, standing end outward, and perfectly
_banked up_ among hothouse flowers, so that only its gilded top
was visible. Sir George Smart presided. The choicest of the
_élite_ were there. Ladies in demi-toilet and bonneted. Miss
Greenfield stood among the singers on the staircase, and excited a
sympathetic murmur among the audience. She is not handsome, but looked
very well. She has a pleasing dark face, wore a black velvet headdress
and white carnelian earrings, a black mohr antique silk, made high in
the neck, with white lace falling sleeves and white gloves. A certain
gentleness of manner and self-possession, the result of the universal
kindness shown her, sat well upon her. Chevalier Bunsen, the Prussian
ambassador, sat by me. He looked at her with much interest. "Are the
race often as good looking?" he said. I said, "She is not handsome,
compared with many, though I confess she looks uncommonly well
to-day."
Among the company present I noticed the beautiful Marchioness of
Stafford. I have spoken of her once before; but it is difficult to
describe her, there is something so perfectly simple, yet elegant, in
her appearance; but it has cut itself like a cameo in my memory--a
figure under the middle size, perfectly moulded, dressed simply in
black, a beautiful head, hair _à la Madonna_, ornamented by a
band of gold coins on black velvet: a band of the same kind encircling
her throat is the only relief to the severe simplicity of her dress.
The singing was beautiful. Six of the most cultivated glee singers of
London sang, among other things, "Spring's delights are now
returning," and "Where the bee sucks there lurk I." The duchess said,"
These glees are peculiarly English." It was indeed delightful to hear
Shakspeare's aerial words made vocal within the walls of this fairy
palace. The duchess has a strong nationality; and nationality, always
interesting, never appears in so captivating a form as when it
expresses itself through a beautiful and cultivated woman. One likes
to see a person identifying one's self with a country, and she
embraces England, with its history, its strength, its splendor, its
moral power, with an evident pride and affection which I love to see.
Miss Greenfield's turn for singing now came, and there was profound
attention. Her voice, with its keen, searching fire, its penetrating
vibrant quality, its _"timbre"_ as the French have it, cut its
way like a Damascus blade to the heart. It was the more touching from
occasional rusticities and artistic defects, which showed that she had
received no culture from art.
She sang the ballad, "Old folks at home," giving one verse in the
soprano, and another in the tenor voice.
As she stood partially concealed by the piano Chevalier Bunsen thought
that the tenor part was performed by one of the gentlemen. He was
perfectly astonished when he discovered that it was by her. This was
rapturously encored. Between the parts Sir George took her to the
piano, and tried her voice by skips, striking notes here and there at
random, without connection, from D in alt to A first space in bass
clef: she followed with unerring precision, striking the sound nearly
at the same instant his finger touched the key. This brought out a
burst of applause.
After the concert we walked through the rooms. The effect of the
groups of people sauntering through the hall or looking down from the
galleries was picture-like. Two of the duke's Highland pipers, in full
costume, playing their bagpipes, now made their appearance, and began
to promenade the halls, playing. Their dress reminds me, in its
effect, of that of our American Indians, and their playing is wild and
barbaric. It had a striking effect among these wide halls and
corridors. There is nothing poetic connected with the history and
position of the family of which the fair owner of the halls does not
feel the power, and which she cannot use with artistic skill in
heightening the enchantments of an entertainment.
Rev. S. R. Ward attracted attention in the company, as a full-blooded
African--tall enough for a palm tree. I observed him in conversation
with lords, dukes, and ambassadors, sustaining himself modestly, but
with self-possession. All who converse with him are satisfied that
there is no native difference between the African and other men.
The duchess took me to look at a model of Dunrobin--their castle on
the Sutherland estate. It is in the old French chateau style in
general architecture, something like the print of Glamis. It is
curious that the French architecture has obtained in Scotland. Her
grace kindly invited me to visit Dunrobin on my return to Scotland in
the autumn, taking it after Inverary. This will be delightful. That
Scottish coast I love almost like my own country.
Lord Shaftesbury was there. He came and spoke to us after the concert.
Speaking of Miss Greenfield, he said, "I consider the use of these
halls for the encouragement of an outcast race, a _consecration_.
This is the true use of wealth and splendor when it is employed to
raise up and encourage the despised and forgotten."
In the evening, though very weary, C. persuaded me to accept an
invitation to hear the Creation, at Exeter Hall, performed by the
London Sacred Harmonic Society. They had kindly reserved a gallery for
us, and when we went in Mr. Surman, the founder and for twenty years
conductor of the society, presented me with a beautifully bound copy
of the Creation.
Having never heard it before, I could not compare the performance with
others. I heard it as I should hear a poem read, simply thinking of
the author's ideas, and not of the style of reading. Haydn I was
thinking of,--the bright, brilliant, cheerful Haydn,--who, when
complained of for making church music into dancing tunes, replied,
"When I think of God my soul is always so full of joy that I want to
dance!" This Creation is a descriptive poem--the garden parts unite
Thomson and Milton's style--the whole effect pastoral, yet brilliant.
I was never more animated. I had had a new experience; it is worth
while to know nothing to have such a fresh sensation.
The next day, Tuesday, May 24, we went to lunch with Miss R., at
Oxford Terrace. Among a number of distinguished guests was Lady Byron,
with whom I had a few moments of deeply interesting conversation. No
engravings that ever have been circulated of her in America do any
justice to her appearance. She is of a slight figure, formed with
exceeding delicacy, and her whole form, face, dress, and air unite to
make an impression of a character singularly dignified, gentle, pure,
and yet strong. No words addressed to me in any conversation hitherto
have made their way to my inner soul with such force as a few remarks
dropped by her on the present religious aspect of England--remarks of
such a quality as one seldom hears.
Lady Byron's whole course, I have learned, has been one made venerable
by consistent, active benevolence. I was happy to find in her the
patroness of our American outcasts, William and Ellen Crafts. She had
received them into the schools of her daughter, Lady Lovelace, at
Occum, and now spoke in the highest terms of their character and
proficiency in study. The story of their misfortunes, united with
their reputation for worth, had produced such an impression on the
simple country people, that they always respectfully touch their hats
when meeting them. Ellen, she says, has become mother of a most
beautiful child, and their friends are now making an effort to put
them into some little business by which they may obtain a support.
I could not but observe with regret the evident fragility of Lady
Byron's health; yet why should I regret it? Why wish to detain here
those whose home is evidently from hence, and who will only then fully
live when the shadow we call life is passed away?
Here, also, I was personally introduced to a lady with whom I had
passed many a dreamy hour of spiritual communion--Mrs. Jameson, whose
works on arts and artists were for years almost my only food for a
certain class of longings.
Mrs. Jameson is the most charming of critics, with the gift, often too
little prized, of discovering and pointing out beauties rather than
defects; beauties which we may often have passed unnoticed, but which,
when so pointed out, never again conceal themselves. This shows itself
particularly in her Characteristics of Shakspeare's Women, a critique
which only a true woman could have written.
She seemed rather surprised to find me inquiring about art and
artists. I asked her where one might go to study that subject most
profitably, and her answer was, in Munich.
By her side was Mrs. Chisholm, the author of those benevolent
movements for the emigrants, which I have mentioned to you. She is a
stout, practical looking woman, who impresses you with the idea of
perfect health, exuberant life, and an iron constitution. Her face
expresses decision, energy, and good sense. She is a woman of few
words, every moment of whose time seems precious.
One of her remarks struck me, from the quaint force with which it was
uttered. "I found," said she, "if we want any thing done, we must go
to work and _do_; it is of no use to talk, none whatever." It is
the secret of her life's success. Mrs. Chisholm first began by
_doing_ on a small scale what she wanted done, and people seeing
the result fell in with and helped her, but to have convinced them of
the feasibility of her plans by _talking_, without this practical
demonstration, would have been impossible.
At this _réunion_, also, was Mr. George Thompson, whom I had
never seen before, and many of the warmest friends of the slave.
During this visit I was taken ill, and obliged to return to Mr.
Gurney's, where I was indisposed during the remainder of the day, and
late in the evening drove home to Surrey parsonage.
The next evening, Wednesday, May 29, we attended an antislavery
_soirée_, at Willis's rooms, formerly known as Almack's; so at
least I was told. A number of large rooms were thrown open,
brilliantly lighted and adorned, and filled with throngs of people. In
the course of the evening we went upon the platform in the large hall,
where an address was presented by S. Bowley, Esq., of Gloucester. It
was one of the most beautiful, sensible, judicious, and Christian
addresses that could have been made, and I listened to it with
unmingled pleasure. In reply, Mr. S. took occasion still further to
explain his views with respect to the free-grown cotton movement in
England, and its bearings on the future progress of the cause of
freedom. [Footnote: We are happy to say that a large body of religious
persons in Great Britain have become favorable to these views. A
vigorous society has been established, combining India reform and free
cotton with the antislavery cause. The Earl of Albemarle made, while
we were in London, a vigorous India reform speech in the House of
Lords, and Messrs. Bright and Cobden are fully in for the same object
in the Commons. There is much hope in the movement.]
After the addresses we dispersed to different rooms, where refreshment
tables were bountifully laid out and adorned. By my side, at one end
of them, was a young female of pleasing exterior, with fine eyes,
delicate person, neatly dressed in white. She was introduced to me as
Ellen Crafts--a name memorable in Boston annals. Her husband, a
pleasant, intelligent young man, with handsome manners, was there
also. Had it not been for my introduction I could never have fancied
Ellen to have been any other than some English girl with rather a
paler cheek than common. She has very sweet manners, and uses
uncommonly correct and beautiful language. Let it not be supposed
that, with such witnesses as these among them, our English brethren
have derived their first practical knowledge of slavery from Uncle
Tom's Cabin. The mere knowledge that two such persons as William and
Ellen Crafts have been rated as merchantable commodities, in any
country but ours would be a sufficient comment on the system.
We retired early after a very agreeable evening.