Preparation for ordination had become Patteson's immediate object. As
has been already said, his work was marked out. There was a hamlet
of the parish of Ottery St. Mary, at a considerable distance from the
church and town, and named Alfington.
Some time previously, the family of Sir John Kennaway had provided
the place with a school, which afterwards passed into the hands of Mr.
Justice Coleridge, who, in 1849, there built the small church of St.
James, with parsonage, school, and house, on a rising ground overlooking
the valley of Honiton, almost immediately opposite to Feniton; and, at
the same time, took on himself the expenses of the curacy and school,
for the vicar of the parish, the Rev. Dr. Cornish, formerly master of
Ottery School.
The first curate of Alfington was Judge Coleridge's son Henry, the
well-known author of the beautiful Life of St. Francis Xavier. On his
leaving our communion, it was his father's wish that Coleridge Patteson
should take the cure; and, until his ordination, it was committed
temporarily to other hands, in especial to the Rev. Henry Gardiner,
who was much beloved there. In the spring of 1853, he had a long and
dangerous illness, when Coley came to nurse him, and became so much
attached to him, that his influence and unconscious training became
of great importance. The church was served by such clerical friends as
could give their assistance on Sunday, and the pastoral care, attention
to the school, cottage visiting, &c., became the employment of the
candidate for Holy Orders, who thus began his work under the direction
of his disabled friend.
A letter to his sister shows how he plunged into the drudgery of the
parish, doing that which always cost him most, namely, administering
rebukes; so that it was no wonder that he wrote with a sort of elation
at having lashed himself up to the point of giving a thorough warning:--
'Feniton: July 19, 1853.
'My dearest Fan,--I am going to Thorverton to-day to stay till Thursday.
Gardiner came downstairs on Sunday, and again yesterday, and is making
very rapid strides towards perfect recovery. He even went out yesterday
for a few minutes. So I don't mind leaving him in the least; and indeed
he is going to Sidmouth himself, probably at the end of the week. I have
seen him every day without one exception, and have learnt a very great
deal from him. He has studied very closely school work, condition of the
labourer, boys' homes, best method of dispensing charity, &c., and on
all these points his advice has been really invaluable. I feel now that
I am quite to all intents working the district. People ask me about
their children coming to school. I know almost all the people in the
village, and a good many out of it, and begin to understand, in a very
small way, what a clergyman's life is. A mixture of sorrow and pleasure
indeed! There are many very sad cases of hypocrisy, filthiness, and
wickedness (as I suppose there are in every district); and yesterday I
had a very hard-working and in one case most painful day.
'Some people had asked me to take their boy, three years and a half old,
to school--a wretched pair, with a little savage for a son. I said I
would speak to Miss Wilkins, and put plainly before her the character of
parents and child. However, she wished to have him, and I knew it was so
far well to get the boy away from home. But such a scene ensued! The
boy was really like a little savage; kicked, dashed his head against the
wall, and at length, with his nose bleeding violently, exhausted with
his violence, fell asleep. Next day, he is so bad, he is sent home; when
the mother drives him back to school, cursing and swearing, telling Miss
Wilkins she may kill him if she pleases! Unluckily, I was not in school.
'Yesterday he was in school and more quiet, but did not kneel down at
prayers, and seemed like a little beast beginning to be tamed. So, after
school, I called him to me, and putting him before my knees asked him
some questions very kindly: "Did he know who God was? Had he never been
taught to kneel down and say his prayers? Of course he had not, but it
gave me the proper opportunity of speaking to his parents. So having
now considered the matter for two or three days previously, having
ascertained all the facts about the people, after an hour among some
others in the village, I went right into their cottage, and luckily
found father and mother and grandmother at home, besides one or two more
(who are lodgers) in a room adjoining, with the door open. 'I am come
to talk to you about William,' I began, whereupon I saw the woman
turn quite red. However, I spoke for about ten minutes slowly and very
quietly, without any appearance (as I believe) of anger or passion at
all, but yet speaking my mind quite plainly. "I had no idea any child
could be so neglected. Did they suppose the school was a place where
any parent might send a child merely to get it out of the way (of course
they do, you know, most of them)? Was it possible that a child could be
made good as if by magic there, when it learns nothing but wicked words
at home? Do you think you can or ought to get rid of the duties you owe
your child? Do you suppose that God will not require from you an account
of the way you have behaved towards him, you who have never taught him
to know who God is, what God is, what is prayer, what is the church,
who have taught that little mouth, which God created for praise and
blessings, to curse and blaspheme? I know that many children do and say
wicked things, but it is in most cases owing to the neglect of their
parents, who do not speak kindly to their children, and do what they can
to keep them out of temptation, but this is a different case. Your boy
is not fit to come into the company of little Christians! Awful as it
is to think of, he is already, at his early age, the very dread of the
parents who live near you."
'They had not a word to say, not a syllable beyond the objection which I
had already met, that other children were bad too. I did not say what I
might have said with truth, because it is only from Gardiner's report,
not from my own knowledge--viz., that neither father nor mother ever
come to church, and that their house is the centre of evil to the young
people of the village.
'"Now," I said, in conclusion, "I fully meant to send back your boy, and
tell you I would examine him six months hence, to see if he was fit to
be brought into the school, but as I do trust he may behave better,
and that this may be the means of recovering him from this sad state, I
shall take him still, unless he behaves again very badly. But remember
this--this is the turning point in the boy's life, and all, humanly
speaking, depends on the example you set him. What an awful thing it
would be, if it pleased God to take him away from you now, and a fit of
measles, scarlatina, or any such illness, may do it any day! Remember
that you are responsible to a very great extent for your child; that
unless it sees you watchful over your thoughts, words, and actions;
unless it sees you regular and devout in prayer at home (I don't believe
they ever think of such a thing--God forgive me, if I am wrong); unless
it sees you habitually in your place in God's house, you are not doing
your duty to yourselves or your child, you are not laying up any hope or
comfort whatever for the day of your sickness and death. Now I hope you
clearly understand me. I have spoken plainly--exactly what I think, and
what I mean to act upon. You know now the sort of person you have to
deal with. Good morning,"--and thereupon I marched out, amazed at my own
pluck, and heartily glad that I had said what I wished, and felt I ought
to say.
'But I need hardly tell you that this left me in a state of no slight
excitement, and that I should be much comforted by hearing what you and
Father and Joan think of my behaviour.
'Meanwhile, there are some very nice people; I dearly love some of the
boys and girls; and I do pray that this plan of a boys' home may save
some from contamination. I, seated with Sanders last night, found him
and his wife very hearty about it. I have only mentioned it to three
people, but I rather wish it to be talked about a little now, that
they may be curious, &c., to know exactly what I mean to do. The two
cottages, with plenty of room for the Fley's family and eight boys, with
half an acre of garden at £11. 5s. the year. I shall of course begin
with only one or two boys--the thing may not answer at all; but
everyone, Gardiner, several farmers, and two or three others, quite
poor, in different places, all say it must work well, with God's
blessing. I do not really wish to be scheming away, working a favourite
hobby, &c., but I do believe this to be absolutely essential. The
profligacy and impurity of the poor is beyond all belief. Every mother
of a family answers (I mean every honest respectable mother of a
family): "Oh sir, God will bless such a work, and it is for want of this
that so much misery and wretchedness abound." I believe that for a year
or so it will exhaust most of my money, but then it is one of the best
uses to which I can apply it; for my theory is, that help and assistance
is wanted in this way, and I would wish to make most of these things
self-supporting. Half an acre more of garden, thoroughly well worked,
will yield an astonishing return, and I look to Mary as a person of
really economical habits. It is a great relief to have poured all this
out. It is no easy task that I am preparing for myself. I know that I
fully expect to be very much disappointed, but I am determined to try
it. I am determined to try and make the people see that I am not going
to give way to everybody that asks; but that I am going to set on foot
and help on all useful industrial schemes of every kind, for people
of every age. I am hard at work, studying spade husbandry, inspectors'
reports of industrial schools, &c. I am glad you are all so happy. I am
so busy. Best love to all.
'Your loving
'J. C. P.'
Coley was thus already serving a vigorous apprenticeship in pastoral
work, while preparing himself for receiving deacon's orders. It was a
trying time both to his family and himself, for, as before said, his
standard was very high, and his own strong habit of self-contemplation
made his dissatisfaction with himself manifest in his manner to those
nearest to him. He was always gentle and unselfish; not showing temper,
but unhappiness.
Here are letters showing a good deal of his state of mind: the first
only dated 'Saturday evening,' but evidently written about this time,
in reply to the cautions with which his sister had replied to the above
letter of eager plans of improvement.
'My dearest Fan,--Your letter has just reached me from Honiton, and I
have read it with very great interest. I liked it better on a second
perusal of it, which showed in itself that I wanted it, for it is quite
true that I require to be reminded of the only true principle upon which
one ought to work; and I allow quite willingly that I trace interested
motives--e.g., love of self-approval or applause in actions where such
feelings ought least of all to enter. I certainly did feel pleased with
myself for speaking plainly to those people, and I often find myself
indulging the notion that I am going to be a very hard-working
clergyman, with a remedy for all the evils of the age, &c. If I was to
hunt about for an excuse, I might perhaps find one, by saying that I am
in that state of mind which attends always, I suppose, the anticipation
of any great crisis in a person's life; sometimes hard work and hard
thought, sometimes (though alas! very seldom) a real sense of the very
awful responsibility of ministering in the Church, sometimes a
less natural urging of the mind to contemplate and realise this
responsibility. I was for some time reading Wilberforce's new book,
and this involved an examination of the question in other writers; but
lately I have laid all controversial works aside almost entirely, and
have been reading Pearson, Bull, and the Apostolical Fathers, Clement
and Ignatius. I shall probably read Justin Martyr's Apologies, and some
treatises of Tertullian before next month is over. I have read some part
already. There is such a very strong practical element in these very
early writings that they ought to soothe and calm the mind; but I cannot
honestly conceal the fact that the theological interest for the most
part outweighs the practical teaching.
'My light reading is of a new and very amusing and interesting
character--viz., books on school economy, management of school farms,
allotments, the modern dairy, spade husbandry, agricultural chemistry.
K, W, F, C, and G, and I have great talks; and as they all agree with
me, I think them capital judges.
'I don't think at all that my present state of mind is quite natural.
You quite repeat my own words when you say it is transitory. A calm
undisturbed spirit of prayer and peace and contentment is a great gift
of God, and to be waited for with patience. The motto of "The Christian
Year" is very beautiful. I sent the roses on Tuesday. My best love to
dear Father and Joan.
'Ever your loving Brother,
'J. C. P.'
These words 'love of self-approval' perfectly analysed that snare
of Coley's early life, against which he so endeavoured to guard--not
self-conceit, but love of self-approval.
So the Easter week drew on, and during it he writes to his cousin:--
'Friday, Wallis Lodgings, Exeter: September, 1853.
'My dear Sophy,--We have had a good examination, I think; perhaps rather
harder than I expected. Woolecombe and Chancellor Harrington spoke to
me this morning, thanking me for my papers, and telling me to read the
Gospel at the Ordination.
'I did feel very nervous last Sunday and Monday, and the Ember Prayer
in the morning (when I was at Ottery) fairly upset me, but I don't think
anybody saw it; now, I am thankful to say, I am very well, and
feel thoroughly happy. I shall be nervous, no doubt, on Sunday, and
especially at reading the Gospel, but not I think so nervous as to break
down or do anything foolish; so when you know I am reading--for you
won't hear me, if you are in the stalls, don't distress yourself about
me.
'I can't tell what it was that upset me so on Sunday and
Monday--thinking of dear Mamma and how she had wished for this, the
overwhelming kindness of everybody about me, dear Father's simple words
of very affectionate comfort and advice.
'But I walked into Exeter, and on the way got quite calm, and so I have
been ever since. It is not strange that the realising the near approach
of what I have for years wished for, and looked forward to, should
at times come upon me with such force that I seem scarcely master of
myself; but it is only excitement of feeling, and ought, I know, to
be repressed, not for a moment to be entertained as a test of one's
religious state, being by no means a desirable thing. I am very glad the
examination is over. I did not worry myself about it, but it was rather
hard work, and now I have my time to myself for quiet thought and
meditation.
'Ever, dear Sophy, your affectionate Cousin,
'J. C. PATTESON.'
The next evening he writes:--
'Saturday, 5.45 P.M.
'My dearest Father,--I must write my last letter as a layman to you. I
can't tell you the hundredth part of the thoughts that have been passing
through my mind this week. There has been no return of the excitement
that I experienced last Sunday and Monday, and I have been very happy
and well.
'To-day my eyes are not comfortable, from I know not what cause, but as
all the work for them is over, it does not matter so much. I am glad to
have had a quiet time for reflection. Indeed, I do not enough realise my
great unworthiness and sinfulness, and the awful nature of the work I am
undertaking. I pray God very earnestly for the great grace of humility,
which I so sadly need: and for a spirit of earnest prayer, that I may be
preserved from putting trust in myself, and may know and forget myself
in my office and work. I never could be fit for such work, I know that,
and yet I am very thankful that the time for it has come. I do not feel
excited, yet I am somewhat nervous because it requires an effort to
meditate steadily. I have thought so much of my early life, of dearest
Mamma. What a snare it seems, so full of transitory earthly plans and
pursuits; such a want of earnestness of purpose and steady performance
of duty! God grant my life as a clergyman may be more innocent to
myself, and more useful to others! Tell dear Joan the gown came this
morning. My kind love to her, Fan, and Jem.
'Ever, my dearest Father,
'Your affectionate and dutiful Son,
'J. C. PATTESON.'
On the ensuing day, Sunday, September 14, 1853, John Coleridge Patteson
received the Diaconate at the hands of the venerable Bishop Phillpotts,
in Exeter Cathedral. His being selected to read the Gospel was the proof
of his superiority in the examination--no wonder, considering the two
additional years that he had spent in preparation, and the deep study
and searchings of heart of the last few months.
He was established in a small house at Alfington--the usual habitation
of the Curate. And of his first sermon there, his uncle, Sir John
Coleridge, gives the following touching description from his diary:--
'October 23, 1853.--Yesterday morning Arthur and I went to Alfington
Church, to be present at Coley's first sermon. I don't know when I have
been so much delighted and affected. His manner of saying the prayers
was exceedingly good: his voice very sweet and musical; without seeming
loud, it was fully audible, and gave assurance of more power if needed:
his manner quite unaffected, but sweet and devout. His sermon was a very
sound and good one, beautifully delivered; perhaps in the early parts,
from the very sweetness of his voice, and the very rapid delivery of
his words, a little more variety of intonation would have helped in
conveying his meaning more distinctly to those who formed the bulk
of his congregation. But when he came to personal parts this was not
needed. He made a kind allusion to me, very affecting to me; and when
I was in this mood, and he came to the personal parts, touching himself
and his new congregation, what he knew he ought to be to them and to
do for them, what they should do for themselves, and earnestly besought
their prayers, I was completely overcome, and weeping profusely.
Fanny Patteson and Arthur Coleridge were sitting with the Judge, and
were equally overcome. When the service was over, and the congregation
dispersed, Coley joined these three in the porch, holding out his hands,
taking theirs and shedding tears, and they with him--tears of warm
emotion too deep for words. He was evidently surprised at the effect
produced. In fact, on looking at the sermon, it does not seem to have
been in itself remarkable, but as his cousin Arthur says: 'I suppose
the deep spirituality of the man, and the love we bore him for years,
touched the emotional part of us.' The text was significant: 'We preach
not ourselves, but Christ Jesus the Lord; and ourselves your servants
for Jesus' sake' (2 Cor. iv. 5).
The services that the newly-ordained Deacon undertook were the ordinary
Sunday ones, and Wednesday and Friday Matins and Litany, Saints'-day
prayers and lecture, and an Advent and Lent Evensong and lecture on
Wednesdays and Fridays. These last had that great popularity which
attends late services. Dr. Cornish used to come on one Sunday in the
month to celebrate the Holy Communion (which is given weekly in the
mother Church); and when Mr. Grardiner was able to be at Sidmouth,
recovering from his illness, he used to come over on the second Sunday
in the month for the same purpose; and the next Lent, the Matins were
daily, and followed by a lecture.
At this time Patteson's constitutional shrinking from general society
was in full force, and he also had that dislike to 'speaking to' people
in the way of censure, which so often goes with tender and refined
natures, however strong; so that if his housekeeper needed a reproof, he
would make his sister administer it, and creep out of reach himself; but
this was one of the deficiencies with which he was struggling all his
life, and fortunately it is a fact that the most effective lectures
usually come from those to whom they cost the most.
This was the hardest part of his ministry. Where kindness and attention
were needed, nothing could be more spontaneous, sweet, or winning than
his ways. One of his parishioners, a farmer's daughter, writes:--
'Our personal knowledge of him began some months before his Ordination,
owing, I suppose, to Mr. Gardiner's severe illness; and as he was
very much respected, Mr. Patteson's attentions won from the first our
admiration and gratitude, which went on and on until it deepened
into that love which I do not think could have been surpassed by the
Galatians for their beloved St. Paul, which he records in his Epistle to
them (chap. iv. 15). All were waiting for him at his Ordination, and a
happy delusion seemed to have come over the minds of most, if not all,
that he was as completely ours as if he had been ordained expressly for
us.'
It was not his own feeling, for he knew that when his apprenticeship
should be past, the place was too small, and the work too easy, for a
man in full force and vigour, though for the sake of his father he was
glad to accept it for the present, to train himself in the work, and
to have full time for study; but he at that time looked to remaining in
England during his father's lifetime, and perhaps transferring himself
to Manchester, Liverpool, London, or some large city, where there was
need of mission work among the neglected.
His father was on the City of London Charter Commission, and was in
London from November to February, the daughters joining him there, but
there was no lack of friends around Alfington. Indeed it was in the
midst of an absolute clan of Coleridges, and in Buckerell parish, at
Deerpark, that great old soldier, Lord Seaton, was spending the few
years that passed between his Commissioner-ship in the Ionian Isles and
his Commandership in Ireland.
He was connected with the Coleridges through the Yonge family, and the
young people were all on familiar cousinly terms. Coley was much liked
by him; and often joined in the rides through the lanes and to the hills
with him and his daughters, when there were many conversations of much
interest, as there could not fail to be with a man who had never held a
government without doing his utmost to promote God's work in the Church
and for education; who had, moreover, strong opinions derived from
experience of the Red Indians in Upper Canada--namely, that to reclaim
the young, and educate them was the only hope of making Christianity
take root in any fresh nation.
It was at Deerpark, at a dinner in the late autumn of this year 1853,
that I saw Coley Patteson for the second and last time. I had seen him
before in a visit of three days that I made at Feniton with my parents
in the September of 1844, when he was an Eton boy, full of high spirits
and merriment. I remember then, on the Sunday, that he and I accompanied
our two fathers on a walk to the afternoon service at Ottery, and that
on the way he began to show something of his inner self, and talked
of his mother and her pleasure in Feniton; but it began to rain, and I
stayed for the night at Heaths Court, so that our acquaintance ceased
for that time. It was not a formal party at Deerpark, and the evening
was chiefly spent in playing at games, thread paper verses and the like,
in which Coley took his part with spirit. If I had guessed what he was
to be, I should have observed him more; but though, in after years, our
intercourse in letters makes us feel intimate with one another, these
two brief meetings comprise the whole of my personal acquaintance with
one in whom I then only saw a young clergyman with his heart in his
work.
Perhaps this is the best place to mention his personal appearance, as
the portrait at the beginning of this volume was taken not more than a
year later.
He was tall and of a large powerful frame, broad in the chest and
shoulders, and with small neat hands and feet, with more of sheer
muscular strength and power of endurance than of healthiness, so that
though seldom breaking down and capable of undergoing a great deal
of fatigue and exertion, he was often slightly ailing, and was very
sensitive to cold. His complexion was very dark, and there was a
strongly marked line between the cheeks and mouth, the corners of which
drooped when at rest, so that it was a countenance peculiarly difficult
to photograph successfully. The most striking feature was his eyes,
which were of a very dark clear blue, full of an unusually deep
earnest, and so to speak, inward, yet far away expression. His smile was
remarkably bright, sweet and affectionate, like a gleam of sunshine, and
was one element of his great attractiveness. So was his voice, which had
the rich full sweetness inherited from his mother's family, and which
always excited a winning influence over the hearers. Thus, though not a
handsome man, he was more than commonly engaging, exciting the warmest
affection in all who were concerned with him, and giving in return an
immense amount of interest and sympathy, which only became intensified
to old friends while it expanded towards new ones. Here is a letter to
his father, undated, but written not long after his settling down at
Alfington. After expressing his regret that his voice had been inaudible
to his sister Joanna at a Friday evening service, he proceeds:--
'I did not speak very loud, because I don't think I could do so and
at the same time keep my mind at work and thoughts collected. Anything
which is so unnatural and unusual as to make me conscious of myself in a
peculiar manner would prevent, I fear, my getting on with my oration at
all.
'I am glad you think I could not have acted otherwise with E---. I
quite expect ere long to find something going on which may call for
my interference, and I specially guarded myself on this point. It is
distinctly understood that I shall speak to him quite plainly whenever
and wherever I think it necessary to do so. I do not suppose it very
likely that he can go on long without my being forced to take some step;
but I really feel so very unequal to expressing a decided opinion upon
the great question of Bible readers, that I am certainly glad I have not
taken up a hostile position hastily. As a matter of fact, he reads
in very few cottages in my district; tracts he distributes almost
everywhere.
'Now I see of course the distinction between a man making it his
business to read the Bible and neighbours dropping in occasionally
to read a chapter to one who is unable to read, but where you are
distinctly told that the wish is most decidedly to support the
clergyman, and answers not unsatisfactory are given upon main points,
what difference remains between the two cases I have put that can
furnish matter for fair argument, with a man from education, &c.,
disposed to take a different view of the whole question? Add to this,
that I cannot appeal to the universal practice of the clergy. "Why,"
might it be said, "do you, as a clergyman find a difficulty where Mr.
H. finds none? You are, after all, acting on your own private opinion,
though you lay claim to authority for it." I cannot successfully appeal
to the distinctive teaching of our Church, clear and manifest as it is,
for the very words I think conclusive contain no such evidence for him,
and so on ad infinitum. Besides, to speak quite what I feel at present,
though only so perhaps because my view is necessarily unformed, the
natural order of things in such a district as this seems to be: gain
the affections of the people by gentleness and showing real interest
in their welfare, spiritual and temporal; show them in the Bible such
teaching as the Church considers necessary (but not as yet upon the
authority of the Church, or at least not so expressed to them); lead
them gradually to the acknowledgment of such truths as these: that
Christ did found a society called the Church, and appoint to certain
persons whom he sent the Ministry of reconciliation; that if we have no
guide but mere opinion, there will be thousands of conflicting opinions
in the world even among good men, whereas Truth can be but one, and that
practically this is found to be so; that it is no argument to say, that
the Spirit so operated as to enlighten the reason of each individual to
this extent, viz., that it may compose a Creed for him or herself; that
the Spirit acts now in the ordinary, though not less real and heavenly
manner; and that the infinite divisions among sectaries proves the fact
to be as I state it.
'Thus I imagine the want of that external and visible Church will be
felt as necessary to fix the Creeds pasa katadike.
'But to reverse this process, to cram positive teaching down their
throats upon the authority of the Church before they know what the
Church is, or feel the need of any power outside (so to speak) their
own minds to guide them, does seem to me in a place like this (humanly
speaking) suicidal. I cannot, of course, tell how much preparatory
teaching they have received, but I must judge from what I see and hear,
and deal accordingly in each cottage. Some few there are to whom I can
speak, as to Church people in the real sense of the word, but these are
as two or three in a hundred.
'One line to say whether you think me right or wrong, would be a great
comfort to me. I feel no tendency to latitudinarianism, but only to see
much good in systems unrecognised by your very highflyers. I believe
that the Church teaching is represented in an unfavourable, often
offensive, light to many of our poor, because they hear words and see
things which find no response in their hearts; because they are told,
ordered almost, to believe things the propriety of believing which they
do not recognise; because the existence of wants is implied when they
have never been felt, and a system for supplying them introduced which
finds no room in the understanding or affections of the patient.
'But you know, dear Father, what I mean, without more dusky attempts at
explaining myself.
'Do not many High Churchmen want a little more "experimental religion"
in Bishop Jebb's sense of the terms: not a religion of the feelings, but
a religion brought home to the heart, and truly felt so as to prohibit
any systematic criticism of the feelings?
'I am late this week with my sermons, I have not begun either of them,
and may have one to-morrow evening if my voice will do its part. I write
very long washy concerns, and find it difficult to do otherwise, for
it is a good pull upon me week after week, and latterly I have not been
able to read very much. I shall look out two or three that I think fair
specimens, and ask you by-and-by to run your eye over them, that you may
point out the defects.
'My ignorance of the Bible astonishes me, though not so much as it ought
to do. I purpose, D.V., to commence a thorough study of the original
texts. I must try to become something of a scholar, at all events, to
make any progress in the work. I sometimes hope that, in spite of my
many backslidings and broken resolutions, some move is taking place
within, where most it is wanted; but I live here so quietly, that I have
little (comparatively) food for some special faults. Good-bye, my dear
Father,
'Your affectionate and dutiful Son,
'J. C. P.'
'Some move taking place within!' It is impossible not to pause
and observe how as Confirmation and Communion had almost palpably
strengthened the boy's struggles with his inherent faults, so the grace
conferred with the Deacon's orders is now felt to be lifting him higher,
and enabling him to see further than he has yet seen.
Sermons were, however, never Patteson's forte. Though his pen flowed so
freely in letters, and he could pour out his heart extemporaneously
with great depth, fervour and simplicity, his sermons were laboured and
metaphysical, as if he had taken too much pains with them as it were,
and he could not speak to the abstract, as he could to the individual,
or when he saw the effect of his words. It was perhaps owing to the
defective system which threw two sermons a week upon a young deacon at
a time when his mind was working through such an experimental course of
study and thought. Yet his people, who had learnt to believe in little
but preaching, would not have come to prayers alone; and the extemporary
addresses, in which he would probably have been much more successful,
would have seemed to him at his age and at that period--twenty years
back--too presumptuous to be attempted, at any rate till he had better
learnt his ground. How his system would have succeeded, we cannot tell.
The nature of the peasantry of the county he had to deal with is, to
be quick-witted, argumentative, and ready of retort; open to religious
impressions, but with much of self-opinion and conceit, and not much
reverence, and often less conscientious in matters of honesty and
morality than denser rustics of less apparent piety. The Church had for
a long-period been at a peculiarly low ebb in the county, and there is
not a neighbourhood which has not traditions of incredibly ignorant,
careless and underbred--if not dissipated--clergy; and though there were
grand exceptions, they were only respected as men; faith in the whole
system, as a system, was destroyed. Bishop Phillpotts, coming down on
such elements as these, was, in spite of his soundness of faith and
grand trenchant force of character, better as a warrior than as a
shepherd, and the controversial and political sides of his character,
though invaluable to the Church, did not recommend him to the affections
of the people of his diocese, who could not understand the points of the
debate, and wanted the direct evidence of spirituality which they could
appreciate.
The cholera of 1832 had been especially terrible in the unwholesome
precincts of the Devonshire seaports, and the effect was a great craving
for religion. The Church was in no condition to avail herself of it; in
fact, she would have viewed it with distrust as excitement. Primitive
Methodism and Plymouth Brethrenism supplied the void, gave opportunities
of prayer, and gratified the quickened longing for devotion; and
therewith arose that association of the Church with deadness and
of Dissent with life, which infected even the most carefully tended
villages, and with which Patteson was doing his best to contend at
Alfington. The stage of gaining the people's affection and confidence,
and of quickening their religious life, he had attained; and the further
work of teaching them that the Church alone gives security of saving
union with Christ, was yet to come when his inward call led him
elsewhere.
On the 12th of December he says:--
'Yesterday was a very happy day; Gardiner came to help me and he
administered the Holy Communion to twenty-seven or twenty-eight of my
own people. This is nearly double the average before I came, and two
regular attendants are prevented by sickness from being at Church. I
trust I have not urged the necessity of communicating unwisely upon
them. I preach on it once a month, as you know, and in almost every
sermon allude to it, and where occasion offers, speak about it to
individuals at home; but I try to put before them the great awfulness
of it as well as the danger of neglecting it, and I warn them against
coming without feeling really satisfied from what I read to them, and
they read in the Bible concerning it. Six came yesterday for the first
time.... Old William (seventy-five years of age), who has never been a
communicant, volunteered on Thursday to come, if I thought it right. He
is, and always has been (I am told), a thoroughly respectable, sober,
industrious man, regular at Church once a day; and I went to his cottage
with a ticket in my pocket to urge him to consider the danger of going
on as if content with what he did and without striving to press onwards,
&c. But, after a long conversation on other matters, he said; "I should
like, Sir, to come to the Sacrament, if you have no objection;" and very
happy and thankful I felt, for I had prayed very earnestly that this old
man might be led thither by God's grace, and now it was done without any
urging on my part, beyond what he heard in Church and what I had said to
his daughter about him.'
The next of his letters is occupied with the pecuniary affairs of his
lodging house for farm boys, and the obtaining of ground where they
might grow vegetables for their own use.
In February his family returned home, and his sister Fanny thus speaks
of him to a friend:--
'He does not look well; and at first we were quite uneasy, for his eyes
were heavy and puffed, but he is much better, and confesses that dinners
and evenings here do him good, though he quite denies the starving,
and Mrs. Knowles also. She says he gets over anxious in mind, and was
completely chilled the week he sat in the hall. No doubt his house is
still both cold and damp, and the Church the same, and therefore
the labour of reading and preaching is very great. We are by degrees
interesting him in our winter life, having heard all his performances
and plans; and he is very glad to have us back, though much too busy to
have missed us when we were away. Now he has daily morning service,
with a lecture; and if it lasts, the impression he has made is really
extraordinary. We may well pray that he should not be vain of his works.
There are men whose whole lives seem changed, if I am to believe what I
hear.'
Such was the young Deacon's early success. With an affectionate brother
close at hand, and friends within easy reach, his Fellowship preserving
his connection with Oxford, his father's and brother's profession with
London, in fact, all England could offer; and he would easily have it
in his power to take fresh holidays on the Continent and enjoy those
delights of scenery, architecture, art and music, which he loved with an
appreciation and enthusiasm that could easily have become an absorbing
passion. Who could have a smoother, easier, pleasanter career open to
him than the Rev. John Coleridge Patteson at six and twenty?
Yet even then, the wish breathed to his mother, at fourteen, that he
might devote himself to the cause of the heathen, lay deep in his heart;
although for the present, he was, as it were, waiting to see what God
would have him do, whether his duty to his father required him to remain
at hand, or whether he might be called to minister in some great English
manufacturing town.
Early in 1854, it became known that the Bishop of New Zealand and Mrs.
Selwyn were about to spend a year in England. Coley's aspirations to
mission work were renewed. The thoughts excited by the sermons he had
heard at Eton twelve years previously grew in force. He remembered his
mother's promise of her blessing, and seriously considered of offering
himself to assist in the work in the Southern Hemisphere. He discussed
the matter seriously with his friend, Mr. Gardiner, who was strongly of
opinion that the scheme ought not to be entertained during his father's
lifetime. He acquiesced; but if his heart and mind were convinced, his
soul and spirit were not, and the yearnings for the forefront of the
battle were not quenched, though there was no slackening of zeal over
the present little flock, to make them suspect that he had a thought
beyond.
Old ties of friendship already mentioned made the Bishop and Mrs. Selwyn
promise to spend a few days at Feniton; and on the 19th of August the
New Zealand guests arrived at Feniton. After joining in the family
welcome, Coley went apart, and gave way to a great burst of tears, due,
perhaps, not so mueh to disappointed ardour, as to the fervent emotion
excited by the actual presence of a hero of the Church Militant, who
had so long been the object of deep silent enthusiasm. The next morning,
Coley walked from Alfington to breakfast at home, and afterwards went
into the garden with the Bishop, who led him to talk freely of his
present work in all its details. By-and-by the question arose, Did it
satisfy him?
Yes, the being near his father satisfied him that it was right for the
present, but at some future time, he hoped to do more, go perhaps to
some great manufacturing town, or, as he could not help going on to say,
what he should like would be to go out as a missionary, only the thought
of his father withheld him.
'But,' replied the Bishop, 'if you think about doing a thing of that
sort, it should not be put off till you are getting on in life. It
should be done with your full strength and vigour.'
Then followed an endeavour on both sides to ascertain whether the
inclination was a real earnest desire, or only fancy for the romance of
mission work. The test might be whether he were willing to go wherever
he might be sent, or only where he was most interested. Coley replied,
that he was willing to work anywhere, adding that his sister Fanny could
testify whether his desire were a real one of long standing or the mere
outcome of a fit of enthusiasm.
Therewith they separated, and Coley, going straight to Fanny, told her
what had passed: 'I could not help it,' he said:--'I told the Bishop of
my wish.'
'You ought to put it to my father, that he may decide it,' she answered;
'he is so great a man that he ought not to be deprived of the crown of
the sacrifice if he be willing to make it.'
So Coley repaired to his father, and confessed his long cherished
wish, and how it had come forth to the Bishop. Sir John was manifestly
startled; but at once said: 'You have done quite right to speak to me,
and not to wait. It is my first impulse to say No, but that would be
very selfish.'
Coley explained that he was 'driven to speak;' he declared himself not
dissatisfied with his present position, nor he hoped, impatient. If his
staying at home were decided upon, he would cheerfully work on there
without disappointment or imagining his wishes thwarted. He would leave
the decision entirely in the hands of his father and the Bishop.
Luncheon brought the whole family together; and Sir John, making room
for his younger daughter beside him, said, 'Fan, did you know this about
Coley?'
She answered that she had some idea, but no more could pass till the
meal was ended; when her father went into another room, and she followed
him. The great grief broke out in the exclamation: 'I can't let him go;'
but even as the words were uttered, they were caught back, as it were,
with--'God forbid I should stop him.'
The subject could not be pursued, for the Bishop was public property
among the friends and neighbours, and the rest of the day was bestowed
upon them. He preached on the Sunday at Alfington, where the people
thronged to hear him, little thinking of the consequences of his visit.
Not till afterwards were the Bishop and the father alone together, when
Sir John brought the subject forward. The Bishop has since said that
what struck him most was the calm balancing of arguments, like a true
Christian Judge. Sir John spoke of the great comfort he had in this son,
cut off as he was by his infirmity from so much of society, and enjoying
the young man's coming in to talk about his work. He dwelt on all with
entire absence of excitement, and added: 'But there, what right have I
to stand in his way? How do I know that I may live another year?'
And as the conversation ended, 'Mind!' he said; 'I give him wholly, not
with any thought of seeing him again. I will not have him thinking he
must come home again to see me.'
That resolution was the cause of much peace of mind to both father and
son. After family prayers that Sunday night, when all the rest had gone
upstairs, the Bishop detained the young man, and told him the result of
the conversation, then added: 'Now, my dear Coley, having ascertained
your own state of mind and having spoken at length to your father and
your family, I can no longer hesitate, as far as you recognise any power
to call on my part, to invite you most distinctly to the work.'
The reply was full acceptance.
Then taking his hand, the Bishop said, 'God bless you, my dear Coley! It
is a great comfort to me to have you for a friend and companion.'
Such was the outward and such the inward vocation to the Deacon now
within a month of the Priesthood. Was it not an evident call from Him by
whom the whole Church is governed and sanctified? And surely the noble
old man, who forced himself not to withhold 'his son, his firstborn
son,' received his crown from Him who said: 'With blessing I will bless
thee.'
And he wrote to his brother:--
'August 21.
'My dear old Jem,--I have news for you of an unexpected and startling
kind; about myself: and I am afraid that it will cause you some pain to
hear what I am to tell you. You must know that for years I have felt
a strong leaning toward missionary work, and though my proceedings at
Alfington and even the fact of going thither might seem to militate
against such a notion, yet the feeling has been continually present to
me, and constantly exercising an increasing influence over me. I trust
I have not taken an enthusiastic or romantic view of things; my own firm
hope and trust is that I have decided upon calm deliberate conviction,
and it is some proof of this, that Fanny and Joan have already guessed
my state of mind, and months ago anticipated what has now taken
place.... And so, dear Jem, you must help them all to bear what will of
course be a great trial. This is my trial also; for it is hard to bear
the thought that I may be giving unnecessary pain and causing distress
without really having considered sufficiently the whole matter. But then
I think God does not call now by an open vision; this thought has been
for years working in my mind: it was His providence that brought me into
contact with the Bishop in times past, and has led me to speak now. I
cannot doubt this. I feel sure that if I was alone in the world I should
go; the only question that remains is, "am I bound to stay for my dear
Father's sake, or for the sake of you all?" and this has been answered
for me by Father and the Bishop. And now, my dear Jem, think well over
my character, sift it thoroughly, and try to see what there is which may
have induced me to act wrongly in a matter of so much consequence. This
is the kindest thing you can do; for we ought to take every precaution
not to make a mistake before it is too late. Speak out quite plainly; do
tell me distinctly as far as you can see them my prevailing faults,
what they were in boyhood at Eton, and at College. It may help me to
contemplate more clearly and truly the prospect before me. We shall have
many opportunities, I trust, of discussing all this by-and-by. I shall
tell Uncle John, because some arrangements must be made about Alfington
as soon as may be. My tutor knows something about it already; it will
soon be known to more. But do not suppose that I imagine myself better
qualified for this work than hundreds of others more earnest, and
infinitely more unselfish, and practically good; but I have received an
invitation to a peculiar work, which is not offered to many others. We
must all look onwards: we must try to think of this world as but a short
moment in our existence; our real life and home is beyond the grave. On
September 24th I hope to be ordained Priest; think of me and pray
for me, my dear old fellow, that God will give me more of your own
unselfishness and care and interest for others, and teach me to act not
according to my own will and pleasure, but solely with a view to His
honour and glory. God bless you, my dear old Jem, my dear, dear brother.
'Your most loving brother,
'J. C. P.
From that moment the matter was treated as fixed; and only three days
later, the intention was announced to the relations at Thorverton.
This is the letter to the little fatherless cousin, Paulina Martyn,
who had always been devoted to Coley, and whom he loved with a triple
portion of the affection children always gained from him. She was
only eight years old, but had the precocity of solitary children much
attended to by their elders:--
'Feniton: August 24, 1854.
'My darling Pena,--I am going to tell you a secret, and I am afraid it
is one which will make you feel very sorry for a little while. Do you
remember my talking to you one day after breakfast rather gravely, and
telling you afterwards it was my first sermon to you? Well, my darling,
I was trying to hint to you that you must not expect to go on very long
in this world without troubles and trials, and that the use of them is
to make us think more about God and about Heaven, and to remember that
our real and unchangeable happiness is not to be found in this world,
but in the next. It was rather strange for me to say all this to a
bright happy good child like you, and I told you that you ought to be
bright and happy, and to thank God for making you so. It is never right
for us to try to make ourselves sad and grieve. Good people and good
children are cheerful and happy, although they may have plenty of trials
and troubles. You see how quietly and patiently Mamma and Grandpapa
and Grandmamma take all their trouble about dear Aunty; that is a good
lesson for us all. And now, my darling, I will tell you my secret. I am
going to sail at Christmas, if I live so long, a great way from England,
right to the other end of the world, with the good Bishop of New
Zealand. I dare say you know where to find it on the globe. Clergymen
are wanted out there to make known the Word of God to the poor ignorant
people, and for many reasons it is thought right that I should go. So
after Christmas you will not see me again for a very long time, perhaps
never in this world; but I shall write to you very often, and send you
ferns and seeds, and tell you about the Norfolk Island pines, and you
must write to me, and tell me all about yourself, and always think of
me, and pray for me, as one who loves you dearly with all his heart,
and will never cease to pray God that the purity and innocence of
your childhood may accompany you all through your life and make you a
blessing (as you are now, my darling) to your dear mother and all who
know you.
'Ever your most affectionate,
'J. C. PATTESON.'
To the child's mother the words are:--
'I pray God that I may have chosen aright, and that if I have acted from
sudden impulse too much, from love of display, or from desire to raise
some interest about myself, or from any other selfish and unholy motive,
it may be mercifully forgiven.
'Now, at all events, I must pray that with a single honest desire for
God's glory, I may look straight onwards towards the mark. I must forget
what is behind, I must not lose time in analysing my state of mind to
see how, during years past, this wish has worked itself out. I trust the
wish is from God, and now I must forget myself, and think only of the
work whereunto I am called. But it is hard to flesh and blood to think
of the pain I am causing my dear dear Father, and the pain I am causing
to others outside my own circle here. But they are all satisfied that
I am doing what is right, and it would surprise you, although you know
them so well, to hear the calmness with which we talk about outfits.'
A heavy grief was even now on the family. The beloved, 'Uncle Frank,' so
often affectionately mentioned, had been failing for some time. He
had taken a journey abroad, with one of his daughters, in hopes of
refreshment and invigoration, but the fatigue and excitement were more
than he could bear; he returned home, and took to his bed. He suffered
no pain, and was in a heavenly state of mind indeed, a most blessed
death-bed, most suggestive of comfort and peace to all who survive as a
most evident proof of what the close of life may be, if only 'that life
is spent faithfully in doing our duty to God'--as Patteson wrote to his
old friend, Miss Neill.
'And now one word about myself, which at such a time I should not
obtrude upon you, but that the visit of the Bishop of New Zealand made
it necessary for me to speak.
'I am going with him to work, if all is well, at the Antipodes,
believing that the growing desire for missionary work, which for
years has been striving within me, ought no longer to be resisted, and
trusting that I am not mistaken in supposing that this is the line of
duty that God has marked out for me.
'You may be sure that all this is done with the full consent and
approbation of my dear Father. He and the Bishop had a great deal of
conversation about it, and I left it entirely for them to determine.
That it will be a great trial to us all at Christmas when we sail, I
cannot conceal from myself; it is so great a separation that I cannot
expect ever to see my dear Father, perhaps not any of those I love best,
again in this world. But if you all know that I am doing, or trying to
do, what is right, you will all be happy about me; and what has just
been taking place at the Manor House teaches us to look, on a little to
a blessed meeting in a better place soon. It is from no dissatisfaction
at my present position, that I am induced to take this step. I have been
very happy at Alfington; and I hope to be ordained Priest, on the 24th
of September, with a calm mind. I trust I am not following any sudden
hasty impulse, but obeying a real call to a real work, and (in the
midst of much self-seeking and other alloy) not wholly without a sincere
desire to labour for the honour and glory of God.'
With this purpose full in view, Coleridge Patteson received Ordination
as a Priest in the ensuing Ember Week, again at the hands of Bishop
Phillpotts, in Exeter Cathedral; where a beautiful marble pulpit is to
commemorate the fact.
The wrench from home and friends could not but be terrible. The sisters,
indeed, were so far prepared that they had been aware from the first
of his wish and his mother's reception of it, and when they told their
Father, he was pleased and comforted; for truly he was upheld by the
strength of willing sacrifice. Those were likewise sustained who felt
the spirit of missionary enterprise and sympathy, which was at that time
so strongly infused into the Church; but the shock was severe to many,
and especially to the brother who had been devoted to Coley from their
earliest infancy, and among his relations the grief was great.
As to the district of Alfington, the distress was extreme. The people
had viewed Mr. Patteson as their exclusive property, and could not
forgive the Bishop of New Zealand for, as they imagined, tempting him
away. 'Ah! Sir,' was the schoolmistress's answer to some warm words from
Mr. Justice Coleridge in praise of Bishop Selwyn, 'he may be--no
doubt he is--a very good man. I only wish he had kept his hands off
Alfington.' 'It would not be easy,' says the parishioner from whom
I have already quoted, 'to describe the intense sorrow in view of
separation. Mr. Patteson did all he could to assure us that it was his
own will and act, consequent upon the conviction that it was God's will
that he should go, and to exonerate the Bishop, but for some time he was
regarded as the immediate cause of our loss; and he never knew half the
hard things said of him by the same people who, when they heard he
was coming, and would preach on the Sunday, did their utmost to make
themselves and their children look their very best.'
Indeed, the affectionate writer seems to have shared the poor people's
feeling that they had thus festally received a sort of traitor with
designs upon their pastor. She goes on to tell of his ministrations to
her mother, whose death-bed was the first he attended as a Priest.
It would be impossible for me to say all he was to her. Not long before
her death, when he had just left the room, she said, 'I have not felt
any pain or weakness whilst Mr. Patteson has been here.' I was not
always present during his visits to her, and I think their closer
communings were only known to Him above, but their effects were
discernible in that deep confidence in him on her part, and that lasting
impression on him, for you will remember, in his letter last April, he
goes back in memory to that time, and calls it--'a solemn scene in my
early ministry.' Solemn, indeed, it was to us all that last night of
her life upon earth. He was with her from about the middle of the day
on Monday until about four o'clock on Tuesday morning; when, after
commending her soul to God, he closed her eyes with his own hands, and
taking out his watch, told us the hour and moment of her departure. He
then went home and apprised Miss Wilkins of her death in these words:
'My soul fleeth unto the LORD before the morning watch, I say before the
morning watch,' and at the earliest dawn of day, the villagers were made
aware that she had passed away by the tolling bell, and tolled by him.
This was not the only death during his ministry among us; but it was
the first occasion where he gave the Communion of the Sick, also when he
read the Burial Service. Cases of rejoicing with those that rejoiced as
well as of weeping with those that wept, the child and the aged seemed
alike to appreciate his goodness. In him were combined those qualities
which could inspire with deep reverence and entire confidence. Many,
many are or will be the stars in the crown of his rejoicing, and some
owe to him under God, their deeper work of grace in the heart and their
quickening in the divine life.'
A remarkable testimony is this to the impression remaining after the
lapse of sixteen years from a ministry extending over no more than
seventeen months. 'Our Mr. Patteson' the people called him to the last.
Yet, in the face of all this grief, the parting till death, the work
broken off, the life cut short midway, the profusion of needs at home
for able ministers, is it to be regretted that Coleridge Patteson
devoted himself to the more remote fields abroad? I think we shall find
that his judgment was right. Alfington might love him dearly, but the
numbers were too small to afford full scope for his powers, and he would
have experienced the trials of cramped and unemployed energies had he
remained there beyond his apprenticeship. Nor were his gifts, so far as
can be judged, exactly those most requisite for work in large towns.
He could deal with individuals better than with masses, and his
metaphysical mind, coupled with the curious difficulty he had in writing
to an unrealised public, either in sermons or reports, might have
rendered him less effective than men of less ability. He avoided,
moreover, the temptations, pain, and sting of the intellectual warfare
within the bosom of the Church, and served her cause more effectually on
her borders than he could in her home turmoils. His great and peculiar
gifts of languages, seconded by his capacity for navigation, enabled him
to be the builder up of the Melanesian Church in so remarkable a manner
that one can hardly suppose but that he was marked out for it, and these
endowments would have found no scope in an ordinary career. Above all,
no man can safely refuse the call to obey the higher leadings of grace.
If he deny them, he will probably fall below that which he was before,
and lose 'even that which he seemeth to have.'
A few days later, he wrote to his cousin Arthur Coleridge an expression
of his feelings regarding the step he had taken in the midst of the pain
it was costing to others:--
'Feniton: November 11, 9 A.M.
'My dear Arthur,--Your letter was very acceptable because I am, I
confess, in that state of mind occasionally when the assurance of my
being right, coming from another, tends to strengthen my own conviction.
'I do not really doubt as I believe; and yet, knowing my want of
consideration for others, and many other thoughts which naturally
prevent my exercising a clear sound judgment on a matter affecting
myself, I sometimes (when I have had a conversation, it throws me
back upon analysing my own conduct) feel inclined to go over the whole
process again, and that is somewhat trying.
'On the other hand, I am almost strangely free from excitement. I live
on exactly as I did before: and even when alone with Father, talk just
as I used to talk, have nothing more to tell him, not knowing how to
make a better use of these last quiet evenings.
'By-and-by I shall wish I had done otherwise, perhaps, but I do not know
now, that I have anything specially requiring our consideration: we talk
about family matters, the movements in the theological and political
world, &c., very little about ourselves.
'One of all others I delight to think of for the music's sake, and
far more for the glorious thought that it conveys. "Then shall the
righteous," not indeed that I dare apply it to myself (as you know), but
it helps one on, teaches what we may be, what our two dear parents are,
and somehow the intervening, space becomes smaller as the eye is fixed
steadily on the glory beyond.
'God bless you, my dear fellow.
'Ever your affectionate
'J. C. P.'
The Mission party intended to sail immediately after Christmas in the
'Southern Cross,' the schooner which was being built at Blackwall for
voyages among the Melanesian isles. In expectation of this, Patteson
went up to London in the beginning of December, when the admirable
crayon likeness was taken by Mr. Richmond, an engraving from which is
here given. He then took his last leave of his uncle, and of the cousins
who had been so dear to him ever since the old days of daily meeting
in childhood; and Miss Neill, then a permanent invalid, notes down: 'On
December 13, I had the happiness of receiving the Holy Communion from
dear Coley Patteson, and the following morning I parted from him, as
I fear, for ever. God bless and prosper him, and guard him in all the
dangers he will encounter!' He wrote thus soon after his return:--
'Feniton: December 22, 1854.
'My dear Miss Neill,--I began a note to you a day or two ago, but I
could not go on with it, for I have had so very much to do in church
and out of it, parochializing, writing sermons, &c. It makes some little
difference in point of time whether I am living here or at Alfington,
and so the walking about from one house to another is not so convenient
for writing letters as for thinking over sermons.
'I need not tell you what a real happiness and comfort it is to me to
have been with you again and to have talked so long with you, and most
of all to have received the Communion with you. It is a blessed thought
that no interval of space or time can interrupt that Communion of the
Spirit, and that we are one in Him, though working in different corners
of the Lord's field.
'I want to look you out a little book or two; and Fanny has told you
that if ever my picture is photographed, I have particularly desired
them to send you a copy with my love. Your cross I have now round my
neck, and I shall always wear it; it will hang there with a locket
containing locks of hair of my dear Father and Mother, the girls, and
Jem.
'You will be glad to hear that they all seem cheerful and hearty. Fan
is not well, but I do not see that she is depressed or unhappy. In fact,
the terrible events of the war prove a lesson to all, and they feel, I
suppose, that it might be far worse, and that so long as I am doing my
duty, there is no cause for sorrow.
'Still there will be seasons of loneliness and sadness, and it seems to
me as if it always was so in the case of all the people of whom we read
in the Bible. Our Lord distinctly taught His disciples to expect it to
be so, and even experienced this sorrow of heart Himself, filling up
the full measure of His cup of bitterness. So I don't learn that I ought
exactly to wish it to be otherwise, so much is said in the Bible about
being made partaker of His, sufferings, only I pray that it may please
God to bear me up in the midst of it. I must repeat that your example
is constantly before me, as a witness to the power that God gives of
enduring pain and sickness. It is indeed, and great comfort it gives
me. He is not indeed keeping you still in the world without giving you
a work to do, and enabling you from your bed of sickness to influence
strongly a circle of friends.
'God bless you for all your kindness to me, and watchfulness over me
as a child, for your daily thought of me and prayers for me, and may He
grant that I may wear your precious gift not only on but in my heart.
'Always your very affectionate
'J. C. PATTESON.
'P.S.--I do not expect to sail for three weeks; this morning I had
a line about the ship, and they say that she cannot be ready for a
fortnight.'
On Christmas-day, he was presented with a Bible subscribed for by
the whole Alfington population. Here is a sentence from his letter of
acknowledgment:--
'If these poor needy souls can, from love to a fellow creature whom they
have known but a few months, deny themselves their very crumb of bread
to show their affection, what should be our conduct to Him from whom we
have received all things, and to whom we owe our life, strength, and all
that we possess?'
The farewell service was said by one of these poor old people to be like
a great funeral. Sexagesima Sunday was Sir John's sixty-sixth birthday,
and it was spent in expectation that it would be the last of the whole
party at home, for on the Monday Sir John was obliged to go to London
for a meeting of the Judicial Committee. The two notes his son wrote
during his absence are, perhaps to prove good spirits, full of the
delights of skating, which were afforded by the exceptionally severe
frost of February 1855, which came opportunely to regale with this
favourite pastime one who would never tread on solid ice again. He wrote
with zest of the large merry party of cousins skating together, of the
dismay of the old housekeeper when he skimmed her in a chair over the
ice, sighing out, in her terror, 'My dear man, don't ye go so fast,'
with all manner of endearing expressions--of the little boys to whom
he threw nuts to be scrambled for, and of his own plunge through the
thinner ice, when, regardless of drenched garments, he went on with
the sport to the last, and came home with clothes frozen as stiff as a
board.
He was not gone when his father and brother came home on the
twenty-sixth, prepared to go with him to Southampton.
The note to his cousin Arthur written at this time thus ends: 'We
worked together once at Dresden. Whatever we have acquired in the way of
accomplishments, languages, love of art and music, everything brings us
into contact with somebody, and gives us the power of influencing them
for good, and all to the glory of God.'
Many were touched when, on the first Sunday in Lent, as Sir John
Patteson was wont to assist in Church by reading the Lessons, it fell to
him to pronounce the blessing of God upon the patriarch for his willing
surrender of his son.
After all, the 'Southern Cross' was detected in leaking again, and
as she was so small that the Mission party would have been most
inconveniently crowded for so long a voyage, the Bishop was at length
persuaded to relinquish his intention of sailing in her, and passages
were taken for himself, Mrs. Selwyn, Mr. Patteson, and another
clergyman, in the 'Duke of Portland,' which did not sail till the end of
March, when Patteson was to meet her at Gravesend.
Thus he did not depart till the 25th. 'I leave home this morning I may
say, for it has struck midnight,' he wrote to Miss Neill. 'I bear with
me to the world's end your cross, and the memory of one who is bearing
with great and long-tried patience the cross that God has laid upon
her.'
He chose to walk to the coach that would take him to join the railway at
Cullompton. The last kisses were exchanged at the door, and the sisters
watched him out of sight, then saw that their father was not standing
with them. They consulted for a moment, and then one of them silently
looked into his sitting room, and saw him with his little Bible, and
their hearts were comforted concerning him. After that family prayers
were never read without a clause for Missionaries, 'especially the
absent member of this family.'
He went up to his brother's chambers in London, whence a note was sent
home the next day to his father:--
'I write one line to-night to tell you that I am, thank God, calm and
even cheerful. I stayed a few minutes in the churchyard after I left
you, picked a few primrose buds from dear mamma's grave, and then walked
on.
'At intervals I felt a return of strong violent emotion, but I soon
became calm; I read most of the way up, and felt surprised that I could
master my own feelings so much.
'How much I owe to the cheerful calm composure which you all showed this
morning! I know it must have cost you all a great effort. It spared me a
great one.'
On the 27th the brothers went on board the 'Duke of Portland,' and
surveyed the cabins, looking in at the wild scene of confusion sure
to be presented by an emigrant ship on the last day in harbour. A long
letter, with a minute description of the ship and the arrangements ends
with: 'I have every blessing and comfort. Not one is wanting. I am not
in any excitement, I think, certainly I do not believe myself to be
in such a state as to involve a reaction of feeling. Of course if I am
seedy at sea for a few days I shall feel low-spirited also most likely,
and miss you all more in consequence. But that does not go below the
surface. Beneath is calm tranquil peace of mind.'
On the 28th the two brothers joined the large number of friends who went
down with the Mission party, among them Mr. Edward Coleridge.
Parting notes were written from on board to all the most beloved; to
little Paulina, of bright hopes, to Miss Neill of her cross; to Arthur
the German greeting, 'Lebe wohl, doch nicht auf Ewigkeit,'--to Mr.
Justice Coleridge:--
'March 28, 1855.
'My dear Uncle,--One line more to thank you for all your love and to
pray for the blessing of God upon you and yours now and for ever.
'We sail to-day. Such letters from home, full of calm, patient, cheerful
resignation to his will. Wonderfully has God supported us through this
trial. My kind love to Arthur. Always, my dear Uncle, Your affectionate,
grateful Nephew,
'JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON.'
Perhaps the frame of mind in which Coley left England can best be
gathered from the following extract from a letter to his father from his
uncle Edward:--
'While on board I had a good deal of quiet talk with him, and was fully
confirmed by his manner and words, of that which I did not doubt before,
that the surrender of self, which he has made, has been put into his
heart by God's Holy Spirit, and that all his impulses for good are based
on the firm foundation of trust in God, and a due appreciation of his
mortal, as well as professional condition. I never saw a hand set on the
plough stead with more firmness, yet entire modesty, or with an eye and
heart less turned backwards on the world behind. I know you do not in
any way repine at what you have allowed him to do; and I feel sure that
ere long you will see cause to bless God not only for having given
you such a son, but also for having put it into his heart so to devote
himself to that particular work in the Great Vineyard.'
About 5 P.M. the 'Duke of Portland' swung round with the tide, strangers
were ordered on shore, Coleridge and James Patteson said their last
farewells, and while the younger brother went home by the night-train
to carry the final greetings to his father and sisters, the ship weighed
anchor and the voyage was begun.