Oxford—Martyrs—Boat-race.

My reader will be ready to forget London for a time; and perhaps also to accompany me on an excursion. I went to Oxford, for a few days, to keep some appointments, and found it far more delightful than before, as the men were all up, and everything looking bright and lively. The trees in the gardens and meadows were in fine leaf; and many shrubs in full blossom, so that what Nature has done for Oxford began to be as apparent as the enchantments it derives from Art. In the gardens of Exeter College I observed a Virginia creeper, luxuriantly covering the walls, and had a good opportunity of contrasting its effect with that of the ivy, for which, in our country, it is so generally substituted. It is certainly more cheerful, but lacks the dignity of its sullen rival. There is a fig-tree trained against the college walls, said to be that favourite of one of its former worthies, which a graceless Soph once stripped of its fruit, leaving only a single fig, which he labelled, “a fig for Dr. Kennicott.” Many are the minor traditions of Oxford, of a similar sort. Every tree and shrub seems to have a history, and “green memories” are here something more than a figure of speech.

A Sunday at Oxford affords one, at least, the opportunity for constant attendance upon Divine Service. I went, at 7 o’clock, to St. Mary’s, where the Holy Eucharist was celebrated, and where I thankfully received the Sacrament, with a considerable number of the parishioners, and members of the University. After breakfast, at Jesus College, I returned to St. Mary’s, to hear the Bampton Lecturer—Mr. Wilson, of St John’s. The lecture was delivered, of course, before the University, the Undergraduates filling the gallery, and the Dons the nave below. The lecturer, preceded by the bedels, entered in company with the Vice-Chancellor, to whom he bowed, as he turned to the pulpit stairs. Mounting to his place, and covering his face with his cap, he offered his private prayers, and then began the bidding-prayers, in the usual form—making special mention of St. John’s College, and of its benefactors, “such as were Archbishop Laud, etc.” But let no one imagine that this was an instance of spontaneous reverence for the Anglican Cyprian, for the lecture which followed might have moved the very bones of the martyr in his grave, so utterly did it conflict with the doctrines of the Church. It was evidently received with great dissatisfaction. It was decidedly clever, as to form and structure; but savoured of Bunsenism quite too much for the taste of a genuine Churchman. It was read in a dull, dry manner, more befitting the doctrine than the occasion. But, I must own that I greatly admire this way of University preaching; and the freedom of a sermon, thus delivered, by itself, apart from the service, and as a distinct thing, having its own time and object. Subsequently, the Church having been emptied, and filled again by a different congregation, the parochial service and sermon went on in all respects, as usual. Then, in the afternoon, there was a sermon before the University, preceded by the bidding-prayers, as in the morning; save that the preacher made special mention of Oriel College, of which he was a member, commemorating its benefactors, “such as were King Edward the Second, etc.” Then followed a powerful sermon, which evidently produced a great sensation. The Church was crowded, for the preacher was a general favourite. His manner was earnest, and often eloquent: and, in tones of most solemn and vigorous rebuke, he protested against the slavish dependence to which the State seemed resolved to reduce the Church. The Gorham case seemed to be in the preacher’s mind, and perhaps the flagrant elevation to the Episcopate of Dr. Hampden.

The parochial service again followed; after which I dined in the Hall of Oriel, where I met the preacher among his old collegians, and greatly enjoyed the company in general. After dinner, we went to service in the College Chapel; and after this there were still services in several places, though I did not attend them. It would have been hard to have named an hour in the whole day when services were not going on somewhere in this City of Holy Places.

In the Common-room of Oriel, I met with a very agreeable person, to whom I owed not a little of subsequent pleasure, and to whom I became warmly attached. At his instance, during the week, I substituted the more recherché pleasure of a visit to Nuneham Courtenay, for the more ordinary cockney pilgrimage to Blenheim. I went in his company, and in his own carriage, and had no reason to regret my adoption of his advice. The grounds of Nuneham are proverbial for the beauty of genuine English landscape, and a range in this noble park affords continual prospects of cultivated fields, and snug hamlets, and the silvery windings of the Isis through the meads. The gardens and shrubbery are interspersed with urns and tablets and inscriptions, in the Shenstone style, and among them I observed a cenotaph of the poet Mason. The taste of the more artificial charms of Nuneham is somewhat antiquated, and smacks of the Hanoverian age, now happily departing: but it does one good to see these things, as illustrating the period to which they belong. I was all the time thinking of Jemmy Thomson, as I rambled among the elms and yews of Nuneham; and especially when I came to a clump of those spreading beeches, with smooth columnar trunks, on which his swains were wont to endite their amatory verses. Glimpses of Oxford, which one catches now and then, add a special charm to this noble demesne, and the Thames glitters here and there in the view to enliven a broad survey of rural scenery, which can hardly be said to lack anything appropriate to its English character. The Church of Nuneham is the grand mistake. It looks like a fane erected to the goddess of the wood, by some ancient Grecian, and provokes something less pleasing than a smile, when one learns that it is the successor of a genuine old English church, which was judged a blemish to the classical charms of the house and gardens. Of the rectory, although it is of modern design, I can speak with more satisfaction. It is a charming residence, such as an American parson seldom inhabits, but which one loves to see others enjoying, and adorning with every domestic grace. Here we lunched, substantially, concluding our repast with gooseberry-tart and cream, such as no one ever tastes except in England; thus gaining a conception of the rich glebe and pasturage of Nuneham, which a more sentimental tourist might fail to carry away from a mere feast of the eye.

We visited the parish-school, and I was particularly struck with the neatness and order of the little academy, and not less with the exactness of the instruction. The children of the peasantry were the scholars, and, instead of jackets, the boys nearly all wore the little plaited shirt of coarse brown linen, so familiar to us from pictures, but so unlike anything worn by American children, however humble in station. They were very closely examined by their teachers, and their answers were generally correct. America was pointed out on the map, and when I was introduced to the little urchins as an American, it was amusing to see their surprise. They seemed to pity me for living so very far away! Then they were catechized. It did me good to hear the familiar words, so often uttered by little voices around the chancel rails of my own parish-church, now repeated, in the same way, by these little English Christians. Some of the subsidiary questions amused me, and not less the answers, especially those under the phrase—“to honour and obey the Queen, and all that are put in authority under her.” Then came the clause—“to order myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.” “And who are your betters?” asked the master: to which, “Lady Waldegrave,” and other names of the gentle inhabitants of Nuneham Courtenay, were most loyally responded. In practical matters of a more strictly religious character, the questions and replies were highly gratifying, and often caused the tears to spring in my eyes, in view of the manifold blessings which such instructions cannot fail to convey to a nation, and to the souls of all who receive them. Alas! for the schools of our country, where the children come together under the blight of divers creeds, or of utter unbelief, and where in solemn deference to the spirit of sect and party, religion is daily less and less a tolerated element in the training of immortal souls!

We drove pleasantly back to Oxford, passing Sanford, and Cowley, and Iffley, and stopping at the Church of Littlemore, which has been lately much improved, and in which we found service going on. A drive into Oxford, from almost any direction, cannot fail to please, so inspiring is the sight of the city itself, and our return from Littlemore afforded, at least to myself, some new and charming views of its prominent features, which were now becoming quite familiar.

For several days I lingered in the bewitching society of the University, sharing its hospitalities, and daily revelling in the inspection of its curiosities and antiquities. With what a spell does the enjoyment of those mornings and evenings revive in my fancy as I write. A breakfast-party at Merton, the cool breeze of the morn coming in at the windows, fragrant from the meadows; an extemporary lunch in the crypts of St. John’s, tapping the college beer, and inspecting the ancient masonry of its Gothic vaults, once the substructions of a monastery; a dinner in the lordly hall of Magdalen, with dessert and conversation in the Common-room; an evening party at Oriel, among wits, and poets, and divines! Who would not allow that such are substantial pleasures, realizing “those Attic nights, and refections of the gods,” of which our fancy is full, in the earlier enthusiasm of classical pursuits! And then the discourse was so animating and refreshing. No hackney talk of dull common-place sentiment, or of small-beer literature; but a roving, haphazard, review of grave and gay together; a deep and earnest discussion of religious themes; a sprightly dash into politics; quick questions and replies about America, and republics, and democracies; illustrative quotations of a fresh and spontaneous character, often garnished with some ingenious misapplication, or original supply of words, for the sake of sport; a sharp debate about the civil wars; a dissection of Macaulay; a clever story of old Parr; and reviving anecdotes of Oxford and old times; with a glow of kindly and religious feeling in all, without cant or ostentation; these were the filling up of successive days and nights in those halls and chambers of dear, dear Oxford, which I cannot remember without a grateful thrill, and which I can only put aside from covetous regret, by calm faith that “it is more blessed to give than receive.” After all, it is in every way more worthy of a Christian, to toil in the wilderness, than to recline in the bowers, and to enter into the labours of by-gone generations. Yes—dear as are the delights of a life in academic shades, and unparalleled as are the advantages of mind and body with which Oxford ennobles her children, I would prefer a Divinity chair at Nashotah, to a fellowship at Magdalen, or to the richest benefice which the University can bestow. It is hazardous to enjoy too much; and how great the responsibility in such a world as this, of receiving anything for which we may fail to make a return to God and men, and which must go to make our stewardship more fearful, against the day of account!

We have gifts differing. Far be it from me to insinuate that the life of an Oxford Fellow is ordinarily an idle or useless one. Many of them are as laborious and as useful men as ever wrote or thought, and great are the blessings which they diffuse around them. Too often have their generous hospitalities been mistaken for habitual self-indulgences; and even guests who have tasted their wine without a murmur, have sometimes gone away to complain of convivialities, of which they were themselves the exacting proponents. But when the question is not as to them, but as to ourselves, we are surely at liberty to prefer our humbler and less favoured lot! Shall we repine because we are Americans, and because we shall never live to see an Oxford in our own dear country? God forbid! I love to think that it is theirs to enjoy, and mine only to remember; and that if toil and self-denial are the lot of an American clergyman, he is, nevertheless, fulfilling a mission more immediately like that of his glorious Master, and less fraught with temptations to make one’s heaven this side the grave.

I had seen the Duke of Wellington and Samuel Rogers. There was one whom I desired to see besides, and on some accounts, with deeper interest, to complete my hold upon the surviving past. For sixty years had Dr. Routh been president of Magdalen, and still his faculties were strong, and actively engaged in his work. I saw him in his 97th year; and it seemed as if I had gone back a century, or was talking with a reverend divine, of the olden time, who had stepped out of a picture-frame. He sat in his library, in gown and bands, wearing a wig, and altogether impressing me as the most venerable figure I had ever beheld. Nothing could exceed his cordiality and courtesy, and, though I feared to prolong my visit, his earnestness in conversation more than once repressed my endeavour to rise. He remembered our colonial clergy, and related the whole story of Bishop Seabury’s visit, and of his application to the Scottish Church, which Dr. Routh himself first suggested. ‘And now,’ said I, ‘we have thirty Bishops and 1,500 clergy.’ He lifted his aged hands, and said, “I have, indeed, lived to see wonders,” and he added devout expressions of gratitude to God, and many inquiries concerning our Church. I had carried an introduction to him from the Rev. Dr. Jarvis, and at the same time, announced the death of that lamented scholar and divine, whose funeral I had attended a few days before I sailed from America. He spoke of him with affection and regret, and also referred to his great regard for Bishop Hobart. I could not say farewell to such a patriarch, in the meaningless forms of ordinary intercourse, and, as I rose to depart, I craved his blessing, and humbly knelt to receive it. He placed his venerable hand upon my head, and said—“God Almighty bless you, for Jesus Christ’s sake,” and so I took my departure, with my heart full, and with tears in my eyes.

Going, quite alone, to St. John’s College, I indulged myself in delightful meditations as I lounged in its gardens, and watched the young gownsmen shooting arrows at a target, or enjoying themselves about the walks. I went into the quadrangle, that munificent monument of Laud’s affection for his beloved college. I passed on to the chapel. The door was not locked, and I entered it alone. Beneath the altar lies the Archbishop’s mutilated corpse; and there, too, lies the stainless Juxon, whom he loved so well, and who served the last moments of Charles the First with the holy offices of the Church. I gave myself up to the powerful impressions of the spot, and spent a few minutes in very solemn meditations. In the library of the college I afterwards saw the pastoral crook of the martyred Primate; the little staff which supported his tottering steps on the scaffold, and the cap which covered his venerable head only a few minutes before it fell from the block.

In the street, before Balliol College, the martyrs Latimer and Ridley were burned. Perhaps the precise spot is not known; but among the paving-stones, there is fixed in the earth a little cross, sunk to a level with the street, and simply designating the supposed site of the stake. It was one of my pleasures, during this visit to Oxford, to meet with Bishop Otey, then just arrived from America; and I had the pleasure of conducting that excellent missionary prelate to this sacred spot of suffering for Christ. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which he uncovered his head, as he stood there, and blessed God for the testimony of His Martyrs; and I am sure he will forgive this allusion to the scene, for it greatly impressed me at the time, and even now seems very striking. “We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace, as shall never be put out”—said old Latimer to Ridley, in 1555, and in spite of fire and faggot, and Armada, and Gunpowder plot, and Father Petrie, and Father Newman, there stood in 1851, the Bishop of Tennessee, blessing God for the light of that candle in the wilds of America! A superb memorial of the three Oxford Martyrs stands not far from the place where they suffered—and should have stood just here, where it would have been more conspicuous and appropriate—but I felt that such an incident far more powerfully attested the prophecy. How strange it seemed, in St. Mary’s, on the preceding Sunday, to reflect that from those very aisles, not longer since than three such lives as Dr. Routh’s might measure, the venerable Primate of all England had been ruthlessly dragged forth, by the hands of brethren in the priesthood, and by the same hands burnt to death, hard by, with the mockery of thanksgiving to God, and in the name of zeal for His glory! Truly, Rome may thank herself for the abhorrence with which the universal Anglo-Saxon race (among whom a few emasculate exceptions are not to be reckoned,) regard alike her blandishments and her cruelties.

I saw, one pleasant evening, the first boat-race of the season. Going into Christ Church Meadows, in company with several gownsmen, we soon joined a crowd of under-graduates, and others who were seeking the banks of the Isis. The rival boats were still far up the stream, but here we found their flags displayed upon a staff, one above the other, in the order of their respective merit, at the last rowing match. The flag of Wadham waved triumphant, and the brilliant colours of Balliol, Christ Church, Exeter, etc., fluttered scarce less proudly underneath. What an animated scene those walks and banks exhibited, as the numbers thickened, and the flaunting robes of the young academics began to be seen in dingy contrast with the gayer silks and streamers of the fair! Even town, as well as gown, had sent forth its representatives, and you would have said some mighty issue was about to be decided, had you heard their interchange of breathless query and reply. A distant gun announced that the boats had started, and crowds began to gather about a bridge, in the neighbouring fields, where it was certain they would soon be seen, in all the speed and spirit of the contest. Crossing the little river in a punt, and yielding to the enthusiasm which now filled the hearts and faces of all spectators, away I flew towards the bridge, and had scarcely gained it when the boats appeared—Wadham still ahead, but hotly pressed by Balliol, which in turn was closely followed by the crews of divers other colleges, all pulling for dear life, while their friends, on either bank, ran at their side, shouting the most inspiriting outcries! The boats were of the sharpest and narrowest possible build, with out-rigged thole-pins for the oars. The rowers, in proper boat-dress, or rather undress, (close-fitting flannel shirt and drawers,) were lashing the water with inimitable strokes, and “putting their back” into their sport, as if every man was indeed determined to do his duty. “Now, Wadham!” “Now, Balliol!” “Well pulled, Christ Church!” with deafening hurrahs, and occasional peals of laughter, made the welkin ring again. I found myself running and shouting with the merriest of them. Several boats were but a few feet apart, and stroke after stroke not one gained upon another, perceptibly. Where there was the least gain, it was astonishing to see the pluck with which both winner and loser seemed to start afresh; while redoubled cries of “Now for it, Merton,” “Well done, Corpus,” and even “Go it, again”—which I had supposed an Americanism—were vociferated from the banks. All at once—“a bump!” and the defeated boat fell aside, while the victors pressed on amid roars of applause. The chief interest, however, was, of course, concentrated about “Wadham,” the leader, now evidently gained upon by “Balliol.” It was indeed most exciting to watch the half-inch losses which the former was experiencing at every stroke! The goal was near; but the plucky Balliol crew was not to be distanced. A stroke or two of fresh animation and energy sends their bow an arm’s length forward. “Hurrah, Balliol!” “once more”—“a bump!” “Hurrah-ah-ah!” and a general cheer from all lungs, with hands waving and caps tossing, and everything betokening the wildest excitement of spirits, closed the contest; while amid the uproar the string of flags came down from the tall staff, and soon went up again, with several transpositions of the showy colours—Wadham’s little streamer now fluttering paulo-post; but victorious Balliol flaunting proudly over all. It was growing dark; and it was surprising how speedily the crowd dispersed, and how soon all that frenzy of excitement had vanished like the bubbles on the river.

Iffley—A Drive Across the Country.

A visit to Magdalen School, and a subsequent dinner with the scholars, (who are the singers in the chapel), was another of my pleasures, from which I derived fresh convictions of the superior training of English school-boys, alike in physical, mental, and moral discipline. Everything was done with method and precision. The boys looked fresh and rosy, and perfectly happy, and yet their master was as evidently strict with them, as he was also kind. Some of them will win scholarships in the college, and from that, fellowships; and so will make their way to the highest posts of honour and usefulness, for which they will be thoroughly furnished in all respects. There is a new Educational College at Radley, several miles from Oxford, of which the projector and founder is the well-known Mr. Sewell, of Exeter—by whose kind invitation I went out, one day, to visit it. I was kindly accompanied by a distinguished Fellow of Oriel, who with several young men, whom he had enlisted for the purpose, gave me a row up the Thames to Iffley. We took our boat, in Christ Church meadows, and so went over the scene of the race which I have endeavoured to describe. I was unfortunately made steersman, and more than once found myself running the bow of the boat into the bushes, while I stared around me, at every beast and bird, and at every wall, and every bush, and at every green thing, with a greener look no doubt, to my unlucky companions, than anything in the scene besides. It was the Thames—or the Isis if you please—it was the river of the Oxonians; and I lost myself, in contemplations, on the most trifling suggestion of novelty, or of age, which surrounding objects presented. This little voyage was realizing to me the dreams of many years; and when we landed near the picturesque old mill, with which so many drawings and engravings have made every one acquainted, I felt that anything but my pilotage was to be credited with our escape from shipwreck. My conscience accuses me of having paid attention to everything except my immediate duty.

Iffley Church, as every Ecclesiologist will tell you, is a study of itself. Five windows in this Church are said to present the characteristics of five periods of pointed architecture, extending through as many centuries; while the details of enrichment and design afford innumerable specimens of inventive art, embracing somewhat of the rude and elemental Saxon, with the riper and more varied beauties of Norman embellishment. The church is supposed to have been built in the earlier part of the twelfth century; it affords many interesting examples of subsequent alteration and repair; and has lately received much attention, in the way of retouching and restoring its olden beauties. In the churchyard is the remnant of its ancient cross, and also a yew tree scarcely less aged, but much decayed. The font, which stands near the door, is of large dimensions and of very curious construction, generally supposed to be Norman, and of the same date with the Church. Although the beautiful interior retains some useless appendages of mediæval rites no longer practised, it is a most fitting and becoming Anglo-Catholic church, and one in every way satisfactory, as it stands, to the purposes of the English Liturgy. Without and within, it was, at the time I visited it, the most interesting object of its kind which I had ever seen.

On resuming our boat, which had been lifted above the dam by means of a lock, we rowed about a mile further up the river, and then, taking to the fields, went across them to Radley. Here I met Mr. Sewell, and went with him to see Radley Church, a picturesque little temple, and then over his college, chapel and grounds. This college is a very interesting experiment, and aims to combine, on a plan somewhat novel, several important elements of academic and religious life. The taste which has presided over its establishment is very apparent, and not less the benevolence and piety of its founder. I was surprised to find it, although so entirely new, presenting everywhere the appearance of age and completeness. The architecture of the chapel especially, though plain in comparison with that of almost all older structures of a similar kind, is yet very effective; and the service, as performed in it, by the aid of the pupils, was exceedingly inspiring and refreshing. After a visit which I was kindly led to protract beyond my intent, I returned to Oxford on foot, in the company of Mr. Sewell. Our path lay through Bagley-Wood, and never shall I forget the charming conversational powers of my guide, or the pleasure of wandering, with such a companion, through the tangled and briery copse, and intervening glades of that academic forest. At last we struck the Abingdon road, and entered Oxford by the bridge under the Tower of Magdalen.

Amid so many recollections of a graver character, there is one connected with Oxford which never revives without exciting a smile. I went one day into the House of Convocation, where the Vice-Chancellor was conferring degrees, in a business way, very few, besides those immediately interested, being present. Among the candidates was one very portly individual, who, either from his advancing years, or because of some new preferment, had felt it his duty to incur the expense of being made, in course, a Doctor of Divinity. It was evidently many years since the proposing Doctor had been familiar with University forms and ceremonies; and it appeared to me that some very rustic parish had probably, in the meantime, enjoyed the benefit of his services. When the performance required him to do this, or that, it was apparent that the worthy divine was not a little confused, while it was still more painfully clear, that his confusion afforded anything but feelings of regret to the junior portion of the academical body which surrounded him. When required to kneel before a very youthful looking proctor, an audible titter went the rounds, as his burly figure sank to the floor, amid the balloons of silk with which he was invested, to say nothing of the gaudy colours which he now wore, for the first time, with ill-suppressed satisfaction. But the Oath of Abjuration was to be administered, and this proved the most critical part of the proceedings: for, oath as it was, it was made almost a farcical formality, by the manner in which it was taken. As this oath is a little antiquated, at any rate, and seems hardly demanded by the present relations between a powerful sovereign and the mere shadow of a pontiff who now apes Hildebrand, on the Seven Hills, it would seem good taste to go through with it with as little display of furious Protestantism as possible. So evidently thought the proctor, but not so the Doctor elect, whose powerful imagination probably suggested to him that Victoria was Queen Elizabeth, and Dr. Wiseman a Babbington, as no doubt he is. If her Majesty labours under similar impressions, she has at least one loyal subject, and it would have done her heart good to have heard the utterance of his loyalty on this occasion; for with most earnest emphasis did he swear, that “he did from his heart detest and abjure, as impious and heretical, that damnable doctrine and position, that princes excommunicated by the Pope, may be deposed or murthered by their subjects,” &c., &c. So, no doubt, thought and felt all present; but as the Doctor seemed to consider himself, for the moment, a sort of Abdiel, and spoke with an epic dignity somewhat unusual to the Convocation house, it was irresistibly ludicrous to behold the smothered merriment of the youthful Oxonians, who shook their sides while the Doctor fulmined, and who seemed to think both him and the Pope a little too old for Young England and the nineteenth century.

My excursion to Nuneham Courtenay proved but the preface to a much more important episode, in company with the same agreeable friend who was my guide on that occasion, and who now drew me into a change of plans and purposes, to which I owed much subsequent pleasure. We were at breakfast together, in the rooms of a common friend at Merton, when the scheme was perfected for a drive through Oxfordshire, in his private carriage, and for several subsequent excursions, of which the centre should be his residence, near Cheltenham. A friend, then keeping his terms for a Master’s degree, at New Inn Hall, gave us his company for a few hours, on the way; and a delightful companion he proved, not only for his essential qualities as such, but because he happened to have been a tourist in America, and was able to imagine, in some degree, how an American must regard the contrast continually furnished him by a tour in England. Our road first took us over a corner of Berkshire, through a pleasing variety of hills and vales, sighting Cumnor on the left, and passing Wytham on the other hand, and so again entering Oxfordshire, by a bridge over the Thames, which here makes a bend among the little mountains. Our first stage was complete when we arrived at Eynsham, where we drew up at the village inn, and contrived to pass an hour very pleasantly, although, from the appearance of the place, one would say, at first, it was fit only to sleep in. How quiet a village can be, even in populous and busy England, and so hard by Oxford! There stood the slender market-cross that had survived the storms of centuries, and the more violent batterings of Puritan iconoclasts. Broken and bruised as it was, it seemed good for centuries more, amid so peaceful a community as now surrounds its venerable tutelage. Whether the exemplary character of the present inhabitants be owing at all to the parish stocks, which stand near the cross, in most Hudibrastic grouping with surrounding objects, I cannot determine; but there they are, and I could fancy a stout brace of Puritans, of Butler’s sort, undergoing its salutary penance; or even one of Hogarth’s unlucky wights experiencing the rude sympathies of men and boys in the passiveness of its bondage. How speaking a picture of rigorous parochial justice those queer old stocks, under lee of the market-house, afforded to my imagination! How many vagrant feet and ankles have there been relieved from the curse of Cain! how many a vagabond they have furnished with persuasives to rest and meditation! Really—one could not be properly pensive, in sight of such a commentary on human guilt and misery: for the parish stocks are but of distant kin to gallows and guillotine, and hardly more than little brothers of whipping-post and pillory; their ignominy being rather that of ridicule than of scorn, and their severity being the very least of all the penalties of law. I did not know that such instruments of wholesome discipline were still in existence under the English sceptre, and hence my amusement and surprise to behold them, and to find so many memories of their history reviving at the sight; among which were prominent those classical verses of the Anti-Jacobin—

Verily a queer old place is Eynsham, from the days of King Ethelred, the Unready, who had a villa here, and those of King Stephen, who gave it the very equivocal privilege of a market “on the Lord’s day,” under the patronage of its Abbot and its monks. On inquiring for the remains of the Abbey, we were informed that some new relics of its ancient chapel and cemetery had just been discovered in a neighbouring field. We had therefore the pleasure of seeing, sure enough, the encaustic tiles of its sanctuary, just laid bare, after ages of concealment in the earth. They were of various patterns and devices, St. George and the Dragon forming, apparently, a conspicuous part of the design. But the old gardener who showed us these discoveries, went on to tell us that in digging further, he had just laid bare some frames which he should like to have us see, and so leading us to another part of the ground, he showed us the frames, indeed, which proved to be nothing less than the skeletons of the old monks of Eynsham, protruding from their graves. Often had these same “frames” sung in the choir, and walked over those same tiles we had just been viewing. How old they might be we could not say; but they were the bones of old Christians, and most probably of Christian priests, and there they had been laid in hope of the Resurrection, so that it seemed to me almost profane to be staring at them, as if they were a show. Requiescant in pace.

The village church had been an appurtenance of the Abbey, and was, no doubt, comely in its day. It had suffered not a little, however, from whitewash, and other Churchwarden-isms. There had evidently been a fine rood-loft, but every vestige of it was gone, save that there was the solid stair-way in the wall, and there again the door-way, still open, through which the ancient Gospeller used to make his appearance in the loft, to read the Holy Evangel for the day. ‘Poor fellow,’ thought I, ‘when did he climb those steps, and issue from that door, for the last time? Was he indeed a Gospeller, grateful for a chance thereafter to read the Word of God, in the vulgar tongue; or was he some Marian Monk, who had raked the coals about Latimer and Ridley, in Oxford, and who trembled, while he sung his Latin Missal, lest the news of Elizabeth’s accession should prove too true?’ How strange it would seem to an American priest, to find himself officiating, Sunday after Sunday, in a church whose very walls are a monument, not only of the Reformation, but of “Hereford Use,” and “Salisbury Use,” or other usages now forever superseded, but which had a long existence, and have left their mark, alike in stone and timber, and in the vernacular Liturgy of the Church of England!

We left the little village, and pursued our journey very pleasantly till we met the Oxford coach coming down, in full drive, but stopping as we hailed it, in behalf of our friend of New Inn Hall. He was obliged to return, for sleeping a single night out of Oxford, during his term, would disqualify him for his degrees. So we reluctantly saw him climb to a lofty seat, among a motley crew of passengers, and whirl away, as we waved him our adieu. We continued our journey to Witney, where again we paused, to survey its ancient cruciform Church—which would make a fine cathedral in America—and to take our luncheon with the good vicar, who received us very hospitably. I was surprised at the greatness of the Church, and the beauty of many of its details, but I believe it was once an Abbey Church, and its architectural merits are such as to have furnished not a few favourite examples to ecclesiological publications. The village itself is a decayed one, having formerly been of consequence as the seat of a famous blanket manufacture, which made “Witney” a household word with housewives, especially in cold weather. Our drive next brought us to Minster-Lovel, the scene of the “Old English Baron;” and next to a “deserted village,” which looked as little like Auburn as possible, for it had been built by a pack of infidels, to show the world what a village ought to be, and so had speedily become as dead as Pompeii. It was now “for sale,” but no one seemed disposed to buy, and I suspect it may yet be had at a bargain. England is no soil for fools to flourish in; and it is a pity that when they find it out, they are so wont to come to America, where they join the Mormons, or set up for superfine republicans, and vent their hatred of England in our newspapers, which are then quoted by the writers in the London Times, as proof of American feelings towards the mother country.

The country we were now traversing had once been scoured by the troopers of the fiery Rupert, and my friend, whom I will call Mr. V——, finding my enthusiasm rising at the mention of his clarion and jack-boots, began to play upon me by suggesting that some mounds which we saw in the distance were the remains of one of his encampments. This was a very fine idea, but, resolved to hunt up the local traditions with respect to it, I asked a passing boor if he could tell me anything about the barrows. Oh, for a page of “the Antiquary,” to give my reader some conception of the effect produced by the reply! “Prætorian here—Prætorian there,” said old Edie Ochiltree, “I mind the bigging o’t;” and with equal bathos responded my boor—“Them there be some old brick-yards!” “Alas!” cried I—“it is Monkbarns and castrametation, over again;” and a laugh arose from the Oxford pilgrims, at which the boor startled, and fled away, no doubt with strong persuasion that we were a pair of madmen, just broke loose from the deserted settlement aforesaid, of which, I should have mentioned, the neighbouring peasantry seemed to entertain a very wholesome fear.

Commend me to Burford, our next halting-place, as a village of most exemplary independence of this nineteenth century. Some old houses, which struck me as I entered it, bore an inscription by which I learned that a good burgess built them for a charitable use in the time of Queen Elizabeth. I should think no house had been built in Burford since that date, so entirely unlike a modern town is its chief street, with all its lanes and by-ways. Here, now, was England—the England we read of! None of your Manchesters and Liverpools, but an innocent, sleepy old village that was of vast repute when those snobbish places were unknown. Here met a Church Synod, A. D., 685, to settle the question about the British Easter usages, and here worthy Peter Heylin was born in 1600. The little river Windrush runs through the place, and on its banks stands the ancient Church of St. John the Baptist, to which we repaired forthwith. Here we found an unexpected treat, in the exceeding richness of its Norman architecture, and in the many delicate traces of its former perfection, which had escaped the ravages of time. The tower and spire, the south porch and the windows, afforded a most entertaining and instructive study. Some old inscriptions remained, entreating the passer-by to pray for the departed soul of such and such benefactors. The interior enchanted me. Here was a “Silvester aisle,” in which, for generation after generation, certain worthies of that name have been buried under costly monuments, most curious to behold. But what pleased me most was one of those huge monuments, like an ancient state-bed, with canopy and posts complete, on which lay, side by side, a worthy knight and his dame, persons of a famous repute under Queen Elizabeth, and the grand-parents of the stainless Falkland. “Sir Launcelot Tanefield” was the name of the knight, and if I mistake not, he was, at one time, Lord Chief Justice of England, and Burford was his native place. From this charming old Church I could hardly tear myself away. I suspect few travellers have visited it, and I congratulated myself on having met with such a friend as V——, to draw me out of the beaten track, and show me something of England, that is England still.

Continuing our journey, we passed an old Manor house, picturesquely seated in a valley, at which I could have looked contentedly for an hour, so entirely did it answer to my ideas of many a manorial residence, which had pleased my boyish fancy, in novels and romances. Next we passed Barrington Park, the seat of Lord Dynevor, and soon after, another beautiful park, the seat of Lord Sherborne. And now, our journey lay over one of the Cotswold hills, which reminded me somewhat of a drive over Pokono, in Pennsylvania, so lonely and even wild did it seem, in comparison with the country we had just been traversing. We came to North Leach, where again we alighted to survey a Church, perched on a rising ground, above the houses of the village, which are mostly very old, with curious gables, and built along narrow lanes, in very primitive style. This Church had suffered more from accidental causes, than that at Burford, but was scarcely less interesting to me. Its curious gurgoyles particularly arrested my attention, and within, some good brasses, and other monuments. It has a fine porch, and its general architecture seems of a period somewhat between the decorated and the perpendicular. We were now in Gloucestershire, and I shall never forget that it was in passing over a hill near Stow-on-the-Wold, that I first heard the nightingale. “There,” said V——, “there is Philomela! not mourning, but wooing; ’tis her love-note”—and I listened with a sense of enchantment. Perhaps I was in the mood to be delighted, for certainly I had never spent a day in such charming travel before, and I was conscious of a pleasure, which I cannot describe, arising from the realization of my dreams, in forecasting, through a long series of years, such a journey through England.

In descending the Cotswold hills, I caught, here and there, some enchanting views; little churches perched upon the brows of hillocks, or half buried in the vales; or farm-houses and cottages not less beautifully situated; or the seats of country squires and other gentry, embosomed amid trees, or lifting their chimnies above a few lordly elms. But the charm of all was yet reserved for me; and just after sunset, as we wound around a broad hillside, I came upon a scene, at which, it seemed to me, I might have gazed all my life without weariness or satiety. ‘Stop—stop! my dear V——, where are you driving?’ said I, beseeching him to rein up, and let me look for a few minutes on as perfect a picture of English scenery as ever Gainsborough portrayed, all spread before us, without a blemish; its lights and shadows just as an artist would have them; and yet vivid with nature, beyond all that an artist could create. The time, remember, was evening, in one of its sweetest effects of sky and atmosphere, cool and calm; the lighter landscape deeply green; the shadows brown and dying into night; the water shining here like burnished steel, and there lying in shade, as darkly liquid as a dark eye in female beauty. The view was a narrow dell, just below the road, in which stood an old manor house, ivied to its chimney tops, and encircled by a moat. Smoke of the most delicate blue was floating thinly from its chimnies, into the clear air; and just at hand was peeping, from a dense growth of trees, the belfry of a very tiny Church, which seemed to be there only on purpose to complete the picture. Cattle were grazing in the meads, and under a vast and sombre yew tree, sat a group of farm-servants, shearing the largest sheep of the flock, the wool flaking off upon the green grass, like driven snow. While we gazed on this living picture, with mute pleasure, the soft notes of a bird added sweet sounds to the enchantment of sight, and I sat, as in a spell, without speaking a word. My friend V—— himself, who had been laughing at me all day, for my enjoyment of what to him were common and unsuggestive objects, fairly gave up at this point, and owned it was a sight to make one in love with life. Even now I have lying before me a letter in which he refers to this view of “the sheep-shearing,” and concludes by the pathetic announcement that the horse to which we were indebted for that day’s progress, has since been sold to a coach proprietor, and now runs leader from Evesham to Stratford. “Little thinks he,” continues the letter, “as the lash of the cruel Jehu touches his flank, of the classic ground he travels; little recks he of Harry of Winchester, Simon de Montfort, or our friend Rupert—for Rupert had a desperate struggle thereabouts—or yet of Queen Bess, as he enters Bedford, in Warwickshire, or even of the immortal Will, as he halts at Stratford.”

So winding down our road, amid firs and oaks, and enjoying new beauties at every turn, we came through Charlton Kings, into the broad and teeming vale, adorned by modern Cheltenham. It is a noble amphitheatre, to which the bold outline of the Cotswold hills gives dignity, and which abounds with minor charms on every side. I was soon lodged at my friend V——’s, after due introduction to his family, including a visit to the nursery, where some lovely children were allowed to salute me with their innocent kisses, and thus to make me sure of a welcome to their father’s house.

Worcester—Malvern—Gloucester.

My first excursion with my friend V——, was to Worcester and Malvern. In Worcester of course the great attraction is the cathedral, and thither we went immediately upon our arrival, and found Service going on. We lingered without the choir, and listened to the anthem, as it rose from the voices within; and then, as the prayers went on, in the monotone of chaunting, varied by the occasional cadence of the priest, and the sweet response of the singers, we had an opportunity of worship which I trust was not only enjoyed, but reverently appropriated in devotion. Service ended, the verger, with his mace, issued from the doors of the choir, preceding the singers in their surplices, and the residentiary canons—far too feeble a force, however, for a cathedral, in which “the spirit of a living creature” should always be “within the wheels,” giving motion and reality to the routine of daily prayers, and fasts, and festivals. There is no excuse for the present condition of the English cathedrals. They require the most thorough reforms to make them felt as blessings. At Worcester I began to feel that such was the case, and the painful conviction increased upon me, throughout my subsequent tour.

We now surveyed the venerable temple, and experienced the usual annoyance of the verger’s expositions. Here was the monument of King John; and there the chapel tomb of Arthur, Prince of Wales, the first husband of Queen Katherine of Arragon. Here, too, are shown the statues of St. Oswald, an early bishop of this see, and of Wolstan, another bishop who laid the foundation of the existing cathedral, in the eleventh century. The choir is impressive, but the eastern window struck me as too predominantly green, and altogether as somewhat kaleidoscopic. Among the more modern monuments, a small bas-relief, by Bacon, struck me as very meritorious. A widow with her three children gathered about her, and bending to the storm of sorrow, was the fitting memorial of a departed husband and father. Or was it that the group reminded me of the treasures of my own far-off home, and of the scene which an Atlantic storm might so easily create around the fireside that would be trimmed for my return! At any rate, it touched me, and reminded me that I was in a house of prayer, where ejaculations might be wafted from the heart, and answered three thousand miles away. Other associations made me pause before the tomb of Bishop Hough, that brave old president of Magdalen, to whose resistance of the Popish James I have referred before. The sculpture is by Roubilliac, but is free from the usual affectations of that artist; and the scene in Magdalen College is represented on the base of the monument. We lingered about the exterior for some time, and were particularly struck with the flying buttresses of the choir, as the most pleasing portion of the venerable structure. After a visit to one of the prebendal residences in the cloisters, we loitered about the town for an hour, and then took the top of the stage-coach for Malvern.

Several coaches were starting at the same time for diverse points of the compass, and here we had before us something of the moribund system of travel of the days of George the Fourth. The flaming red liveries of the whip and the guard, with the notes of the bugle as we whirled over the Severn, gave one a sense of the poetry of locomotion which suggested some foolish sighs over the achievements of invention, and the age of the rail. However, it was something to be thankful for, that there was as yet no tunnel under Malvern hills. Crack went the whip—and away sprung the horses, and very soon the tower of the cathedral was all we could see of Worcester. We passed the Teme, and drove through Powick and Mather. The fields were fragrant with the blossoms of the bean; the open road-side was garnished with flowering furze; and the cottages stood forth, neat and comfortable, amid embowering laburnums, and lilacs, and guelder-roses. ‘Ah, yes—I grant you, England is a beautiful country, but you Englishmen don’t know how to enjoy it half as much as your American cousins; not that we have not glorious scenery at home, but that we have no such garden, as England seems to be, from one sea to the other.’ So I said to my companion.

We ascended the Malvern hills, on a brisk trot, by a good road stretching along the face of the hills, and soon entered the smart and showy town of Great Malvern itself, which overhangs the charming vale of Gloucester, and affords a view of the winding Severn, and many beautiful villages, churches, and seats. The towers of several abbeys, with those of the cathedrals of Gloucester and Worcester, adorn the prospect, and the distant ridge of the Cotswolds completes the picture. The Abbey Church of Great Malvern proved, of itself, sufficient to reward our visit to the place, but my friend V——, found at one of the hotels, a party of his friends enjoying a brief sojourn in this delightful retreat, for the benefit of its air and springs—for “Ma’vern,” as everybody knows, is a fashionable watering-place. Good reason have I to remember the spot where I first met the amiable W——s, to whose subsequent attentions I owed so much pleasure on my northern tour; and I trust they too may be willing to remember our holiday at Malvern. I was particularly gratified with the adventurous spirit of the ladies, who insisted on doing us the honours of the place, considering us as their guests. Under their kindly guidance we climbed the hills, and visited the Holy Well, and the well of St. Ann’s, and finally reached the summit of the Malverns, where we gained a magnificent sight into Herefordshire, and could see to the best advantage the nearer beauties of the vale of the Severn. We walked along the ridge, pausing to rest awhile, and to enjoy the scenery, near the Worcestershire beacon, and so passing down on the Hereford side, and returning through a gap called the Wych, we parted with our fair guides at Malvern Wells, and taking a post-chaise started on a delightful drive across the valley.

It was a beautiful afternoon, and our route took us through a great variety of country scenes. Now we skirted the base of the Malverns; and now reached the picturesque Church of Little Malvern; and now descended, amid overhanging trees, into the valley of the Severn, partly darkened by the stretching shadow of the hills, and partly glittering with reflections of the descending sun. My friend V——, who seemed to have friends everywhere, was so well acquainted with the neighbouring gentry, that he was quite at liberty to enliven our drive, by leaving the high road and crossing the park of this or that beautiful residence which happened to lie in our way. Thus we gained fine views of several elegant mansions and their surrounding grounds. At the lodge of one of these parks, as we entered, I was struck with a curious tree, called the peacock yew, from the showy pavonazetto of its foliage: but the oddities of nature, after all, are far less attractive than her ordinary beauties. At last we re-crossed the Severn, and entered Tewksbury. It has been justly remarked that this place appears to have stood still for five hundred years. Its massive abbey, with its magnificent Anglo-Norman tower, has the advantage therefore of standing in the company of contemporary walls and roofs, instead of being an insulated lump of Mediævalism, in a mass of nineteenth century brick and plaster. I was wholly unprepared for so splendid a specimen of cathedral architecture as this abbey proved to be; and when I entered the sacred place, I was quite overwhelmed with its effect. It is of great length, and the aisles are separated from the nave by a series of immense Saxon pillars, which convey an idea of strength and sombre dignity wholly different from the impressions produced by the light and springing shafts of the perpendicular and decorated Gothic. Its great window is a solitary example of such vast and solemn combinations of proportion and detail; its Norman arches being deeply recessed in the gigantic wall, and its height commensurately sublime. While we surveyed this stupendous interior, the rich shadows and faint illuminations produced by the close of day, greatly heightened the impressiveness of the architecture and the awful associations of this ancient sanctuary and cemetery. It was indeed sublime to reflect that under the shade of these walls was waged the last battle of the House of Lancaster, and that the noble ashes of its heroes were everywhere under foot, as we paced its aisles. We surveyed one after another the tombs of Clarence, of Somerset, of Wenlock, and De Clifford, moralizing on the Providence which reduced the Norman blood of England just in the time and manner best suited to give the Commons room to rise; and which laid these proud patricians in the dust, that out of the dust might spring the freedom and the power which now invest the world with Anglo-Saxon glory. God only is wise—God only great! Issuing from a small door in one of the aisles of the abbey, we entered a green and peaceful meadow, to which the deepening twilight gave a grave and rich effect, heightened not a little by the shadows of the abbey towers, and by the croaking of rooks and daws among the buttresses and pinnacles. Here was the fatal field where the red-rose was smothered forever in red blood. “Lance to lance, and horse to horse”—here its fated champions struck the last blow for Margaret and her son. Here the young prince himself asserted, face to face with usurping York, the rights which his fathers had not less usurped from the fallen Plantagenet; and here, for his boldness and for his fatal royalty, he fell beneath the rapier, the last blood of Lancastrian majesty spouting from his many wounds. Can it be, so green a field was ever so crimson? It was impossible to conjure up the scenes of a period so long gone by; and yet not less impossible to stand on such a field, without some communion with the spirit of departed ages.

With a worthy clergyman of Tewksbury, we finally quenched our enthusiasm in a cup of tea, and buried the swelling thoughts of Margaret’s wrongs, under the juicy morsels of a mutton-chop. As we sat at our repast, I observed that our reverend entertainer had “a river at his garden’s-end.” “Yes,” was his reply—“the Avon!” I had supposed it the Severn, of course; but when he thus reminded us of its noble confluent, after our historical communion with Shakspeare in the battle-field, all my enthusiasm returned again, and, in spite of tea and mutton-chop, I felt a thrill to find myself so near the river of the immortal Swan of Stratford. Here, indeed, it finds its fitting union with the larger waters, and runs with Severn to the sea. But now, it seemed to me fragrant and vocal with a spirit caught from the banks of Stratford churchyard, and its murmurs continually repeated the lines—