“Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,
That stabbed me in the field, by Tewksbury.”
During my visit at Cheltenham, we contrived to spend a Sunday in the country—and such a Sunday as should realize my ideas of an English Sunday among a rural population. Early in the morning we went to Bredon, and there surveyed its parish Church, just opened for Divine service, and exhibiting a neat interior, which, but for my growing familiarity with so many superior examples, I should have considered very noteworthy. In the floor of the nave is a plain slab covering the grave of “Bishop Prideaux, 1650.” This Church, too, showed the hand of the restorer, and had been much improved and beautified in the spirit of what I suppose will be called the Victorian Restoration. Leaving this Church, we started over the field for Kemerton. It was a beautiful morning—what I am wont to call a George-Herbert-Sunday; and as I went through the fragrant meads and harvest lands, or turned into a shady lane, amid the hawthorn hedges, I felt those quiet influences stealing over me which are the sweetest preparation for enjoyment in the house of God. By and by we descried above the foliage the tower of Kemerton Church; and hard by was the parsonage, where that estimable dignitary, the venerable Archdeacon Thorp, gave us a most cordial welcome. Before service, my friend V—— called me aside into the churchyard, and pointed to a little grave beautifully decorated with fresh flowers. I understood at once that it was the grave of a beloved child he had lately lost, and whose transient but lovely life had shed a charm around these scenes of its sweet and holy habitation, and endeared them to the hearts of all who knew him. For a moment I entered into the sorrows of a bereaved parent, and wept with one that wept.
The service in Kemerton Church is performed in some respects very simply, in others, one might say, elaborately, for most of it is sung. There is no organ, and the singers are plain farmers and village-lads, yet they have places in the chancel, and wear surplices, and sing with very agreeable effect. When Morning Service was over, I proposed a quiet ramble through the fields, with my friend, for my heart was quite full of the solemnities of which the Holy Communion formed a part. As we were about to leave, we observed the bell-ringers taking their stand under the tower, which opened into the Church, with great reverence and propriety in their behaviour. The Archdeacon informed us that they were all worthy parishioners, who understood the nature of the humblest office in the house of God, and who rung the bells with a sense of serving the temple, and sounding forth the glory of the Lord. When we had gone about a quarter of a mile from the Church, we heard the bells ringing, accordingly, and sweet music did they discourse. They seemed indeed full of Sabbath blessing; full of peace and good will to men. “This, dear V——,” said I, “This is enchanting, and more, ’tis heavenly! Shall I ever forget this peaceful Sunday noon in England?” As I looked around, all seemed, as the Gospel would make the whole earth appear, if only sinful men would let it; all blossomed as the rose. A church but a few rods in one direction—and another less than a mile before us—and many others near us, all around! All churches too—not so many tokens of religious strife and schism, but each to its own little nest of villagers, the centre of one faith, of one baptism, and the worship of one Lord. Ah—here is the true glory of England! Mile after mile, in some counties, seems to be marked by church after church; each beautiful in its kind, the monument of ancestral piety among its rural worshippers, and the tutelary of their rude forefathers’ graves, that cluster beneath its eaves. One wonders what a dissenter is made of, when he beholds these rural churches, and their happy influence over a rustic population. We extended our walk to Overbury Church, an old Norman structure of small dimensions, beautifully restored, and in perfect repair. The congregation had just withdrawn, and the breath of prayer seemed lingering in the sanctuary. My ramble was completed before the Evening Service began, and certainly never saw I Sunday so liveried before, to celebrate the holy tide. The hawthorn was everywhere in flower; butter-cups, daisies, lilacs, cowslips, and every variety of contemporary blossom, were to be seen in all the fields and cottage-gardens; and the very sheep and cattle, resting in the shadow of the trees, seemed to know it was the holy day. Where else, save in England, is holy tide ever so entirely what holy tide should be?
The Evening Prayer was divided, as in all the English cathedrals, so that the sermon followed the second lesson. Then came the Canticle, and the rest of the prayers. This arrangement follows the original idea of Catechising at the Evening Prayer, and has many advantages. I was privileged to be the preacher, and I spake with a sincere appreciation of the duty, as a privilege indeed. It appeared strange to me, when service was over, to reflect that Kemerton Church is many hundred years old, and yet that, in all probability, never had any one stood in its pulpit before, who was not a subject of the English crown.
Among the valuable acquaintances which I formed at Cheltenham, I reckon myself fortunate in that of the Rev. Alexander Watson, now of Marychurch, Devon, so well known by his many publications in defence of Church doctrine, and in aid of practical religion. It was in his company that I visited Gloucester, and added to my stock of travelling experiences another day of memorable enjoyment. After a pleasant breakfast party, at his hospitable table, we started in a private carriage, for a somewhat circuitous drive, to that “godly city;” passing Leckhampton, under lee of the tallest peaks of the Cotswolds, and so by Birdlip Wood, and Cooper’s Hill. Far away, on the other side of the valley, a prominent headland was pointed out to me, as May’s Hill. It is a not less conspicuous landmark from the Severn, and once served to save from shipwreck a mariner, named May, just returning from the sea; in consequence of which, he planted its summit with a clump of trees, and made provision for keeping them there perpetually. At a little distance I descried a hamlet, and a Church, which my friend pointed out to me as Chozen, at the same time informing me that it was spelt Churchdown. This is but one of many amusing specimens of the wide variance which often exists, between the spelling and pronouncing of English proper names. At Shurdington we paused to visit its pretty Church, surrounded by a shady field, and found it undergoing entire restoration at the expense of the curate. Both the restoration, and the munificence of its promoter, were the rather interesting, as being no uncommon things. Such proofs of life and godliness are everywhere encountered, at the present day, in England. I found myself more and more delighted, as we drove on, with the scenery, and often with the road itself, so beautifully hedged and shaded, and affording so many points of interest to an observing eye. Here was the tower of Badgworth Church, and here was Brockworth. Churches everywhere—and everywhere, upon the face of field and farm, the tokens of that industry and thrift, of that order and decency, with which the Church alone can ennoble the aspect of civilization. The same charm which I had observed in the features of society, and which I had traced to harmony in religion, appeared to me, here and elsewhere, transferred in a great degree to the very soil, to its culture, and to its embellishment. Nature itself seemed to have borrowed a grace, and a glory, from the holy Faith, of which such monuments were visible at every turn, in spires and towers peering above the green trees, and gleaming amid the wide-spread bounties of God, whose adorable name they seemed to display as the giver of all. As we slowly ascended the slope of Cooper’s Hill, walking behind our carriage, and surveying the scene to right and left, with reflections such as these, we heard a note from the deep foliage of Birdlip Wood, which arrested us, and brought to my mind many scraps of poetry, such as Logan’s, or Wordsworth’s—
————shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?
It was the cuckoo! I had never heard it before, except in wooden imitation from the perch of a German clock. I shall not soon forget its effects, upon the still beauty of the hour and the scene, as I heard it for the first time, in nature’s own sweet modulations and heart-touching pathos.
Hucklecot new Church we only sighted, but at Upton St. Leonard’s we made a halt, and visited the Church, the parsonage, and the school. The Church was a gem of its kind, with interesting monuments and architectural objects, and had been freshly restored. The schools were lately built by a munificent lady of rank, and the parsonage was apparently new; the whole furnishing another instance of what is going on, almost universally. Passing Robinwood-hill on the left, as we continued our drive, we soon entered Gloucester, of which the glorious cathedral tower had long been the conspicuous object in our view.
Here we visited the Church of St. Mary-de-Crypt, (lately restored) where the admirers of Whitfield would chiefly think of him, and where, perhaps, he ought to have been more thought of by the Church, and so saved from the extravagances of his subsequent career. We went also to see St. Michael’s and St. Mary-de-Lode, (fresh restorations again) and finally visited the scene of Bishop Hooper’s fiery martyrdom. The death of Hooper dignifies the otherwise inglorious memory of a prelate who did not a little to spoil his own work as a reformer, by tampering with Geneva. And it is curious how much of puritanism he seems to have bequeathed to his see; Glos’ter having been the proverbial haunt of the “godlie” in Cromwell’s time, and having bred the zealous evangelist, to whom I have already alluded as originally illuminating with his enthusiasm, the cold interior of St. Mary-de-Crypt. Strange, that after beginning here as a deacon of the Church, he should now lie buried under a puritan pulpit in New England, having completely revolutionized the Calvinism of our own country, and entailed upon it the Convulsionism of which it is now expiring. Had the zeal of Whitfield been according to his knowledge, and had the dormant Hanoverian age, which produced him, by the law of reaction, only known how to use him, he might have left behind him some less equivocal fruits of missionary enterprise.
Before speaking of the cathedral, I must allude to our visit to Highnam, on the other side of the Severn. Here we found a Church, lately erected entire, at a cost of £30,000, by a single individual—nave, chancel, tower, and spire complete, and all affording a model of ecclesiastical art, worthy of standing in the neighbourhood of some of its noblest originals. To see a Victorian Church, and one thus erected by private munificence, comparing so favourably with some of the most admired specimens of the middle ages, not only in general construction, but in the most elaborate details, was indeed refreshing to the eye and to the heart. The chancel and altar were especially noteworthy, adorned as they were with the most delicate sculpture, in Caen stone, and instinct with the life and beauty of a healthful symbolism. Into the chancel opened a small sepulchral chapel, which exceedingly interested my feelings, and warmed my admiration of the whole. Two memorial windows were dedicated, each to the remembrance of a departed child, and between them stood, in a niche, the marble bust of their departed mother. Blessed religion of Jesus, which makes the dead in Christ so dear, and which so beautifies their memory: which so sanctifies the ties of earth, and so triumphs over death, in its power to render them eternal! Here was a family nest, indeed, hung upon the altar of the Lord of Hosts! My eyes glistened as I read, beneath the lovely effigy of the Christian wife and mother, an inscription to “Anna Maria Isabella G—— P——; in fulfilment of whose pious purpose this Church was erected to the glory of God, by her husband.” Then followed the texts—including an allusion to the children, as well as their mother—“And they shall be mine in that day when I make up my jewels:”—“The Lord grant unto them that they may find mercy of the Lord in that day.” I can scarcely remember anything of the kind which ever more powerfully touched the springs of Christian sympathy within me; those sacred springs of the heart, which can never issue in their fullest flow, till they have been fed by the hallowed love of the husband and the father.
Returning to the town, I devoted nearly the whole of the remainder of the afternoon to the cathedral; accompanied most of the time, by the friend to whom I had owed the pleasures of the day, and to whom I at last bade a reluctant farewell. I had been greatly benefited, not only by his intelligent conversation on indifferent topics, but by his earnestness in those particularly, which Christian priests should discuss most freely in each other’s company. He left me to the kind attention of a worthy dignitary of the cathedral, the Rev. Sir John S——, in the enjoyment of whose polite hospitalities I spent the evening of this charming day.
The exterior of the cathedral, as seen from every point of vantage, in neighbouring gardens, or from the solemn seclusion of the surrounding precincts, was not less striking, in its way, than that of any similar structure I had yet beheld; but the internal survey was more impressive, by far, than that of any other, except Westminster Abbey. It is one of the largest of its class of buildings, and in its different portions, presents an epitome of pointed art, in its several stages of progress through a period of five hundred years. Here is the Anglo-Norman nave, with massive columns, like those of Tewksbury; then comes the choir, with its rich and delicate elaborations; and then the Lady-Chapel, which is a little paradise of architecture. The solid crypts beneath, dating from the tenth century, present a singular instance of groining, in their square and solid ribs, entirely unadorned; while the cloisters, in the style of the fifteenth century, seem to have exhausted the skill of the architect, in the exceeding richness of their tracery, and pendant vaulting. The very defects of the building seem to have contributed to its graces, for when I had admired the aerial effect of a slender arch, springing athwart the transepts and attaching itself to the roof, as if its solid stone were a mere hanging festoon, I was told that this was, in fact, a blemish, and had been introduced into the original plan, only to strengthen the walls. I went into the triforia, and tried the whispering-gallery, but had no time to amuse myself with such small experiments, amid so many incentives to a higher employment of my opportunities. I am sorry that the marvellous beauty of the Lady-Chapel still demands the hand of a restorer. The “godly” Cromwellians have left the traces of their hammers on all its carved work, and it is sadly despoiled. Would that the same skill and taste which reared the Church at Highnam might be permitted to make this holy place worthy of an English cathedral! That the English people still suffer these mother-churches of the nation to remain as too many of them are, is one of their greatest national disgraces. When they are restored as they might be, and managed as they should be, then, and not till then, must they command the unmingled admiration and delight of every intelligent visitor.
After a thorough inspection of the cathedral, in the broad light of day, I was kindly invited by Sir John to visit it again, as the day was about to close. We entered, by his private key, and were alone in the vast and awful interior. Going into the nave, he said to me, as I paused to observe the solemn perspective—“Whose bones, do you suppose, are now beneath your feet?” I stepped aside, as he added, “You are standing on the grave of Bishop Warburton.” So much wit and genius in the dust! Yet in what nobler sepulchre could earth to earth be delivered, to await the resurrection? Hard by, are the monuments of two of the world’s benefactors; that of Jenner, who poured water upon the flame of the noisome pestilence, and that of Raikes, who first “gathered the children” into Sunday Schools. There is another modern monument, deserving of mention, as one of that purely Anglican type, which tends to divinify domestic love, and the holy relations of the wife and mother. A female figure, with a babe, appear in the radiant marble, invited by angels into Paradise, from the waves of the sea. It is from the pure chisel of Flaxman, and commemorates one who died in the perils of childbirth, while encompassed by the perils of the great deep.
Less pleasing, yet even more impressive, was the quaint effigy, in old carved oak, of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamed Curthose. You touch it and it moves, and you involuntarily start. It is, of course, very light, and lies upon the tomb so loosely that it is easily disturbed; and then, it seems as if the old Norman were about to rise and confront you, as an audacious intruder upon his repose. But how shall I describe the effect of the marble effigy of poor King Edward the Second, as I saw it, in the solemn twilight, and in the unbroken silence of the deserted cathedral? There was that outstretched figure, and that sad outline of a face composed in death, and hands clasped in resignation; but its dread appearance was as if imploring God, against the cruel murderers who had done him such awful violence. I thought of Gray’s sketchy but descriptive lyric, and muttered to myself:—
“Those shrieks of death through Berkeley’s roofs that ring;
Shrieks of an agonizing king.”
The neighbouring peasant woke at the outcry of the tortured sufferer, and crossed himself; for he suspected what the devil was doing in the castle. Here now lies the victim of that horrid regicide, but there is something in the sculpture of his visage, that reminds the visitor, that “God shall bring to light the hidden things of darkness.” This powerful impression lingered with me, as I paced the cloisters, and revived, when at a late hour of the night I was awakened by the chimes of the cathedral clock charming the darkness with a solemn tune, and lifting the thoughts of the listener to communion with his God.
The Court of St. James.
Who knows not by heart the face of the Royal Palace of St. James? That such a house should have been a Palace in the days of Wolsey, seems strange enough to one who has seen at Oxford what even a college was, in Wolsey’s conception: but that it should still be a Palace, when Pall Mall and St. James’s-street are full of club-houses, that would scarcely take any part of it for a kitchen, with the condition of setting it on their own ground—this seems stranger still. Yet a Palace may it long continue; for not until the government of England shall be that of some revolutionary parvenu, will it cease to be a speaking symbol of the genuine dignity of the British Crown! The Queen of England can afford to hold her Court in an old, worn-out mansion, and to let the opulence of her subjects erect the most striking contrast at its side. Build as they may—St. James is not cast into the shade: it is historical and royal. There are few illustrations to be found more à propos to the superiority of a mental over a physical grandeur.
In returning to London from my Glo’stershire excursion, one of my purposes was to be presented at Court; a gratification which I had been advised to allow myself, and which the American Minister had politely proffered me. An experienced courtier supplied me with the necessary hints as to dress, and the etiquette of the Court; and accordingly, on a levee day, I was duly presented, as preparatory to going to Court, on the more splendid occasion of a drawing-room. The presentation of gentlemen always takes place at a levee, and no one of the male sex can attend a drawing-room who has not been previously presented. Ladies do not attend levees at all, and consequently a levee is a very dull affair, when compared with the brilliant spectacle which they make of a drawing-room, not less by their beauty, than by the glitter of their diamonds, and the flaunting of their trains.
As a clergyman, I was freed from any great burden of expense in the matter of costume, canonicals being the proper dress for one of the priestly function, and my ordinary suit of robes being in very good condition. A pair of enormous shoe-buckles was almost the only additional item to be thought of; and an Oxford cap was pronounced by my kind adviser, Sir John S——, quite as proper as the absurd little apology for a three-cornered hat, (tucked under the arm,) which is considered the more exquisite finish to the clerical exterior, on such occasions. My next concern was to furnish myself with a Brougham, (or chariotee,) and with a driver wearing a sort of livery; hackney-coaches not being sufferable within the precincts of the Palace. A couple of cards, of unusual magnitude, one of which bore the name of my presenter, with my own, was the last requisite; and thus munimented, I had only to fall into the line of aristocratic equipages, sweeping down St. James’s-street, and to await my turn for alighting at the doors of the Palace.
How different the scene in Hogarth’s day, when they went to Court in sedan-chairs, and when the “Rake, arrested for debt,” (as portrayed in his dramatic colours,) was the very ideal of a courtier. Yet there stands the old Palace, precisely as it figures in that graphic picture, and here are the successors of the characters who fill up its back-ground, if not those of the hero himself! Such were my reflections as I found myself moving, very leisurely, in the procession of wheels, along the splendid street, amid crowds of gaping spectators, kept at respectful distance by the heels of the horses of the mounted guards, and by the vigorous exertions of the police. My further reflections were not of a very self-sufficient sort; for who could be very much elated at finding himself cutting so little of a figure, and, in fact, making an absolute blemish, in such a pageant? Yet, I had no occasion to be ashamed, as I felt that my hired brougham was as much the thing for my republican self-respect, as the gilded coaches and gorgeous liveries before me and behind me were for titled lords and ladies. In fact, if I could not be vain, I was not without a little Johnsonian pride, in the entire consistency and reality of my turn-out. Hired court-dresses, and swords, and buckles, have been not unheard-of things for an appearance at Court. I was at least habited in no borrowed plumes, and was going in the same vestments which I had often worn in my pulpit, to be presented by the representative of my own Government, as a plain American parish-priest. As for my hired brougham, it was countenanced by so many of its own kind, that its humble appearance occasioned no surprise even among the staring crowd, it being quite usual for professional gentlemen to use such an equipage. But the carriages of the nobility, in general, are truly superb: that is to say—if they are not ridiculous. They look, for all the world, (with their gilding, emblazonings and trappings, their powdered coachmen, and footmen holding on behind, three in a row, with staves and cocked hats,) like the carriage of Cinderella in the nursery-book. And indeed, on a drawing-room day, the fair creatures within, in their ostrich-plumes, and lace, and diamonds, as revealed to vulgar eyes through the glass-windows, often seem to realize the fabulous beauty of Cinderella herself with their dazzling complexions and delicate airs. Not alone the vulgar, however, but many of the personal friends of the fair parties are viewing them, all the time, from the neighbouring balconies and shop-fronts. The levee attracts less of a crowd, and yet there was crowd enough, and very stupid was my approach to Pall-Mall. There—you wait till called in your turn, and meanwhile have time to look at the mounted trumpeters, pursuivants, and guards, in liveries of scarlet and gold, drawn up before the gates. At last, setting forward, you enter the court-yard, with as much of a flourish as your whip can make for you, and alight at the door of the Palace, making your way, first along a corridor, and then slowly up a grand stair-case, to the suite of apartments opened for the occasion. As you enter these apartments, you throw your card into a basket, and pass on amid files of yeomen of the guard, wearing the Tudor livery, and holding their halberds, and looking like old statues of wood or stone, or rather like the wax figures in a museum. When the time comes for you to enter the royal presence, you are met at the door of the throne-room by a gentleman in waiting, to whom you deliver your second card, that you may be properly announced. This card is handed to another official, and you are ushered through a file of ladies of honour towards her Majesty, who stands beneath a canopy, with Prince Albert at her side, the centre of the brilliant circle, and (as I am glad to say) making a truly royal appearance. Here your name is called out, and that of the party who presents you, and then—an American simply advances and bows to the Queen, repeats the salaam to her princely consort, and so retires backwards, not turning his heel upon the royal presence. A British subject goes through the more formidable ceremony of falling on one knee, and kissing the royal hand. Now it so happened that her Majesty—owing no doubt to my attire, which was the same as that of her own clerical subjects—evidently mistook me for one; and my gallantry was in consequence sorely put to the test,—for, advancing with great dignity, the Queen was just proffering her hand, and I was beginning to balance between the republicanism of my knee, and the courtesy of my heart, when the anxious official promptly repeated the form—“presented by the American Minister.” Of course her Majesty took the hint, and most gracefully withdrew, with a courteous recognition and a pleasant smile, while I finished my democratic homage with as much self-possession as was in my power, repeated my obeisance to Prince Albert, and bowed myself backward through the gorgeously apparelled circle of diplomats, making my especial respects to our own Minister, and so retiring into the adjoining apartment.
On this occasion the Queen’s appearance impressed me, in all respects, more favorably than I had expected; but, on the other hand, Prince Albert struck me as less princely, and less intelligent, than I had supposed him to appear. A lady would here interpose with the question as to her Majesty’s dress, and I must allow that, from my own observation, I could not speak with certainty on that important subject, but the Times next morning asserted it to have been—“a train of white watered silk, chenée with gold, and green and silver, trimmed with tulle and white satin ribands, and ornamented with diamonds; and a petticoat of white satin and tulle, with satin ribands to correspond; and a head-dress of emeralds and diamonds.” The Duchess of Sutherland and Lady Jocelyn were conspicuous among the ladies in attendance, and Prince Albert was attended by Lord George Lennox, with his groom and his equerry. It would have been a very magnificent spectacle, had not the small and stifled appearance of the throne-room given a cramped look to the royal party, and detracted from the majesty which always requires “ample room and verge” for its full effect on the imagination.
The drawing-room was held in honour of the Queen’s birthday, about a week later. I could now go freely, without the ceremony of a presentation, merely depositing my card in the basket, from which, I suppose, the Times reports of attendants at the Palace are made up. In approaching St. James, everything was as before, save that the crowd was greater, and the carriages conveying ladies of rank more superb. On alighting, and entering the corridor, I was enchanted by the display of splendour and beauty which filled it, and in which there was everything but order to make it all that one could imagine of a courtly pageant. Brilliant indeed; but such a jam! The crowd was a perfumed and dazzling one; but not less a crowd than one in the streets. Here were peers and peeresses of every rank, and the daughters of peers, and new brides, and many a young beauty coming for the first time, and trembling with excitement, yet bewildered with delight. There is no denying the striking beauty of many of these high-born damsels; their complexions were lily-and-rose, and health was as generally characteristic of their appearance as beauty. I observed the trepidation of some of them, as their finery was subjected to the pressure of the patrician throng, and as they gathered their trains over the ivory arm, evidently thinking anxiously of the critical moment when they must allow it to flaunt gracefully, and catch it up not less so, in the presence of their Sovereign. No doubt all had been practised for weeks beforehand, till each was an adept, in the eyes of waiting-maids and mammas. Mingled with these gay creatures were grave judges in their wigs, and fierce-looking officers in their uniforms, and wild-looking Highland chieftains, bare-legged, but plaided and plumed, and making a showy figure in their clan-tartans. One of the yeomen-of-the-guard remarked, in my hearing, as I passed, that this was the greatest attendance at Court he had ever known. The Crystal Palace had filled the town, and there were many foreigners. I saw some Persian and other Oriental costumes in the throng; and, on the whole, the poorest figures were those in the ordinary gentleman’s court suit, with the cocked-hat, and hair-powder of the last century. This style of dress seemed to be avoided as far as possible, military uniforms predominating. In mounting the great stair-case, if our progress was slow, there was everything to relieve its tediousness. The ascending rows of glittering uniforms and fine female figures were a study in themselves. I observed the lovely Lady ——, whom I had met a few hours before, at a breakfast, and was amused with the entire change of her appearance which those few hours had made. Lord Lyttleton, who had been at the same breakfast party, now appeared in a military suit. Quite a number of the clergy were interspersed among the fair and brave; and as a polite young officer offered me precedence, and cautioned me to beware of his spurs, he whispered—“Cedant arma togæ is about all the Latin I retain.” Gaining a landing on the stair-case, we were next amused by observing the great personages descending by a corresponding stair-case, from the royal presence. A servant called for the carriage of each party, as they successively appeared, and so one always knew who was coming. At last came a great man whom all knew without any help, as he tottered down, dressed in his Field-Marshal’s uniform, of which the gay decorations strangely contrasted with his white head and bowed shoulders. As I watched the old hero descending, step by step, I could not but think of the lower descent he must soon make into the dust, and oh! what a moral was furnished, at that moment, by the glittering honours he wore upon his breast. Dukes, earls, and cabinet ministers, and several ambassadors, with wives and daughters, came following each other in splendid succession, till at last I gained the ante-chamber, and had something else to look at. Here I could move more freely, and renew my impressions of the Palace. Several persons whom I had met elsewhere were so polite as to join me, and to enter into conversation, which very pleasantly beguiled the time. The exits and entrances were in themselves enough to amuse and fill up one’s time. Almost every variety of official decoration and costume, known to heralds and antiquarians, seemed to be worn by somebody, and amongst the comers and goers were some distinguished individuals in arts and arms. In this room were one or two of Lely’s pictures, and among them, if I remember rightly, that of Catharine of Braganza. Queen Anne also looked on us, from the walls, and her Majesty’s odious old great-great-grandfather, George the Second. As I fell into the line which moved toward the throne-room, I came to a window looking over the park and private garden of the Palace. Oh! what tales of Caroline, and Hanoverian, gossip and scandal, the sight recalled. There was her Majesty’s state carriage, awaiting the conclusion of the ceremonies, to convey her back to Buckingham Palace. The squab of a driver was sleeping on his box—a mere mortal in spite of his livery, his hair-powder, and the nosegay in his bosom. In my turn, I passed before her Majesty, much as before. I hardly saw, in full, the ceremony of a female presentation, although there were several just before and after me, for the crowd was intolerable, and my escape from the presence of royalty into the freer apartments beyond, was truly refreshing. I passed into an armory, or room ornamented with such old weapons and defences as one sees at the Tower. Finally, as before, I left the Palace through a long corridor, ornamented with portraits of the Kings of England, down to Charles the First. This portrait reminded me of the last night on earth of that sovereign, which he passed beneath this roof: and of the last sacrament which he received, in the chapel of St. James. This is the most sacred association with the Old Palace, and it is the only one that is enough sacred, to sink the ill memories of its Georgian traditions. The English underestimate Charles the First, and do not seem to reflect that many of those elements of their Constitution, on which they are most wont to value themselves, have been bequeathed to them by the spirit in which he maintained the royalty, and suffered for the Church. If the brutal Cromwell is remembered with commendation, because of some liberties which were the secondary results of his usurpation, why should not the failings of Charles be forgotten, in gratitude for the great conservative principles which he taught the English people, by the signal ability with which he baulked his adversaries in debate, and by his truly sublime behaviour in the last stages of his reign? Say what they will, thought I, as I looked at his portrait—had Charles the First been a Louis the Sixteenth, I should not, to-day, have seen a descendant of Alfred on the Throne of Great Britain.
Harrow—Coventry—Warwickshire.
I went into the country on Ascension Day to keep the feast, at an interesting place in the neighbourhood of Harrow. As I was rushing at the last minute to gain a seat in the railway train, I saw a hand beckoning me from one of the carriages, and so took my seat beside the Bishop of Oxford. He was going to spend the day at the same place, a fact of which I had not the least idea beforehand, but which, of course, greatly heightened my anticipations of pleasure, on making the discovery. Arrived, the Bishop was received by the Rev. Mr. ——, and I was kindly invited to accompany him to breakfast, after a brief survey of the attractions of the place. First, we went with our reverend host to see a sort of training school, in which he was giving some young men of limited means all the substantial parts of a University education. We went into their chapel, and joined in the devotions with which they began their day. We were then conducted through the establishment connected with which was a printing press, worked by the pupils, and a chemical laboratory, in which they were producing stained glass for the chapel. In the garden I saw a novelty in the horticultural art, which struck me as not unworthy of imitation. A small piece of ground had been ingeniously shaped into a miniature Switzerland. Here, for example, was the Righi, with a corresponding depression for the Lake of the Four Cantons. A bucket of water poured into such a depression, makes the little scene into an artificial reality, serving to convey a geographical idea much more forcibly than any map could possibly do. From this college we went to an “Agricultural School,” where some plain farmer’s boys, in their working attire, were gathered to prayers before engaging in the labour of the day. A certain amount of education is furnished to these lads, in return for their toil, and they pay some fees beside; the plan proposing to elevate this class of the peasantry, especially in morals and religious knowledge. Thence, we went to the parish-schools which were also opened by prayer; and then the children were catechised, in the presence of the Bishop. After this we adjourned to breakfast, and then went to the Church; a very plain, but substantial and architectural one, lately substituted for its dilapidated predecessor. The Bishop preached, entirely extemporaneously, having been pressed into the service against his intentions. As he eloquently exhorted us to follow our ascended Lord, I could not but think how entirely different from the ordinary American notion of an English Bishop, in labors and in spirit, was this estimable prelate. The Holy Communion followed, and there was a large number of devout partakers, representing all classes of society. I was glad to see, for example, some plain farmers, in their frocks, and two of the railway-guards, in their liveries.
While walking through the lanes, with the Bishop and this laborious pastor, a little boy ran up to us with oak-leaves, and a branch containing oak-apples. It was the 29th of May; and the Bishop playfully asked the lad why he carried them. “To remember King Charles,” said the little fellow—as he further enforced the sale of these memorials of the Restoration.
During the residue of the day, I shared the labours of the pastor, as he went about the parish, visiting here a sick person, and there a poor one; and, towards evening, returning to the grounds of the training school, I joined in a game of cricket, which the young men were playing in high glee. Chasing the ball as it bounded over the field, or hid itself in the hedge; scratching my hands with nettles, and joining in the shouts of frolic, with these happy youths; and finally sitting at my leisure to watch the beautiful evening sky, against which stood out the graceful spire and foliage of Harrow-on-the-Hill, while the neighbouring bells of Stanmore pealed a sunset song, I could not but murmur to myself, with Gray—
“I feel the gales that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.”
In rambling about, we had a good view of the former residence of Queen Adelaide, in which she had lately died. She was much beloved and respected for her unaffected piety, and her manifold good works.
In the twilight we went to church again. The service was sung to a very pleasing chant, in which all joined with heart, and then the pastor entered the pulpit, and preached, extemporaneously, on the text, “It is expedient for you that I go away.” The sermon was an allegory, of exceeding beauty, perfectly sustained throughout, and that, to all appearance, without effort. I shall never forget it, nor the powerful impression it produced at the time. I have, since, quoted it entire, in my own pulpit, (with full credit to the source from which it was derived,) and was happy to observe the effect it was capable of producing, even at second hand. I left the scene of this pleasing day’s experiences, with a sweet elevation of feeling, inspired by the solemnities in which I had engaged, and by the sermons which I had been so fortunate as to hear. Oh! lovely Church of England, how little they know thee who revile thee! how unworthy of their baptism are they who have cast themselves from thy motherly bosom!
My next excursion was into Warwickshire. I went first to Coventry, a city of which one of my humble ancestry was Mayor, more than two centuries ago, and for which I entertained a sort of hereditary respect. It retains much of the aspect it must have borne during that worthy’s incumbency; for a more mediæval-looking town I saw not in England. Still unmodernized are its ancient streets and alleys. The houses jut out, story above story, their gables fronting the way, and so close together, in the upper parts, that neighbours may light their pipes with each other across the street, as they lean out of their windows. The famous three spires of Coventry belong to as many different churches, but seem to equalize the place in cathedral glories with Lichfield, its sister see. The spire of St. Michael’s, which is chief among them, is, indeed, singularly beautiful: and the triplet is well harmonized, and gives the town a majestic appearance as one approaches it. A town of many spires, in America, is generally a town of many wrangling creeds; and the major part of the steeples are but vulgar rivals, realizing the droll idea of Carlyle’s eel-pot, in which each individual eel is trying to get his head higher than his neighbour’s. The fact, however, is less droll than melancholy, when one thinks of the sickening results, upon a community, of so many religions, all claiming to be reputable types of Christ’s dear Gospel, although so widely differing among themselves that some must necessarily be its pestilent antagonists. Dissocial habits; cold incivilities; open wars; disgraceful rivalries; bickering animosities; and a degraded moral sentiment—these are the things signified by your poly-steepled towns in our own land, and God only knows the irreligion and the contempt for truth, which are festering within them, as the result of these acrid humours; but as yet, it is not generally so in England. The three spires of Coventry all point faithfully to the throne of the Triune God, and are symbols of one Lord, one faith, and one baptism. Oh, that all who dwell under their shadow knew the blessings of their ministrations, and received them in spirit and in truth!
The melodious bells of St. Michael’s rung, as I lingered about its venerable walls; but the interior was undergoing a costly restoration, and was so obstructed with scaffolding, that I could catch but little of the effect of its solemn length of nave and chancel, and of the intersecting arches of its aisles. I afterwards visited Trinity; and also the ancient St. Mary’s Hall, the scene of the civic pomps of Coventry, and filled with antiquarian interest in itself and in its contents. It was not difficult to conjure up the ancient shows of the adjoining church-yard when Holy Week was celebrated by dramatic mysteries. But what interested me more than all the rest, was the grotesque head of a mediæval clown, projecting from an old house, with a most striking expression of vulgarly impertinent curiosity. The reader of Tennyson’s exquisite chef d’œuvre, will, of course, recognise “Peeping Tom” in this description. Fabulous may be that beautiful legend of the Lady Godiva, but the men of Coventry believe it still: and still, on every Friday in the week of Holy Trinity, its annual fair is opened with a commemorative procession, in which a fair boy, dressed in well-knit hosiery, but apparently naked, rides through the ancient streets, with long and golden hair flowing from head to foot, and covering his body, as the representative of the sweet bride of Earl Leofric, who made the burghers of Coventry toll-free, and “gained herself an everlasting name.” They were making great preparations for this pageant when I was there, but on the whole I preferred not “to march through Coventry with them.”
From Coventry to Kenilworth, of course. It was late in the afternoon when I started the rooks in those old ruins, and sat down to watch their flight about its ivied towers. Here was, indeed, a place for thought, and for sentimentalism. How the romance of Scott, that once so bewitched me, (as I read it, stretched in boyish luxury upon the floor of the verandah of an American villa, on the dear banks of the Hudson,) now rose about me in a strange dream of reality; and how tormenting the endeavour to separate the true history from the charming fable! Here the finely wrought Gothic masonry, and delicate mouldings, and deeply recessed windows of the great banqueting-room, stand without a roof; and the ivy that climbs the solid walls, and twists among the shattered mullions and transoms, is rooted inside of the once hospitable hall, and beneath the very point in space, where once the haughty Queen Elizabeth sat in state, on a splendid dais, with Burleigh, and Leicester, and Raleigh around her, while these cold, damp walls lifted about them their magnificent tapestries, and gorgeous blazonries of heraldic honour. In that bay window she once reclined, to look over the park, and to think thoughts too deep for utterance. The rich architectural work of these chambers betrays their former splendid uses; and one grudges, to the great serpent-like convolutions of the ivy-vines, the sole proprietorship of their surviving graces. Yet there they hang their melancholy leaves; and the beautiful desolation is possibly rich enough in its moral effect on the heart of the visitor, to make one contented on the whole, that the pile was once so great in design, and so exquisite in detail, and that the ruin is now so complete. Poor Amy Robsart!
Up and down I went, thinking only of her wrongs. Now the worn steps wound up to a turret, and now descended to a secret postern. Here was the orchard, and there the lake, and there the plaisance: now you look out of a prison-like window, and now you stand in the deep recess of a lordly oriel. Going into the ancient grounds, I scattered a hundred sheep, and away they went, bounding over grass as green and velvety, as they were white and fleecy. These are the successors of those red deer, fallow deer, and roes, which once stored the chase. The “swifts” darted from bush to bush, and the thrushes fluttered in the hawthorn; and then all was as still as if the past hung over the place like a spell, and as if it were haunted with its own history. Of all this noble castle, there remains only one outer part, which can shelter a human inhabitant. The barbican, beneath which Elizabeth must have made that superb entrance, is still a dwelling; but its occupant is a plain farmer, who would, no doubt, prefer to be more snugly housed. It seemed strange to find such a picturesque abode devoted to so homely a use. How glad I should be to hire it, myself, for a summer lodge, provided I might have the range of the surrounding domains, without the annoyance of everybody’s intrusion, and provided I had nothing better to do than to read romances and history!
Here this farmer lives, in a room of panelled oaken wainscot, enclosed by walls that might defy artillery. The chimney-piece is a massive bit of antiquity, partly alabaster curiously wrought, and partly wood of rich and costly carving. The ragged-staff of Dudley is conspicuous, in the decorations; it betrays the relics of its former gilding; the speaking initials R. L. tell the story of its origin, and the motto Droit et Loyal shows itself, as if in mockery of historical justice, amid the arms and cognizances of the once proud possessor of the princely castle of Kenilworth.
The long twilight enabled me to visit Leamington Priors, and to get a very pleasing impression of its trim and fair abodes, and showy modern streets. Then away, by night, to Warwick, where I slept at the “Warwick Arms,” after such a comfortable supper, as one finds nowhere, at the close of a traveller’s day, except at an English Inn.
It proved a most beautiful morning, next day, and I was up very early, resolved, before tasting breakfast, to taste all the sweets of the hour of prime, in one of the most beautiful rural districts of England. I walked out some two or three miles, on the Kenilworth road, to Guy’s Cliff, and to the scene, beyond it, of Piers Gaveson’s murder. The beauty of the day and of the Scenery, the song of birds, and the blossoms of the hawthorn along the road, were singularly in keeping with the imagery by which the poet has pictured the early history of a reign, strikingly coincident with that in which Gaveson’s fortune was made and ruined:—