CHAPTER XXX.

_St. Augustine’s Chapel—St. Martin’s—Addison—Thompson._

In the chapel of St. Augustine we kept St. Peter’s Day, and commemorated the benefactors of the college. It was a cheering spectacle to behold around me those missionary youths, devoted to the noblest warfare which can enlist the energies of man, and destined, as I could not but pray, to see and to achieve great things in the extension of the kingdom of Immanuel upon earth. And how inspiring to them the associations with which they are surrounded! On the very spot which they inhabit, the Missionary Augustine preached the Gospel to their ancestors, when Anglo-Saxons were but pagans, and now they go forth from it, as from the very centre of Christian civilization, to bear the precious seed to the uttermost isles of the sea, so that what England is, Australia may become.

In the afternoon, I preached in old St. Martin’s, which probably is the very oldest Church in England. Its name of St. Martin is probably a second designation, given to it when it was fitted up for the use of good Queen Bertha, before the conversion of her husband, Ethelbert. Such a Church is spoken of by Bede, as having been built before the Romans left the island; and as Roman bricks, of unquestionable antiquity, are a large portion of the material of this Church, it is on this and other accounts generally dated from A. D. 187, and supposed to have been originally erected by some good Cornelius of the Roman army. Be that as it may, Queen Bertha’s tomb is in the choir to this day: and the ancient font is with good reason supposed to be that in which Ethelbert was baptized. What hoary antiquity, what venerable and august dignity invest this sacred place! It is of humble dimensions, and both without and within bears the marks of its primitive character, in its plainness and simplicity, but it is kept in good repair, and regarded with the affectionate reverence which is so becoming. The yews and the ivy which adorn it with their shade, are, apparently, almost as old as the Church: and the church-yard gently slopes from the church-door to the road-side, giving a beautiful elevation to the old pile, and presenting a highly picturesque effect to the passer-by.

But how shall I describe the cathedral, whose huge bulk everywhere lifts itself into sight above this curious and reverend old town? The metropolis of the Anglo-Catholic communion is graced by an Archiepiscopal church, every way worthy of the majestic relations which it bears to Christendom. There it stands, like the Church of England itself, worthy to be “the joy of the whole earth,” and not more magnificent and imposing, than harmoniously chastened throughout with an air of sovereign splendour subdued by solemn propriety. There is about it, as compared with other English cathedrals, a sort of aggregated look, strikingly significant of the massively conglomerate body which the Anglican Church has already become, and something of which has characterized her from the beginning. The double cross, in form of which the cathedral is built, very appropriately, in view of its primacy, heightens this effect: and the result is, that its prestige is well sustained, when the pilgrim sees before him the head church of his religion. A blessing on its ancient towers, and may it more and more become “dear for its reputation through the world.”

On Sunday and the day following, when I attended service in the cathedral, I had the best opportunities for surveying it throughout, under the attentive guidance of Lord Charles Thynne and the estimable Archdeacon Harrison. I am glad to say that the service here was very effectively celebrated, though a larger force would have been more worthy of the place and of the work. The organ is quite concealed in the triforia, and its sound is somewhat peculiar as it issues from those high cells, in perfect unison with “the full-voiced choir below.” As to the effect of the cathedral upon the eye, I remember no interior, save that of Milan, which can compare with it for impressiveness; and if, from general effect, we descend to details, this cathedral is vastly the more solemn and magnificent of the twain. Its altar, for example, is one of the most lofty in Christendom, the choir rising from the nave by a long flight of steps, and the altar being elevated, in like manner, very high above the level of the choir. The several ascents and various levels of the Church, instead of too much breaking its whole, seem to add an air of vastness and sublimity to the general design. But when one surveys, now the nave, and looks upwards into the tower, and along the far-sweeping vaultings, and now the choir and its intersecting arches and vistas; or descends to that varied undercroft, with its chapels and sepulchres, and twisted columns, and French inscriptions; or mounts to make circuit of the tombs and chapels, pausing within “Becket’s Crown” to admire its unique and anomalous elegance; and then makes his way through the cloisters into the chapter-house, and finally escapes into outer day, and looks up again at the vast pile, through which he has been wondering and wandering so long—the impression left upon the mind is one of astonishment, like that of the Queen of Sheba, when “there was no more spirit in her.” I had seen the spot where Becket fell beneath the stout blows of his murderers—the marble floor which received his blood still exhibiting a speaking memorial of the tragedy, in a small mutilation which was made in sawing out the bloody block, to be carried to Rome as a relic; I had seen the remains of the same prelate’s shrine, where his sovereign submitted to flagellation, where princes presented so many costly oblations, and which once glittered with such gorgeous wealth before the eye of Erasmus; I had seen the stone-stairs leading up to his sepulchre, worn away by the thousands of devotees, among which I reckoned those of certain Canterburie pilgrims, accompanied by Dan Chaucer himself; I had seen the tomb of the Black Prince, with his lion-like effigy—over which dangles his surcoat, a thing of tatters, but which no one can behold without emotion, when he reflects that it once encased the beating heart and chivalrous breast of that gallant Plantagenet. I had beheld the recumbent effigies of the usurping Lancaster, Henry IV., and his Queen, Joan of Navarre; and I had surveyed the memorial works, or sepulchres, of the primates of all England, from Lanfranc to Chichely; but after all, I bore away no remembrance more pleasing than that of the monumental window and tomb of the late Archbishop Howley, commemorating, as they do, a most worthy prelate, and marking the great epoch of a revival of theology, and of practical faith, throughout the Church of England. This tomb is surmounted by the recumbent effigy of the Bishop, and presents a most graceful specimen of reviving art. He is habited in his sacred vestments, to which the addition of the cope gives completeness and effect; and as the Archbishop wore that vestment at the coronation of Queen Victoria, there was reality to justify its use. In short, I was glad to see that even in the cathedral of Canterbury, and without servility in copying the antique, our own age can erect a monument, and surmount it with a figure, literally true to its original, which is worthy of the place as a work of art; and which, if it is more modest than the mediæval sepulchres which surround it, is still in perfect keeping with all their splendour; while it tells the simple story of a primacy the most brilliant in its contemporary achievements of any that has ever blessed the Church of England, since the days of Augustine. It will be forever celebrated as distinguished by the rapid extension of Anglican Catholicity in all quarters of the globe, and by a holy effort for the restoration of unity to the Church of God.

The city of Canterbury abounds in quaint nooks and corners—old gates, and fragments of wall;—and, in particular, is marked by an ancient mound, or artificial hill, called the _Dane John_, which is much reverenced as a work of the aboriginal Britons. Some will have it that it was raised against the Danes, as its name appears to import; but it strikes me as something of religious origin, and not unlike those mysterious _tumuli_ which abound in our own Western country. If truly British, indeed, who knows but some primeval _Madoc_ built both it and them?

It was my fortune to hear in the cathedral, as an anthem, that _chef d’œuvre_ of Sternhold and Hopkins, which must have been written in some fit of poetical inspiration, vouchsafed to them for those two verses only—

“The Lord descended from above And bowed the heavens high,” &c.

The extract has been set to noble music, but who was the composer I cannot say. After a visit to the Deanery, and a gratifying survey of its long gallery of ecclesiastical portraits, I was shown into the surrounding gardens, and conducted to almost every part of the cathedral precincts, and finally dismissed by an ancient gate, which, owing to some tradition, retains the romantic name of Queen Bertha’s postern. But let me not conclude my remembrances of Canterbury without a warm tribute to the delightful society to which I was introduced at St. Augustine’s, and among the dignitaries of the cathedral. The esteemed Warden, who received me as his guest, and who so kindly entertained me, deserves my most grateful acknowledgments.

On the morning of my departure, rising very early, and accompanied by a friend, to whom I had become warmly attached since my arrival in England, I drove out, through pleasant Kentish scenery, to the parsonage of Borne, which is from Canterbury three miles distant, according to Izaak Walton; following the example of the many, who once did so, to see the face of the venerable and judicious Richard Hooker, though I could only hope to see his tomb, and the church in which he ministered. I shall never forget that morning drive, nor the reverence with which, at length, I beheld Hooker’s own church, and the parsonage in which he so loved to see God’s blessings spring out of the earth about his door. I entered the holy place, and there was his bust, coloured by the old artist to represent life: and looking at it, through my hands, so as to shut out the surrounding parts of the monument, I was verily able to conceive that I beheld good Master Hooker in his pulpit, about to speak. It imprinted a live idea of the man upon my memory, which I would not lose for many costlier things. The place called up many of those graphic anecdotes which his quaint biographer has chronicled concerning him; but I was especially reminded of that scene between the Puritan intruders and the old parish clerk, who, when they sat down on joint stools to partake their communion, said, as he resigned the keys with a heavy heart, “Take the keys and lock me out, for all men will say Master Hooker was a good man and a good scholar, and I am sure it was not used to be thus in his days.” I could not but remember, moreover, that within those walls Hooker had passed many a lonely Ember-day, locked up for fasting and prayer; and ‘who knows’ said I to myself, ‘but we are even now realizing the blessed answers to those intercessions for the Church, in all parts of the world?’

On my way up to London, I paid a visit at S—— Park, the residence of a young country squire, who had lately taken his degrees at Cambridge, married, and settled here on his hereditary estate. The life of an English gentleman, of this degree, has always struck me, as nearly the most perfect realization of sublunary bliss, which the world affords. Nor did the glimpse which I thus gained of such a life, in the least disappoint me. The young mistress of the mansion, in the momentary absence of her husband, kindly made herself my guide, over a portion of the estate, in search of him. No ceremony—and no attempt to appear fine. In a moment she was ready, and as she led me hither and thither, she was not above taking me to her poultry-yard, and her dairy, and showing me her amateur farming. We entered a fine field of standing corn—the golden wheat of Kent—and as we passed through the narrow foot-path, my fair guide informed me ’twas their way to parish church, and just then I descried the church itself, at a little distance, in its modest beauty, at the foot of a hill. A lark flew up, and she pointed at the little fellow, as he mounted the skies, and poured out his song, reminding me of a remark I had made to her, that we have no sky-larks in America. She entered a pretty farm-house, where a decent-looking family were just taking their tea: they treated her as they would have done a descended angel, while she, in the prettiest tones, inquired whether they “had seen their Master thereabout,” and so, thanking them, departed. We soon encountered the young “Master,” who gave me a kind welcome, and showed me the further attractions of the estate. Then home, and soon to dinner, and after that, a pleasant summer evening sauntering about the doors and under the old trees of the park, where the rooks kept up a great cawing in consequence of our intrusion. In many respects, the place did not differ much from many American residences that I have visited; but in others it did, and chiefly in the entire ease and nature with which everybody, from the squire to his humblest menial, nay, even the house-dog, fitted his place, and seemed to enjoy it. We have no servants in America, though we have slaves. All white-complexioned people scorn to obey. Hence the misery and the stiffness of housekeeping, and the deplorable multiplication of those vulgar establishments called “fashionable hotels.” Let me add, concerning this happy abode of unostentatious English comfort and refinement, that what especially pleased me was the devout appearance of the household servants at family prayers. They all joined in the devotions, and each had a Prayer-book in hand, which appeared to be a cherished companion of their daily routine. Happy the household where all the inmates, from the least to the greatest, have one Lord, one faith, and one baptism.

The ancient castle and the cathedral of Rochester were taken in my way up to London; but, interesting as they are in themselves, I might fail to make them attractive, in a description so vague as I should be obliged to give them, and so, with a passing tribute to their merits, as religious and feudal monuments of the past, I must again return to London.

In frequent visits to Westminster Abbey, I had become familiar with every portion of it, including cloisters, chapter-house, and library. In the library, by the politeness of one of the dignitaries, I was favoured with a minute inspection of some of its most precious historical deposites. Such were the dies from which were struck the coins of Henry Fourth, and many succeeding sovereigns, rude works of art, depending upon blows of the hammer to produce their impression. In the chapter-house is the original Domesday-book, and many other historical documents. I was shown the instrument by which Edward I. was authorized, by twenty-three competitors, to settle the Crown of Scotland upon one of their number. The seal of Bruce’s father is very distinctly visible. Here are Henry VII.’s very minute instructions to his commissioners to examine the personal claims to his choice, of a young princess, whom he proposed to marry, with their not over-gallant reports. A superbly decorated instrument, dated at Amiens, August 18, 1527, and signed by Henry VIII., and Francis, was also a great curiosity. It has a golden seal, with the legend—_Plurima servantur fœdere, cuncta fide_. Among other parchments, one signed by Mary, as Queen of France, with her husband Francis II., was interesting. I saw also the stamp, used by Henry VIII., to affix his signature to parchments, in his dying days; a prayer-book of Queen Elizabeth’s; and a fine old Missal of 1380, from which some zealous reformer had erased the service for Becket’s-day, and several prayers for the Pope.

But all these were inferior in interest to the tombs and chapels of the Abbey. Many of the monuments are in wretched taste, and a general banishment to the cloisters, of those which are not in keeping with the architecture of the church, would be a great improvement. The residue should then be repaired and decorated. But even as they are, they present a most interesting epitome of history, and a most affecting commentary on the vanity of worldly grandeur and greatness. With Henry VII.’s chapel, and its royal sepulchres, I was greatly impressed, and the near neighbourhood of the tombs of Mary and Elizabeth, struck me as forcibly as if I had never heard of the strange proximity, in which they, who once could scarcely live in the same world, here mingle their dust with the same span of earth, and side by side, await the judgment. Oh, what pomp of sepulture attests the universal reign of death in this ancient temple! Here, in the chapel of Edward the Confessor, stands the throne, which has been the glory and the shame of so many who lie sleeping around it. The rough old stone, inserted in its base, is the Scottish palladium; and the old monkish fable makes it one of the stones of Jacob’s pillow, at Bethel. The monuments of Edward III., and Queen Philippa, and that of Henry V., commanded my especial attention. Above the latter, are preserved the saddle, shield, and helmet, which he used at Agincourt. The body of Edward I. rests beneath a plain altar-tomb. In the centre of the chapel is the shrine of St. Edward: and it is as near as possible to these relics of their predecessors, that English sovereigns are still anointed and crowned in the adjoining choir. At such times, if these silent tombs are startled by the shouts of the multitude that cry—_Long live the King_, how much more forcibly they must speak to him, in their mute expressiveness, reminding him of his nothingness, and calling him to prepare for a long home in the dust!

To the reflections of Addison and of Irving, in this consecrated pile, I shall not attempt to add my own. The sweet interpreter of the moral of this wonderful place, sleeps appropriately under its tutelage, and few are the graves within it, which more affect a kindred heart. To see the grave of Addison, which was lately marked by a small white stone, in the pavement of one of the chapels, suggests a kind of postscript to his own musings; and, as I stood, thoughtfully, over it, I seemed to hear his voice, out of the sepulchre, confirming his living words. I thought, moreover, how much has been done, since his day, to add to the interest of the holy place—even in addition to his own grave! How many tombs I saw, which he did not—his own among them! Addison knew nothing of Johnson’s sepulchre; stood not by the rival relics of Pitt and Fox; thrilled not as he approached the resting-place of a Wolfe, or a Wilberforce; and little dreamed how much more than the shrine of Kings, his own last bed would impress a stranger from America, in the nineteenth century. How transcendant the enchantment with which genius invests its possessor, where it is paired with virtue! With what refreshment I often turned from the royal tombs to the Poets’ Corner; and there, with what reverence did I turn most frequently to the monuments of those whose high artistic inspiration was characterized by the pure spirit of love to God. It was pleasing to behold the memorials of Chaucer, and of “rare Ben Jonson;” but with a fonder veneration I paused more frequently before that of the stainless Spenser. I thought of his words concerning “the laurel”—and how fittingly they apply to this Abbey, as the—

“——Meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage.”

With a different sort of pleasure I surveyed the wonders of the British Museum. There, a scholar can find all he needs in the way of literary food, freely bestowed. I do not admire the new buildings; but the Institution is worthy of a great nation, and reflects eternal honour on George the Third. Will the Smithsonian, at Washington, ever rival it? Its newest and its oldest treasures, were the great stones from Nineveh, so cleverly described by the _Quarterly_. With what emotions I surveyed those illegible hieroglyphics; and scraped acquaintance with those “placid grinning kings, twanging their jolly bows over their rident horses, wounding those good-humoured enemies, who tumble gaily off the towers, or drown, smiling in the dimpling waters, amidst the ἀνήριθμον γέλασμα of fish.”

The English, though a proud people, are really very moderate in their appreciation of the manifold charms of their incomparable isle. When I surveyed the river-view from Richmond-hill, I recalled the glorious waters of my own dear country, and many a darling scene which is imperishably stamped in my mind’s eye, and asked myself whether, indeed, this was more delightful to the sight than those. I was slow to admit anything inferior in the scenery of the Hudson and Susquehanna, when I compared them with so diminutive a stream as the Thames, and I even reproved myself for bringing them into parallel; but over and over again was I forced to allow, that “earth has not anything to show more fair,” than the rich luxuriance of the panorama which I then surveyed. A river whose banks are old historic fields, and whose placid surface reflects, from league to league of its progress, the towers of palaces and of churches which, for centuries, have been hallowed by ennobling and holy associations; which flows by the favourite haunts of genius, or winds among the antique halls of consecrated learning; and which, after sweeping beneath the gigantic arches, domes and temples of a vast metropolis, gives itself to the burthen of fleets and navies, and bears them magnificently forth to the ocean; such an object must necessarily be one of the highest interest to any one capable of appreciating the mentally beautiful and sublime; but when natural glories invest the same objects with a thousand independent attractions, who need be ashamed of owning an overpowering enthusiasm in the actual survey, and something scarcely less thrilling in the recollection! When I afterward looked towards Rome, and descried the dome of St. Peter’s from Tivoli, I felt, as Gray has somewhere observed, that nothing but the intellect is delighted there, while on Richmond-hill, the soul and the sense alike are ravished with the view, and fail to conceive anything more satisfying of its kind. If ever, which God forbid, the barbarian should overrun this scene, and make ruins of its surrounding villas and churches, the contemplative visitor of a future generation will still linger on those heights with far more of complicated and harmonious satisfaction than can possibly refresh the eye that wanders over the dreary Campagna. Yet how few of the great and fashionable in England have ever allowed themselves to appreciate the glories of their own scenery after this sort!

But whether on those lofty banks, or down by the river-side, or wherever I wandered amid their green retreats, I owned to myself one sad disappointment. I repeated over and over again those verses, learned in school-days, in which Collins bewails the poet of the Seasons:—

“Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, When Thames in summer wreaths is dressed, And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest.”

Where was “yonder grave,” and where “yon whitening spire?” It was with some chagrin that I followed my directions into the dullest haunts of the town, and into a modernized church, in an unromantic street, and there soliloquized, over a miserable brass plate, amid a pile of pew-lumber—“In such a grave your Druid lies!” It is amusing, on a few square inches of worthless metal, as entirely devoid of artificial value as it is of intrinsic worth, to observe the vanity with which a man of rank has contrived to write his own name in as large letters as those of the poet’s. “The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man, and so sweet a poet, should be without a memorial, has denoted the place of his interment, &c.”—so reads the inscription. The Earl has at least the merit of having exactly expressed the character of his tribute, for it _denotes_ the place, and that’s all. One would think a Scottish nobleman might have spared a few guineas in doing something better for the grave of his countryman.

A glimpse of Twickenham, and of the spire of the church where Pope is entombed, were all that I allowed myself, in honour of a bard whose faultless verse is no excuse for the frequent indecency and paganism of its sentiment. It is a curious and revolting fact that his skull has been purloined, and now belongs to a phrenologist. I caught a railway view of Dachet-lane, famous for Falstaff’s experiences in the buck-basket, and so once more to Windsor! I stopped, over a train, to enjoy one more walk on the castle terrace, and one more look at Eton college, and then hastened on to Oxford, to attend the Commemoration. I accepted the hospitalities of my friends of Magdalen, who lodged me in the rooms formerly occupied by the Bishop of Exeter.

During my visit I did not fail to see the celebrated Dr. Pusey, who struck me as a younger man than he is generally supposed to be. His appearance indicates nothing eccentric or ascetic, and his manners are those of a gentleman at home in the society of his fellow-men. He has friends and foes at Oxford, as well as elsewhere, but all seem to regard him with respect as a man of piety and learning. To me he was less a lion, however, because I have always regarded the application of his name to the great movement of 1833, as a mere instance of popular caprice. His share in it has been less than that of many others; neither the credit of its good, nor the disgrace of its evil, belongs to him in any superlative degree. Its progress has left him, with others, far in the rear of its existing interests; and what has been stigmatized as _Puseyism_ is perhaps, when fairly distinguished from the extravagances of a few fanatics and sophists, the English phase of a world-wide return to principles that were the life of Christianity, long before Popery was in existence, and ages before it had bred Protestantism by its violent reaction.