Impressions of England; or, Sketches of English Scenery and Society (2024)

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The following sketches pre-suppose, on the part of thereader, a familiarity with English subjects, and with thegeography, history and literature of England. The writerhas endeavored to avoid the common-places of travel, and hasmade no allusion to topics which are generally understood,such as the petty annoyances one meets at hotels, and the coldnessand phlegm of fellow-travellers. He has also forborneto dwell on the greater evils of English society, becausethese have been thoroughly discussed and exposed, as wellby Englishmen as by foreigners. Besides, our countrymenare kept constantly in view of that side of the matter, andthere would be no relish of novelty to excuse him fortreating them afresh to whole pages made up of the untrustworthystatistics of Dissenting Almanacs, and the rantof Irish members of Parliament. Although English travellershave often dealt unfairly with us, he prefers to showhis dislike of such examples, by forbearing to imitate them.Nor does he regard a different course as due to his love ofcountry. A clergyman who devotes his life to the holiestinterests of his native land, and who daily thinks, andprays, and toils, and exhorts others, in behalf of her wants—alikethose which are purely religious and those whichpertain to letters, to education and to society in general—maysurely excuse himself from vociferous professions ofpatriotism. He freely avows his love of country to beconsistent with a perception of her faults and deficiencies,and mainly to consist in a high appreciation of her manyadvantages; in a sense of responsibility for the blessingsof which she has made him partaker; and in a studiousdesire always to remember what is due to her reputation,so far as his humble share in it may be concerned. Whetherat home or abroad, he would endeavour so to act as neverto disgrace her; but he cannot sympathize with the sortof patriotism which rejoices in the faults of other countries,or which travels mainly to gloat over them. Least of all,can he share in any petty comparisons of ourselveswith our mother country. If there be Englishmen whotake any pleasure in our defects, he is sorry for their narrowness;if any American finds satisfaction in this or thatblemish of English society, he cannot comprehend it. Heconsiders a sacred alliance between the two countries eminentlyimportant to mankind; and he who would perilsuch interests, for the sake of some trivial matter of personalpride, must be one of the most pitiable specimensof human nature, be he American or Briton.

He has aimed, therefore, to present his countrymen witha record of the pleasures which travel in England mayafford to any one pre-disposed to enjoy himself, and able toappreciate what he sees. He confesses, also, that he hasthough rather confined himself to an exhibition of the brightside of the picture, because he fears that many of hiscountrymen are sceptical as to its existence. He suspectsthat Americans too commonly go to England prepared todislike it, and soon cross the channel determined to behappy in France.

As a great measure of his own enjoyment dependedupon the fact, that he mingled freely with English society,he thinks it proper to say that he owed his introductionschiefly to a few English friends with whom he had correspondedfor years beforehand. He supplied himselfwith very few introductions from his native land, andeven of these he presented only a part; and in acceptingcivilities he was careful to become indebted for them,only when he had a prospect of being able, in somedegree, to return them. As the inter-communion of theChurches tends to make the interchange of hospitalitiesmore frequent, he was the rather desirous in nothing topresume on the good-will at present existing; the abuseof which will certainly defeat the ends for which it hasbeen so generously promoted.

Having given years to the study of the British Constitution,and to the Literature and Religion of England, hehas for a long time been accustomed to watch its politics,and its public men. He has, therefore, spoken of severalpublic characters, both Whigs and Tories, in a mannerwhich their respective admirers will hardly approve, but, ashe believes, without prejudice, and as a foreigner may do,with more freedom than a fellow-subject. In such expressionsof personal opinion he has given an independent judgment,and he is very sure that many of his English friendswill be sorry to see some of his criticisms on their leadingstatesmen. It is but just to them to say, that in remarkson the Sovereign, and her amiable Consort, the writer hasspoken entirely for himself, and with a freedom, in whichtheir loyalty and affection never allow them to indulge.He believes that an impartial posterity will, nevertheless,sustain the views with respect to political matters whichhe has expressed, and he considers it part of the dutyof a traveller, in detailing his impressions, to be frank onsuch subjects, in avowing “how it strikes a stranger.”

He desires also to confess another purpose, in preparingand publishing this little work. He has aimed to present,prominently, to his readers, the distinguishing and characteristicmerits of English civilization. Innumerablecauses are now at work to debase the morals of our owncountrymen. With the contemporaries of Washington,that high social refinement which was kept up amid allthe evils of our colonial position, has well-nigh passedaway. The dignity of personal bearing, the careful civilityof intercourse, and the delicate sense of propriety whichcharacterized the times of our grandfathers, have disappeared.The vulgarizing influences of a dissocial sectarianismare beginning to be perceived. The degradingeffects of sudden wealth; the corruptions bred of luxury;the evils of a vast and mongrel immigration; and notleast, the vices communicated to our youth, by contactwith the Mexican and half-Spanish populations contiguousto our southern frontier; all these corrosive elements areoperating among us with a frightful and rapid result. Thecontrast with such tendencies, of the sober and comparativelyhealthful progress of society in our ancestral land,the writer supposes, cannot but be acceptable at least tothose of his countrymen who deprecate this deterioration,and who, for themselves and their families, are anxious tocultivate an acquaintance with those domestic, educationaland religious institutions which have given to Englandher moral power and dignity among the nations of thecivilized world.

These sketches were originally contributed to the New-YorkChurch Journal, but are here given in a revised andcomplete form. They are a record of the memorable year1851—a year to which English history will look back asthe last, and the full-blown flower of a long peace. Therevival of the imperial power in France, at the close ofthat year, has opened a new era in Europe, the effectsof which upon the British Empire can hardly be foreseen.

A. C. C.

Baltimore, 1855.

IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND.

First and Second Thoughts—A Warwickshire Welcome.

About noon, one hazy April day, I found myself approachingthe British coast, and was informed by the Captain of our gallantsteamer, that in a few minutes we should gain a glimpse ofthe mountains of Wales. Instead of rushing to the upper-deck,I found myself forced by a strange impulse to retire to mystate-room. For nearly thirty years had my imagination beenfed with tales of the noble island over the sea; and for no smallportion of that period, its history and its institutions had been afavorite subject of study. To exchange, forever, the England ofmy fancy for the matter-of-fact England of the nineteenth century,was something to which I was now almost afraid to consent.For a moment I gave way to misgivings; collected andreviewed the conceptions of childhood; and then betook myself,solemnly, to the reality of seeing, with my own eyes, the land ofmy ancestors, in a spirit of thankfulness for so great a privilege.I went on deck. There was a faint outline of Snowdon in themisty distance; and before long, as the mist dispersed, there, justbefore us, was the noble brow of Holyhead.

It reminded me of the massive promontory opposite Breakneck,as we descend the Hudson, towards West Point: but the thoughtthat it was another land, and an old as well as an ancestral one,strangely mingled with my comparative memories of home.There is something like dying and waking to life again, in leavingone’s home, and committing one’s self to such a symbol of Eternityas the Ocean, and then, after long days and nights, beholding thereality of things unknown before, and entering upon new scenes,with a sense of immense separation from one’s former self. Oppressivethoughts of the final emigration from this world, and descrying,at last, “the land that is very far off,” were forced uponme. We doubled the dangerous rocks of Skerries, and began tocoast along the northern shore of Anglesea: and then, with my perspective-glass,I amused myself contentedly, for hours, as I pickedout the objects presenting themselves on the land. Now a windmill,now a village, and now—delightful sight—a Christian spire!It was night-fall when our guns saluted the port of Liverpool,and our noble steamer came to anchor in the Mersey.

Our voyage had been a very pleasant, and a highly interestingone. Extraordinary icebergs had been visible for several successivedays, and had given us enough of excitement to relievethe tediousness of the mid-passage. Our two Sundays had beensanctified by the solemnities of worship; and the only mishap ofour voyage had been such as to draw forth much good feeling,and to leave a very deep impression. One of the hands had beenkilled by accidental contact with the engine, and had been committedto the deep with the Burial Service of the Church, in thepresence of all on board. A handsome purse was immediatelymade up for the surviving mother of the deceased; and the painfulevent tended greatly to the diffusion of a fraternal sympathyamong the entire company. We became as one family: andnow, before retiring for the night, I was requested, by those whor*mained on board, to offer a solemn thanksgiving to AlmightyGod, for our safe deliverance from the perils of the sea. This itgave me pleasure to do; and the words of the Psalmist rose inour evening devotions, “Then are they glad because they are atrest; and so he bringeth them unto the haven where they wouldbe.” The noble vessel in which we had accomplished our voyagenow lies many fathoms deep in the sea. It was the Arctic.

On landing, in the morning, I inwardly saluted the dearsoil, on which I was permitted at last to place my feet, and onwhich I could not feel, altogether, a foreigner. I ran the gauntletof tide-waiters, and the like, without anything to complain of,and, after a bath at the Adelphi, made my way to St. George’sChurch. Here, for the first time, I joined in the worship of ourEnglish Mother; though it was difficult to conceive myself astranger, until the expression—“Victoria, our Queen and Governor”—recalledthe fact that I was worshipping with the subjectsof an earthly Sovereign, as well as among my brethren ofthe glorious City of God.

A letter awaited me at the Post Office, which invited me tospend my rest-days with a dear friend. So, after a hasty surveyof Liverpool, which I did not care to inspect minutely, I took anearly evening train for Warwickshire, and was soon speedingathwart highways, and through hedges, towards my friend’s abode.Even my glimpses of England, from the flying carriage, wereenough to occupy my mind delightfully: and often did somescene upon the road-side, or in the sprouting fields, recall incidentsof history, or passages of poetic description, which filledme with emotion, and greatly heightened my preconceptions ofthe pleasures before me, in the tour which I thus began.

So it happened that my first night on shore was passed beneaththe roof of a pleasant English parsonage. My host had been,for years, my correspondent, and though we had never met before,we counted ourselves old friends. My bed-room had beenprepared for me, and furnished with such things, in the way ofbooks and the like, as, it was fancied, would suit my tastes. Onewindow overlooked the Church; and another, over the churchyard,and its green graves, commanded a pretty view of the fields.It was the Holy Week. I was waked every morning by the bellfor early prayers. The Bishop of W—— had sent me hispermission to officiate, and when I went to Church, it was alwaysas a priest of the One Communion. I was at home: as muchso as if I had lived, for years, in the house where I was a guest.We kept the holy time together, and limited our diversions topleasant and somewhat professional walks. We visited, for example,a parochial establishment, in which some twenty widowswere lodged, by the benevolent charity of an individual. Everywidow had her own little cottage, and the entire buildings encloseda square, in which was their common garden. There wasalso a small chapel; and in each little home there was a text inscribedover the fire-place, encouraging charity, forbearance, andlove to God. Here was a quiet Beguinage, built many years ago,and never heard of: but there are many such, in England, dearto God, and the fruits of his Church. I visited also a schoolfounded by King Edward Sixth; and having, on my first landingat Liverpool, paid a visit to its Blue Coat Hospital, founded by aprosperous seaman of the port, and furnishing a noble example toall sea-port cities, I had seen not a little to charm me with thereligion of England, before I had been a week on her shores.Our quiet walks through lanes and by-paths, were not less gratifyingin their way. The hedges and the fields, gardens and residences,the farms and the very highways, were full of attractionsto my eye, and the more so, because my companion seemed tothink he could find nothing to show me! He knew not theheart of an American, fond of his mother country, and for thefirst time in his life coming into contact with old-fashioned things.A heavy wagon, lumbering along the road to market, and inscribed,“John Trott, Carrier, Ashby-de-la-Zouche”—was enoughto set me thinking of past and present, of the poetry of Ivanhoe,and the prose of a market-wain; and when I saw a guide-post,which for years had directed travellers “To Stratford,” onlytwenty miles off, I could almost have bowed to it. A stagecoach came along, bearing “Oxford” on its panels; and thethought that it had started that very morning from the seat of theUniversity, and had raised the dust of Stratford-on-Avon, madeits wheels look dignified. To enjoy England one must be anAmerican, and a hearty and earnest member of the AnglicanChurch. Even the cry of “hot cross buns,” which waked meon Good Friday morning, reviving the song of the nursery, andmany more sacred associations with the day, made me thankfulthat I was no alien to the spirit of the solemnities, which even atraditionary cry in the streets tends to fasten upon the heart andconscience of a nation.

Easter morning came at last, and I was up with the sun, andout for a walk. It came with a bright sunrise, and many cheerfulnotes from morning birds. I was confident I heard a larksinging high up in the air, for though I could not see the littlefellow, I could not mistake the aspiring voice. His Easter Carolwas a joyous one, and I set it to the familiar words—

The hedges were just in leaf: here and there the hawthorn hadblossomed, but the weather was too cold for its silvery beauty;and one almost pitied the few adventurous flowers, that, like goodChurchmen, seemed only to have come out in conscientious regardto the day. I finished my morning walk by a turn or twothrough the church-yard, every grave of which was sparklingwith dews, illuminated by the Easter sun. How forcibly thescene represented the resurrection: “The dew of thy birth is ofthe womb of the morning.”

As I entered the parsonage, I heard the bells chiming from adistant parish church. My reverend friend met me with the salutation—“theLord is risen;” to which I could not but ferventlyrespond in the same primitive spirit. We had a festal breakfast,after family prayers, and soon it was time for service. I couldwillingly have been a worshipper in private, but submitted to theauthority of the parson, and became one of his curates for theday. We emerged from the Vestry in due order of the Psalmist—“thesingers going before,” men and boys alike in surplices;the latter with red cheeks, and white ribbons to tie theircollars, looking like little chubby cherubs, and when they liftedtheir voices, sounding still more like them. The chancel wasneatly decorated; a few flowers placed over the altar, and aninscription on its cloth, “I am the Bread of Life.” With thechoral parts of the service I was surprised, as well as delighted.Boys and men all did their parts, in a manner which would havedone honor to the authorities of a Cathedral, and I observed thatthe congregation generally accompanied the choir, especially thechildren in the galleries. I had never before heard the AthanasianHymn as part of the regular Service, and I was greatly impressedby its majestic effect. After the Nicene Creed, I ascendedthe pulpit, and preached “Jesus and the Resurrection,” and then,returning to the Altar, celebrated the Holy Eucharist, accordingto the English rite, administering to my reverend brethrenand the lay-communicants. To this high privilege I was pressinglyinvited by the pastor himself, in token of entire communionwith the Church in America; and thus I was able to join mypersonal thanksgivings for the mercies of a voyage, and myprayers for my absent flock and family, to a public exercise ofthe highest functions of my priesthood, at the altar of an EnglishChurch.

The many incidents of the day, which afforded me ever freshdelight, might lose their charm, if reduced to narration, or mightstrike the reader as proofs of my facility to be gratified. But Icannot but mention that, strolling away, in the afternoon, to seehow service was performed at another Church, I was gratified tofind it filled with devout worshippers of the plainer sort, attentivelylistening to a very excellent sermon, appropriate to theday. While the preacher was warmly enlarging upon the promiseof a glorious resurrection, and I was quite absorbed in hissuggestions, I suddenly caught a glimpse, among the crowd ofworshippers, of a figure which startled me, as forcibly illustrativeof the words of the preacher, “thy dead men shall live.” Itwas the recumbent effigy of an old ecclesiastic of the fifteenthcentury, which I had not observed before. As if listening to thepreacher, in joyful hope, there it lay upon the tomb, handsclasped placidly together, and looking steadfastly towards heaven!How it seemed to join the hopes of the dead with those of theliving, and to give force to every word which fell from the pulpitconcerning the glory which shall be revealed in all those whosleep in Jesus!

With Easter-Monday our holidays, in the school-boy sense,began. My reverend friend proposed a visit to the Vicar, towhose patronage he owed his own incumbency of the Chapel ofthe Holy Trinity, in B——. Off we started on foot, passingthrough the suburbs of a populous town, and finally emerginginto the open country. We came suddenly in sight of the oldChurch of A——; its beautiful spire and gables admirablyharmonizing with the surrounding view, and telling a silent storyof long past years. Beyond it, a majestic avenue of elms disclosedat its extremity a mansion of Elizabethan architecture anddate; not the less reverend in my associations for the fact thatCharles the First slept in it just before Edgehill fight, and that acannon-ball, still lodged in the stair-case, attests the perilous honorwhich his Sacred Majesty was thus pleased to bestow on itsoccupant. The solemn dignity of an old English residence ofthis kind, had heretofore been to me a thing of imagination; nowit was before my eye, not a whit less pleasing in its reality. Therooks were chattering in its venerable trees, which seemed todivide their predilections about equally with the steeple; and Iam told that they are such knowing birds, that whenever you seea rookery, you may be sure that there is both orthodox faith, andat least one sort of good-living in the neighborhood.

Had I challenged my friend to show me a genuine Roger-de-Coverleypicture in real life, as the entertainment of my holiday,I must have admitted myself satisfied with this scene at A——.Not only did the old hall, and the church, in all particulars,answer to such a demand; not only did a river run by the church-yard;not only were fields beyond, with cattle grazing, cornsprouting, and hedges looking freshly green; but when I enteredthe church-yard gate, lo! a rustic party, in holiday trim, werehanging about the old porch, awaiting the re-appearance of a bridaltrain, which had just gone in. It wanted but the old Knighthimself and his friend the Spectator, to make the whole sceneworthy of the seventeenth century.

I entered the church, and found it in all respects just such aninterior as I had longed to see; apparently the original of manya pleasing print, illustrating Irving’s “Sketch-Book” and similarworks, the delight of my childhood, and still affording pleasurein recollection. Its ample nave, widened by rows of aisles, terminatedin the arch of a long chancel, at the altar of whichstood not only one matrimonial couple, but actually five or six,whom two curates were busily uniting in the holy bonds of wedlock.When the procession returned from the altar, they passedinto the vestry to register their names, and one of the curatescoming to the door of the church, found another group of villagers,at the font, presenting a child for baptism. Followingmy friend into the vestry, I was presented to the Vicar himself,who seemed the genius loci in all respects; a venerable gray-hairedold gentleman, in his surplice, full six feet in stature, and worthyto sit for a portrait of Dr. Rochecliffe, in Woodstock. It was nowtime for service, and I was desired to robe myself, and accompanyhim into the chancel, two curates, the clerk, and some singersleading the way. I was put into a stall, marked with the nameof some outlying chapelry of the parish, and appropriate to itsincumbent when present. The chancel was filled with monuments,of divers ages and styles. At my left hand lay the effigiesof a knight and his good dame, in Elizabethan costume; beyondwere a pair of Edward III.’s time; opposite were figures ofthe period of Henry VI. and much earlier; the knights all inarmor, and some with crossed legs, as a token that they hadfought in Palestine. The service was intoned by one of thecurates, in a severe old tone, authorized in Archbishop Cranmer’stime, which the Vicar afterwards assured me was very ancient,and the only genuine music of the Church of England. Whenthe service was concluded, there was a churching to be attendedto, at the south porch of the church, and to this duty one of thecurates was deputed, while the Vicar himself detained us in thechancel with an enthusiastic antiquarian illustration of the monuments,to which I was a most willing listener. Here slept thede Erdingtons, and there the Ardens: such and such was theirstory; and such and such were the merits of the sculpture.Chantrey had visited these figures, and assured him that theywere the finest in the kingdom; and if I imagined, at the time,that such was merely Sir Francis’ courtesy to the worthy Vicar,I hope I may be forgiven, for some subsequent acquaintance withsuch things inclines me to believe the sculptor was sincere. Onthe walls were the heavy tablets of the Hanoverian period, andour attention was directed to the marked decline of art, from theperiod of the Crusades down to the Georges, growing worse andworse till George Fourth’s time, which improved the existingstyle, and was succeeded by a period of rapid return to correcttaste and principle. Of all this the Church itself bore witness.Here the worthy man pointed out marks of its various stages ofdecline: here were barbarous repairs; there a sad blunder of oldChurch-wardens; here a wanton mutilation of Hanoverianism in1790, when the very worst things happened to the holy and beautifulhouse; and there, at last, was a fine restoration of our owntimes.

We were next conducted to the church-yard, the Vicar havingdoffed his surplice, and assumed his usual habit, which partook ofthe dignity and taste of its wearer in a pleasing degree. Hishat was specially ecclesiastical, and turned up at the sides, andover his cassock and bands he wore a clerical surtout, so that ashe strode over the graves, in his small-clothes, displaying a finelyproportioned leg, his entire figure might have been thought contemporarywith that of his brother of Wakefield. We now learnedthe history of the Church, its great tithe, and its various plunderingsunder successive bad kings. We viewed the tower and spirefrom every possible point of vantage, and then went round thewalls to see where a window had been blocked up, or a doorwaybroken through, or a pointed arch displaced for a square-headeddebasem*nt of the Tudor period. I never found before so gooda “sermon in stones.” An ancient yew-tree was pointed out ashaving afforded boughs, before the reformation, for the celebrationof Palm-Sunday. We adjourned to the Vicarage, whereluncheon was served in the Library, a room filled with thechoicest volumes; and then we were dismissed for a walk, promisingto return, for our dinner, at five o’clock.

Our road soon brought us to E ——, where a Romish Chapelhad been lately erected, by a man of fortune, in minute and extravagantreproduction of Mediævalism. It was a thing for aglass case; a piece of admirable art; a complete Pugin; and nodoubt in the middle ages would have been a very suitable thingfor its purposes; but, in our day, it seemed as little suited toRome as to Canterbury. The Pope himself never saw such aplace of worship, and would scarcely know how to use it; and itwas chiefly interesting to me as enabling me to see, at a glance,what the finest old Parish Churches of England had been in thedays of the Plantagenets. At any rate, they were never Tridentine,and they were always Anglican. This beautiful toy had afrightful Calvary in the church-yard; but the interior wasadorned with the finest carvings in Caen stone, and brilliant coloringsand gildings à la Froissart. The pulpit was adorned withthe story of Becket, in very delicate sculpture, and around theChurch were stations, or representations of the different stages ofthe Passion, carved elaborately in wood, and beautifully colored.The Virgin’s Altar and Chapel were gems of art; and, of course,replenished with striking proofs that they “worship and serve thecreature more than the Creator.” I turned away heart-sick,that such unrealities of a dead antiquity could be employing thewhole soul of any Englishman, and even tempting some intoapostacy from the simple but always dignified Church of theirancestors. Let taste be the handmaid of religion, and all is well:but here was religion led captive by antiquarian fancy.

Many other objects of interest filled up our day. We made acomplete circuit, crossing green fields, leaping ditches, and breakingthrough hedges. Up hill and down dell, and through fragrantcountry lanes; here a river, and there a pool; now a farm, andthen a mill. Yellow gorse was in flower by the road-sides. Wemet many parties of village people enjoying their Easter sports,and dressed in holiday attire. This day, at least, it seemed merryEngland still. We came to Witton Manor-house, and thencecaught a distant view of the spire, towards which it grew timeto return. Immense elms, of darker look than those of New-England,beautified the view in every direction; and the landscapewas diversified by many smaller trees, marking the water-courses.We came out, at last, by the old Hall, the exterior ofwhich we closely examined, imagining the scene around its gateswhen the royal Stuart came to be its guest. Like many othermansions of the olden time, it is deserted now; and the deepeningtwilight in which we viewed it, harmonized entirely with thethoughts which it inspired. So we returned to the Vicarage,and again were warmly welcomed. At dinner we were presentedto Mrs. ——, the Vicar’s wife, who seemed to take the liveliestinterest in my country and its Church, and kindly to appreciatemy own enjoyment of the events of the day. After dinnerthe Vicar lighted his long pipe, and continued his exceedinglyinteresting discourse about the olden time. I could see that hewas no admirer of the Crystal Palace, and all that sort of thing.I had met a laudator temporis acti, whose character and venerableappearance gave him a right to lament the follies of our own age;and seldom have I enjoyed more keenly any intellectual treatthan I did his arm-chair illustrations of past and present, as comparedtogether. On his favorite topics of Church-music andArchitecture he was very earnest and intelligent. The NorthamptonshireChurches, he assured me, were the finest in England;and kindly introducing me to the summa fastigia rerum, he tookme to the very garret, to hunt up some superb plates of his favoritelocalities. When I bade adieu to this Vicarage, it was as oneleaves an old friend. Such hospitality, and such heart affordedto a stranger! Thus early had I found that old English mannersare not yet extinct, and that the fellowship of the Churchadmits even a foreigner to their fullest enjoyment. It was eleveno’clock when we reached the no less hospitable home from whichI started in the morning.

Easter Holidays—Lichfield and Dr. Johnson.

My reverend friend accompanied me to Lichfield, as our occupationfor Easter-Tuesday; kindly expressing his desire to havea share in the enthusiasm, with which he justly imagined the firstsight of an ancient cathedral would inspire a visiter from America.And although Lichfield is by no means one of the most impressivespecimens of English cathedral architecture, as it is small,and not very well kept, I was very glad to begin my pilgrimage tothe cathedrals with this venerable Church, the see of the primitiveand apostolic St. Chad; the scene of some of the most severeand melancholy outrages of the Great Rebellion; and the sacredspot, in which some of the earliest and most durable impressionswere made upon the character of the truly great Dr. Johnson.Familiar with all I expected to see, so far as books and engravingscould make me so, it was thrilling to set out for my first visit tosuch a place, and I was obliged to smother something like anxietylest the reality should fall far below anticipation. How would itstrike me, after all? I was to tread, at last, the hallowed pavementof an ancient minster, in which the sacrifices of religion hadbeen offered for centuries, and occupying a spot which had beendrenched with the blood of primitive martyrs; I was to join inthe solemn chant of its perpetual services; I was to go roundabout its walls, and mark well its bulwarks, and survey itstowers, and to trace the tokens of those who had once set uptheir banners there, and broken down its carved work with axesand hammers, and defiled the place of its sanctuary. No Englishmind, to which ancient things have been familiar from birth,could possibly have appreciated my inward agitation at the prospectof such a day; and, as I took my seat in the train, I couldnot but wonder at the indifference of my fellow-passengers, towhom booking for Lichfield was an every-day affair, and whoseassociations with that city were evidently those of mere business,and downright matter-of-fact.

The three spires, crowning the principal towers of the Church,soon came in sight, and beneath its paternal shadow were clusteredthe humbler roofs of the town. How like a hen gatheringher chickens under her wings, is a true cathedral amid the dwellingswhich it overshadows, and how completely is its true intentset forth by this natural suggestion of its architecture! I hadnever, before, seen a city purely religious in its prestige, and Ifelt, as soon as my eyes saw it, the moral worth to a nation ofmany such cities scattered amid the more busy hives of its industry.On alighting, I could not but remark to my companion,the still and Sabbath-like aspect of the city. “It is generallyso,” he answered, “with our cathedral towns; they are unlike allother places.” This is their reproach in the eyes of the economist;but such men never seem to reflect that the cathedraltowns owe their existence to the fact they are such, and would,generally, have no population at all, but for their ecclesiasticalcharacter. Why can they not see, besides, that such a place asLichfield is as necessary to a great empire, as a Sheffield? Itbred a Johnson—and that was a better product for England thanever came out of a manufactory of cotton or hardware. Probably,just such a mind could have been reared only in just such aplace. “You are an idle set of people,” said Boswell to hismaster, as they entered Lichfield together. “Sir,” replied thedespot, “we are a city of philosophers: we work with our heads,and make the boobies of Birmingham work for us with theirhands.”

But here at length is the cathedral, and service is going on!A moment’s survey of its western front, so old, so enriched withcarvings and figures, so defiant of casual observation, and soworthy of careful study—and we pass inside—and here is thenave, and the massive and dim effect of the interior—somehownot all realized at once, and yet overpowering. We reach thechoir, and a verger quietly smuggles us within. After a moment’skneeling, we observe that the Epistle is reading, and theservice about to close. In a few minutes my first impressions ofworship in a cathedral are complete, and they are very unsatisfactory.I had reached the sanctuary too late for the musicalparts of the solemnity, and there was rather a deficiency than anexcess of ceremonial, in the parts I saw. A moment’s inspectionconvinced me that Lichfield Cathedral is, by no means, over-workedby its Dean and Chapter. Alas! I said to myself, whatwe could do with such a foundation in my own city, in America!We might have such a school of the prophets as should be felt inall the land: we would make it the life of the place; the seat ofperpetual preachings, and prayers, and catechizings, and councils;a citadel of power to the faith, and a magazine of holy armorand defences for the Church. Why do not these worthy Canonswake up, and go to work, like genuine sons and successors ofSt. Chad?

We now went the rounds of the Church, with the stupidverger for our orator, and I began to experience the intolerableannoyance complained of by all travellers. “Oh, that he mighthold his tongue! We know it—we know it—only let us alone,and here’s your shilling”—said my inmost heart, a score of times,but still he mumbled on. He was most impressive in detailingthe exploits of the Puritans: here they hacked, and there theyhewed; this was done by Cromwell’s men—when they brokeinto the old Bishops’ sepulchres; and that, when they hunted acat, with the hounds, through the nave and aisles. Here theytooted with the broken organ pipes, and there the soldiersmounted the pulpit, and preached à la Woodstock. They went sofar as to cut up their rations of flesh meat on the altar, and theybaptised a calf at the font; but, enough; mine eyes have seenthat there were such men in England two hundred years ago, andoh, let us pray that we may not deserve such judgments again.It was refreshing to stop before the tomb of Bishop Hacket, andto thank God, who put it into his heart to be a repairer of thebreach. The Bishop had his failings, but what he did for hiscathedral should cover a multitude of sins, if he had so many.He was the man who, during the worst scenes of the rebellion,was threatened by a soldier with instant death, unless he desistedfrom the prayers which he was then offering, in the Church ofSt. Giles, Holborn, and who answered, calmly, “you do whatbecomes a soldier, but I shall do as becomes a priest,” and sowent on with the service. At the Restoration, being alreadythree-score and ten, he was appointed to this See. He found thecathedral almost a ruin; thousands of round shot, and hand-grenadeshad been fired upon it; the pinnacles were battered topieces, and the walls and spires seemed ready to fall, while theinterior was a mass of filth and desolation. The very next dayafter his arrival, he set his own horses to work in clearing awaythe rubbish, and for eight years he devoted his wealth and labor,and made perpetual efforts among the zealous laity of the kingdom,to achieve and pay for the restoration of the Church, whichhe thus accomplished. Finally he reconciled the holy place bya solemn ceremonial, and re-instituted the services. When heheard the bells ring, for the first time, being then confined to hisbed-chamber, he went into another room to hear the sound; but,while he blessed God that he had lived to enjoy it, said it was hisknell, and so, soon after, died like old Simeon.

We paused before the busts of Johnson and Garrick, and themonuments of Miss Seward and Lady M. W. Montague, andalso before a monument lately erected to some soldiers who perishedin India, over which the flags of their victories were displayed.The kneeling figure of the late Bishop Ryder is pleasingand appropriate; but the object of universal attraction is themonument of two children, by Chantrey, so generally knownand admired in prints and engravings. I cannot say that thestyle of this monument comports well with the surrounding architecture,but in itself it is beautiful, and bespeaks that sentimentallove of children for which the Church of England has made theEnglish people remarkable, beyond other Christian nations. Theepitaph is a sad blemish, but the reposing Innocents make youforget it. So simple and sweet is their marble slumber, which, ofitself, speaks “the Resurrection and the Life.”

The cathedral-close is open and spacious, and one gains a verygood view of the architecture, on all sides of the exterior. I satdown beneath some trees, at the eastern extremity of the Church,and for a long while gazed at the old stones, from the foundationto the topmost spire. They told of centuries—how mutely eloquent!All was so still that the rooks and jackdaws, chatteringin the belfries, supplied the only sounds. There was the bishop’spalace at my right, the scene of Anna Seward’s bright days, andof some of Dr. Johnson’s happiest hours. The ivy almost coversits modest but ample front. The close is a little picture of itself;too much, perhaps, like the swallows’ nests, around the altar, inthe warm and inactive contentment with which it must tend tosurfeit any but the most conscientious of God’s ministers.

On one side of the cathedral is a pretty pool, and altogether,in this point of observation, it presents a beautiful view. Swansare kept in this water, and go oaring themselves about, withoutthat annoyance from boys and vagabonds, which prevents theirbeing kept in public places, in our country. They came familiarlyto us, and even followed us a long distance, as we walkedon the margin of the pool, as if doing the honors of the placeto ecclesiastical visitors. We now took a walk through themeadows, to Stowe, distant about half-a-mile, and presentinganother pleasant picture, with its old, but beautiful parish-church.Here we found tokens of that work of Church restoration whichis going on throughout all England, and which will make the ageof Victoria enviably famous with future generations. The littleChurch was in perfect keeping, throughout; severely plain, butstrictly Anglican, and full of reverend simplicity. There weresome pews in the Church, but the new sittings were all open, andapparently free. We looked with some interest at the monumentof Lucy Porter, daughter of the lady who afterwards became thewife of Dr. Johnson. Hard by the Church is the well of St.Chad, to which I next paid a visit, and from which I was gladto drink. It is twined with roses, and neatly arched over withmasonry, on which is chiselled CE. EP.—that is, Ceadda Episcopus,and here, in the seventh century, the holy man lived andbaptized. St. Chad, though a Saxon by birth, was in Britishorders, of the primitive ante-Gregorian succession, and held theSee of York, until his own humility, and the Roman scruples ofthe Archbishop of Canterbury, transferred him to Lichfield,where he lived the life of an apostle, and from which he itineratedthrough the midland counties, very often, on foot, in thespirit of a truly primitive missionary. It was with exceedingveneration for the memory of his worth and piety, that I visitedthis scene of his holy life, and blessed God for the mercies whichhave issued thence, even to my own remote country. Such arethe world’s true benefactors: the world forgets them, but theirrecord is with God; and He will make up His jewels yet, in thesight of the assembled universe.

Returning, we had the cathedral before us, all the way, in trulydelightful prospect. I observed the birds that darted across ourpath with peculiar pleasure, and could not but remark that thesparrows were John Bull’s own sparrows, having, in comparisonwith ours, a truly English rotundity and plumpness, which shouldno doubt be credited to the roast-beef of Old England, and togood ale, withal, or to something equivalent in the diet of birds.We now took a turn into the city, and first, went to see thehouse, in a window of which Lord Brooke was seated when hereceived the fatal bullet from the cathedral. It seems a greatdistance for such a shot; and this fact heightens the peculiarityof the occurrence. There is a little tablet, fixed in the wall,recording the event. As it took place on St. Chad’s day, and asthe shot was fired by a deaf and dumb man in the tower, puttingout the eye with which the Puritan besieger had prayed he mightbehold the ruins of the cathedral, and killing him on the spot, itis not wonderful that the providence was regarded as special andsignificant. Sacrilege has been dangerous sport ever since thedays of Belshazzar. It was a more gratifying occupationto seek next the birth-place of Dr. Johnson, with whichpictures had made me so familiar, that when I came suddenlyinto the market-place, I recognized the house and St. Mary’sChurch, and even the statue, all as old acquaintances. The pillarsat the corners of the house give it a very marked effect, andone would say, at the outset, that it must have a history. It isnot unworthy of such a man’s nativity. The Church in whichthe future sage was christened is almost directly opposite; and asI came in view of it, I looked for its projecting clock, and foundit, just as I had seen it in engravings. The statue of Dr. Johnsonis placed in the market square, just before the house in whichhe first saw the light. It was the gift of one of the dignitariesof the cathedral to the city. Did poor Michael Johnson, thebookseller, ever console his poverty and sorrows, as he lookedfrom those windows on a stormy day, with visions of this tributeto the Christian genius of his son? Perhaps, just where itstands, he often saw his boy borne to school on the backs of hisplaymates, in triumphal procession; and this incident of hischildhood is now wrought into the monumental stone. In anotherbas-relief, he is seen as a child of three years old, perchedon his father’s shoulder, listening to Dr. Sacheverel, as hepreaches in the cathedral. In a third is illustrated that touchingact of filial piety, the penance of the sage in Uttoxeter market.For an act of disobedience to his poor hard-faring father, donewhen he was a boy, but haunting him through life with remorse,the great man went to the site of his father’s humble book-stallin the market-place, and there stood bare-headed in the storm,one rainy day, bewailing his sin, and honoring the lowliness ofthe parental industry which provided for the wants of his dependentyears. What moral sublimity! worthy indeed of a memorial,and doubtless recorded in the book of the Lamb that was slain totake away his sin!

Opposite St. Mary’s, and next door to the birth-place, wefound the “Three Crowns Inn,” where Johnson chose to stay,with sturdy independence, when he visited Lichfield, refusingeven the hospitalities of Peter Garrick. I suppose the room inwhich we lunched was the scene of another instance of truegreatness in Dr. Johnson, who, with the dignity of a gentleman,entertained here a friend of his humbler days, “whose talk wasof bullocks,” and whose personal appearance was by no meansagreeable, but to whose tiresome volubility, in things of his ownprofession, the sage extended the most patient and condescendingattention. We could not but drink our mug of ale to the memoryof the immortal old man of ten thousand honest prejudices,and as many virtues; in whom “has been found no lie,” and whohas made his own massive character, in some respects, the idealof a genuine Englishman.

We visited the hospital and Church of St. John Baptist, acharitable foundation of an old Bishop of Lichfield, who wasalso a munificent benefactor of Brazen-nose College, at Oxford.It is a queer, out-of-the-way, little blessing, of the sort whichattracts no attention, but which bespeaks a Church at workamong the people, of the like of which England is full. I wasmuch pleased with this fragrant little flower of charity, for suchit seemed, hiding, like the violet, out of sight, but heavenly whendiscovered. The Church of St. Michael, Green-hill, next attractedme, standing on an eminence, and crowning it with aconspicuous tower and spire. An avenue of venerable elms leadsto its portal, and I found it open. The font, which is a relic ofvery high antiquity, has lately been restored to its place; andnearly the whole of the nave is a late restoration. Here, then,is another proof of the revival of primitive life and zeal in theChurch of England! And all so truly national; Anglican andyet Catholic; consistent with self, and with antiquity, and attestinga continuous ecclesiastical life, from the days of Ceadda,and his predecessors, until now.

The Evening Service at the cathedral was far more gratifyingthan the morning’s experience had led me to anticipate. Theevening sun streamed through the windows of the clere-storywith inspiring effect, and the Magnificat quite lifted me up to thedevotional heights I had desired to attain, in such a place. Thencame the anthem, suitable to Easter-week—“Worthy is theLamb that was slain.” How amiable the beautiful and holyplace in which such strains have been heard for ages! In passingthrough the streets, on my way home, I saw one of the popularsports of the Easter-holidays, peculiar to the midlandcounties, and a relic of the many frolics in use before the Reformation.Some buxom lasses were endeavoring to lift, orheave, a strapping youth, who, in no very gallant style, repelledthe embraces and salutations of his female aggressors. I take itfor granted, however, that he was not released until he had beenhandsomely lifted into the air, and made to purchase his freedomby a substantial fine. This is a custom confined, of course, tothe vulgar—but even among them, according to my judgment,“more honored in the breach than in the observance.”

Birmingham—The Oratory—Newman.

Going up to London, I tarried for a few days at Birmingham,a town not pleasing to my fancy, and yet one which no tourist inEngland would choose to omit. I found it, indeed, as Lelanddescribed it three hundred years ago, “to be inhabited of manysmithes, that use to make knives, and all manner of cuttingtooles: and many lorimers, that make bittes, and a great manynaylors; so that a great part of the town is maintayned bysmithes who have their sea-coal out of Staffordshire.” To this,I cannot help adding, in the style of old Fuller, that “there bedivers many also who do make buttons; and a great store of allthings gilt, and showy, and not costlie nor precious withal, docome out of Brummagem; for which also the new bishoppeswhich Cardinal Wiseman did lately make therein, be commonlycalled the Brummagem hierarchie, that is to say, not so muchLatin bishoppes as Latten bishops; latten being much used inBrummagem, and is made of stone of calamine and copper, orchiefly of brass.” I confess that good part of my interest inBirmingham proper was to see what this new hierarchy wereabout.

The Town-Hall has been often enough described and praised,and is, no doubt, very fine; but I did not go to England to seeGrecian temples, and I took much more satisfaction in any oldframe house of three centuries ago, than in the frigid and formalshow of all its columns.

On the whole, I think King Edward’s Grammar School themost interesting object in the town. Though the buildings wereerected very lately, they are in the true academic style of Cambridgeand Oxford. The pile is massive and imposing, and I waspleased to find that the solid oak of its noble rooms is the productionof American forests. Here I first saw how English boysare made scholars; the drill being obvious to even a moment’sglance; every motion and look of the masters, who walk up anddown among the boys in their college gowns, implying a disciplineand method, of which our schools are too commonly destitute.Queen’s College is also worthy of a visit, and I was much pleasedwith some of the pictures which I saw in its hall, among whichwas an old one of Mary Queen of Scots, representing her withher child, James Stuart. Who ever conceived of Mary as amotherly creature, or of the old pedant king as an unbreechedboy? Yet such were they in this painting, which was no doubttrue, as well as beautiful, in its time. With the churches ofBirmingham I was not particularly impressed. St. Martin’s, the“old paroch-church” of Leland’s day, scarcely retains any remnantof its ancient self, except the spire, which leans, and seemslikely to fall. The sovereign hill of the town is surmounted bySt. Philip’s, which ought to be a cathedral, and the seat of aschool of the prophets, but which looks like nothing more than aplethoric Hanoverian temple, in which indolent and drowsyworldliness would be content to say its prayers not more thanonce a week. I was better pleased with a church in the suburbs,built in George Fourth’s day, and partaking both of the meritsand defects of that period of transition, when the church wasin palmy prosperity as “the venerable establishment.” Herefirst I saw an English funeral, evidently of one of the humblerclass, all parties walking on foot, and the coffin carried on a bier.The curate met the procession at the gate, in his surplice andcap, and then reverently uncovering his head, led the way intothe house of God, the consoling words of the service graduallydying on my ear, as the rear of the funeral train disappearedwithin. The parsonage is close at hand, an ecclesiastical lookinghouse of most appropriate and pleasing aspect; and the abode, asI can testify from personal knowledge, of the true spirit of anEnglish parish priest—such an one as Hooker and Herbert wouldhave rejoiced to foreknow. In his Church the prayers are perpetual;the fire never going out on the altar, and its gates standingopen, as it were, night and day. The vicinity is known as“Camp Hill,” for here was the furious Rupert once in garrison;but a queer old house, all gables and chimneys, is pointed out,upon the hill, as the former lodging of his redoubtable adversary,old Noll himself. Hence we stretch into the country, and gainthose pleasant extremes of Warwickshire, which Leland noteth,not forgetting the return by Sandy Lane, through “Dirty End,”which, since the days of his chronicle, is euphuized into Deritend.This place is full of what the Brummagem Cardinalwould call slums, and one of them, as if on purpose to affront aportion of my countrymen, displayed to my astonishment, on astreet sign, the name of “New-England.” Did any returnedpilgrim settle down here, and give the last retreat of his povertythis name?

is a well-known epitaph, which may possibly explain this circ*mstance;for, said Dr. Johnson, “who that was born in New-England,would care to die there,” or words to that effect. YetI confess, for life or death, I have scarcely seen any place in ourown New-England which would not be preferable to this, althoughLeland calls Dirty End “a pretty street with a mansion of tymberhard on the bank of a brook, with a proper chapel close by.”Here I stopped before the aged front of the “Old Crown Inn,”which I take to be the same “tymber” mansion, having all theodd corners, and juttings-forth, and quaint appurtenances of centurieslong gone by. These out-of-the-way ramblings andsearches were far more to my taste than the gaudy sights of theshops and manufactories.

I went out to Oscott, and took a survey of the enemy’s headquarters,to begin with. Here Tridentinism shows her best front,and yet it falls far below what I had been led to expect. Thecollege is built of brick, but is prettily situated, and commands afine view from the leads, to which I ascended, for a prospect ofthe surrounding country. There is little architectural merit inany part of the structure, and the general appearance of things,throughout, is below that of collegiate institutions in England,or on the Continent. I was pleased, however, with the roomsset apart for ecclesiastical visitors, so far as their furniture wassuitable to offices of private devotion, and not merely to those ofrest and recreation; and I was not sorry to see in the Librarya pretty large selection of standard English divines, though I ampainfully suspicious that they are not there to be freely used byall who would read and study them. The chapel is gaudy, yet intrue Mediæval character, and somewhat impressive. The otherrooms are labelled—pransorium, deversorium, and the like, or surmountedwith the names of the divers arts, as Rhetorica, Dialectica,and so on. In the common-room are showy portraits ofthe chiefs of the Romish recusancy in England, some of whomlook like saints, and some like Satan. There was a portrait ofPugin, to which I directed the attention of the official whoserved as guide. He sneered significantly, and said Pugin was aqueer fellow, which meant that they had found him not so blindas they wished him to be, to his fatal mistake in joining them.He studied Mediæval Anglicanism, with the illusion that it wasall one with modern Tridentinism, and had left his mother Churchin the vain hope that he should find a more congenial sphere for hisantiquarian tastes, among the English Papists. But he foundthe past even more absolutely ignored at Oscott than at Oxford.Anglicans are glad to retain all that may be safely retained oftheir own antiquity: but Romanists are Italian throughout, andany thing that is national, is schismatical. They know nothingof Augustine and little of Anselm; they date from Trent, and tothat all must conform. Old liturgies, old customs, old principles,as he in vain tried to recommend them, they laughed at as utterlyobsolete: and he in turn scoffed at their Romanesque, and theirOratorianism, as infinitely less Catholic than the Anglican Gothic,and the Anglican Prayer-Book. Poor fellow! he has since diedin a mad-house—a noble genius, but the victim of theory, and ofunreal conceptions as to the diseases and the cure of the times.

If I was disappointed at Oscott, much more at St. Chad’s, theirnew cathedral in Birmingham. So much was said about thisattempt, that I had supposed it a chef d’œuvre of the architect,and a complete trap for dilettanti Anglicans. It is the reverse ofall this, being so poor, and even nigg*rd in its entire conceptionand execution, that I am sure it must be a spoiled Pugin, if hisat all. It is of brick, and of small dimensions, and not cleanly.Its crypts are instructive as to the way in which the cryptsof the old cathedrals were formerly used, being fitted up formasses for the dead, but not much adorned. They are damp,dark, and somewhat offensive, as they are used for burial.

Strolling out to Edgbaston, I saw the rising walls of Newman’sOratory. This, too, is strictly conformed to his new Italian ideaof religion, which scrupulously eschews the old English architecture,associated as that is with Magna Charta and the Constitutionsof Clarendon, and with three hundred years of absolute independence.This is in strict agreement with his development theory.The Romanism of the present is the rule, and that is Italian: thepast was immature and undigested, and hence savored, more orless, of nationality. How vastly more severed, then, from thehistorical antecedents of his country is the British papist, thanthe genuine Anglican!

While I was in Birmingham, Mr. Newman yet occupied histemporary Oratory, in the neighborhood of Camp-Hill. It wasan old distillery, and, of course, was but an ill-looking place forworship. Wishing to see him and his sect, I went one day tothe spot, and pushing aside a heavy veil at the door, such as iscommon in Italian churches, found myself in a low and dirty-lookingplace of worship, in which the first object that met myeye was an immense doll of almost ludicrous aspect, near thedoor, representing the Virgin, with the crescent beneath her feet.Bishop Ullathorne proves Mohammed to have been the first believerin the Immaculate Conception, so that we cannot but admitthe propriety of the symbol. Before this image several youth, withbroad tonsures, and in long cassocks, were kneeling, in a mannertruly histrionic. One of them rose and asked if I would like tobe shown the library, and so conducted me up a dark and narrowstair-case into a large apartment, in which were no books, butwhich appeared to be hung with baize, like the rooms of anartist. He informed me that the books were in petto, and would,by and by, be manifested; apologizing for the present deficiency.

A person, in like costume with my conductor, and with ashaven crown even more grotesque, was pacing to and fro in theroom, apparently devoting himself to a book which he held inhand. At a question of mine, addressed to my guide, as to whereMr. Newman might be, this personage turned sharply round andanswered, “he has been all day in the Confessional, where hewould be glad to see you.” “Who is that person?” I demanded,looking towards the strange apparition, as he continued pacingup and down, and addressing my guide. “Father Ambrose,”was the reply. “Yes, but what is his name beyond the walls ofthe Oratory?” The young man, rather reluctantly, lisped out,“Mr. S——.” “Mr. S——,” I rejoined, “late of ——College, Oxford! Can it be possible?” I looked at him, utterlyunable to conceal my surprise, and pitied him in my heart. Theyouths whom I had seen were doubtless all, like him, young menof promise and of parts only a few years since, in Oxford; andnow to see them thus ignobly captive, and performing such unrealand corrupting dramatics, in an age of wants and works, and ofawful realities, like this! But where was the ignis fatuus of thebog into which they had fallen? Inquiring for their Master, Iwas informed he was to preach in their chapel on a certainevening, and accordingly I attended at the appointed time. Itwas during the Octave of Easter, and on entering, I observedthat the altar was a bank of flowers, looking more like the shelvesof a conservatory, than the table of the Lord. Above this horticulturaldisplay towered a thing of wax and glass and spangles,(or what seemed to be such,) as the apparent divinity of theshrine. It was a shameful burlesque of the Virgin, and utterlyincompetent to excite one religious or reverent thought in anymind not entirely childish, or depraved in taste. It was surroundedwith tawdry finery, and looked like the idol of a pagoda.The room was well lighted, and filled with the sort of peopleusually frequenting Romish chapels in this country. A few well-dressedpersons seemed to be strangers, and like myself weretreated with great civility. The chancel was filled with theyouths I had seen before, wearing over their cassocks the shortjacket-like surplice, usual in Italy. These were offering someprayers in English, but they could not be called English prayers;and then followed a hymn, given out and sung very much in thestyle of the Methodists. I could not distinguish what it wasaltogether, but the hymn-book which they use was given me inBirmingham, and consists, in a great degree, of such ditties asthis, which they apparently address to the image over the altar:—

Many hymns in the collection are not only lack-a-daisical in theextreme, but highly erotic, and even nauseously carnal. I couldscarcely believe my eyesight, so senseless seemed the ceremony;and yet here were educated men, Englishmen, sons of a pure andalways majestic Church, and familiar with the Holy Scripturesfrom their infancy! How shall we account for such a phenomenonin the history of the human mind, and of the human soul?

While the singing was going on, a lank and spectral figure appearedat the door of the chancel—stalked in, and prostratedhimself before the altar. This was followed by a succession ofelevations and prostrations, awkward in the extreme, and bothviolent and excessive: but whether required by the rubric, ordictated by personal fervor only, they added nothing to the solemnityof the scene. Meanwhile the hymn was continued bythe disciples, as fanatically as the pantomime was performed bythe Master. But could this be the man? Could this be he whoonce stood in the first pulpit of Christendom, and from his watch-towerin St. Mary’s, told us what of the night? Was this theburning and shining light who for a season allowed us to rejoicein his light? What an eclipse! I felt a chill creep over me ashe mounted his rostrum, and turned towards us his almost maniacalvisage. There could be no mistake. It was, indeed, poor fallenNewman. He crossed himself, unfolded a bit of broad ribbon,kissed it, put it over his shoulders, opened his little Bible, andgave his text from the Vulgate—Surrexit enim, sicut dixit—“He isrisen, as he said.” The preaching was extemporaneous; themanner not fluent; the matter not well arranged; gesticulationsnot violent nor immoderate; the tone, affectedly earnest; andthe whole thing, from first to last, painfully suggestive of a sham;of something not heartily believed; of something felt to be unrealby the speaker himself. And yet “the hand of Joab was init.” There was no denying the craft of no common artist. Hedwelt chiefly on Sicut dixit—to which he gave a very Newman-likeforce, repeating the words over and over again.“Sicut dixit, my friends, that is, as he said, but as you would notbelieve! This was a reproach: as much as to say—What didyou expect? Were you not told as much? Of course, he is risen,for he said so!” In this way the preacher reached the point ofhis discourse, which was, that “the original disciples themselves,who thought they knew and loved Christ—nay, who did lovehim, and came to embalm his body, after he was crucified—hadso little faith, as to deserve a rebuke, instead of a commendation.They had to be harshly reminded of what Jesus had said to themwith his own mouth. Well, just so in our day, thousands whothink they know and love him, have yet no real faith; don’t believe,in short, what the Church requires them to believe, andhence are strangers to the Catholic faith.” Drawing illustrationsfrom the days of Noe (so he called him) and many Old Testamenthistories, he endeavored to show, in like manner, that Godhad always required men to believe the very things they were notwilling to believe: and hence he drew his conclusion that theslowness of men to believe all that Romanism prescribes, is merewant of faith. It would have been quite to the point to haveshown a sicut dixit in support of the matters which he endeavoredto force upon us, before he asked us to admit that denying the“Deification of Mary,” is all the same thing as doubting theResurrection of Christ from the dead; but of course this jointwas wanting. I was amused at the ingenuity, but shocked at thejuggle of such an argument, which was simply this—that becauseit is sinful to doubt what Christ has said, therefore it is equallysinful to doubt what he never said, and what is directly contraryto many things which he did expressly say! The orator, in deliveringthis apology for his new faith, by no means forgot a littleplea for himself personally, in which I saw evidence of hiswounded pride. He said, “Christ thus sent a rebuke to his disciplesfor not believing what he said; and you know how hard itis, for even us, to bear such unbelief in our friends. We knowwe are sincere; but they say, for example, he is artful, he don’t believehis own words, he deceives; or, if they don’t say that, thenthey say, he is crazy, he is beside himself, he has lost his wits.” Onthis he enlarged with much feeling, for he was pleading his owncause, and in fact he rambled on in this direction till he hadnearly forgotten his argument. But I was amused at one instanceof his forgetting himself in particular. In referring to thehard names Christ himself had to bear, he had occasion to quoteSt. Matthew xxvii., 63, where the Romish version reads, “Sir, wehave remembered that that seducer said, yet living, etc.” But beforehe knew it, he forgot that he was an actor, and unwittingly quotedthe smoother rendering of his good old English Bible, “Sir,we remember that that deceiver said while he was yet alive.”While dwelling on the words that deceiver, he bethought himselfthat he was quoting heresy, and hobbled as well as he could intosome other equivalent, but whether the very words of his newBible or not, I cannot affirm. There were other similar haltingsof the tongue, which show that a man may have a good will tosay the Romish Shibboleth, and yet betray himself occasionally,by “not framing to pronounce it right.” Newman certainly forgotthe talismanic aspirate on this occasion; he seemed to be consciousof playing a part, and, altogether, when he had done, Ileft the place, contented to have done with him. Alas! that goldcan be thus changed, and the fine gold become so dim!

I could not learn that he was doing much by all his efforts; infact he was said to be somewhat crest-fallen and irritable, aboutthings in Birmingham. His Oratorians were going about thestreets in queer, and, in fact, ridiculous garments, and attractingstares and jibes, and no doubt they felt themselves martyrs; butthere is, after all, much sturdy common sense in John Bull’s hatredof the absurd, and few can think any better of folly for wearingits cap in broad daylight. The results God only can foresee;but a delusion so patent, one would think—if it must have itsday—must also find daylight enough in the very shortest day inthe year to kill it outright.

They showed me, at the Oratory, a wax cast of the face of St.Philip Neri, and a very pleasant and benevolent one it was. Hewas an Italian Wesley, and the Pope was his bitter adversary, inhis life-time, interdicting him, and refusing him the Sacraments,and almost excommunicating him. But somehow or other whenhe was out of the way, it became convenient to canonize him, asa sort of patron of enthusiasts of a certain class, who find in hisfraternity, a free scope for their feelings and passions. Oratorianismis the Methodism of the Trent religion, but has a virtualcreed of its own, and is as really a sect as Methodism was in thelife-time of its founder. Hence it is odious to many even of thenew converts, and many old-fashioned Romanists abhor it. Ileft the Oratory of Mr. Newman with a deep impression that hehas yet a remaining character to act, very different from that inwhich he now appears, but in which it will be evident that he isfar from satisfied, at this time, with the direction which he hasgiven to his own movement, and with the grounds on which hehas chosen to rest his submission to the Pope.

Arrival in London, and first two days.

In early life I had always promised myself a first view of London,either approaching the Tower by water, and taking in thesurvey of steeples, bridges, and docks, or else descending fromHampstead, on the top of a rapid coach, and beholding the greatdome of St. Paul’s, arising amid a world of subordinate roofs,and looming up through their common canopy of cloud-likesmoke. Alas! for all such visions, we have reached the age ofthe rail: and, consequently, I found myself, one afternoon, setdown in a busy, bustling station-house, with a confused sensationof having been dragged through a long ditch, and a succession ofdark tunnels, and with a scarcely less confused conception ofthe fact, that I was in London. A few policemen loitering about,and a line of cabs and ’busses of truly English look, confirmedthe conviction, however, that I was really in the Metropolis, andI soon found myself looking up my luggage, in the business wayof one accustomed to the place, and without a single rapture oremotion of the marvellous. Some things were very differentfrom an American station-house; as, for example, the dignity ofan ecclesiastical gentleman emerging from the first-class carriagesin co*cked-hat, and solemn cravat and surtout, his short-clotheseked into pantaloons by ponderous leggings, buttoned about hisblack stockings, and his whole deportment evincing a reverendcare of his health and personal convenience—the inevitableumbrella especially, neatly enveloped in varnished leather, andtucked under the consequential arm; or again, the careful avoidanceof the crowd evinced by a dignified lady, accompanied byher maid, and watching with an eye-glass the anxious manipulationsof a footman, in showy livery, piling up a stack of trunks, hat-boxes,and what not, all inscribed, “Lady Dashey, Eaton Place,Belgrave Square.” Getting into a cab, with my very democraticluggage safely rescued from the vans, and forcing an exit throughvehicles of all ranks, from the dog-cart up to the lumbering coach,with footman behind, and my lord inside, I emerge at length intoLondon streets from the Euston Square Station, and begin tomake my way towards the focus of the world. How mechanicallyI jog along, just as if I had lived here all my life, and withoutthe least conformity to the fact that my pulse is quickening,and mine eye straining to realize a long ideal, which in a few minuteswill be substantial fact! Every street-sign arrests my eye,“Paddington New Road,” “Gower Place,” “Torrington Square,”“Keppell Street,” “Bedford Square,” “Great Russell Street,”“Bloomsbury,” “Bond Street,” “Seven Dials,” “St. Martin’sLane,” and now I begin to know where I am. There is St. Martin’s—therethe lion with a long tail on Northumberland House—hereis Trafalgar Square—I see Charles First on horseback, atCharing Cross—and here old George Third, with his queue, atthe head of co*ckspur Street—and here the Haymarket and PallMall, and here I am set down at the hospitable door of a friend,first known in America, and who has kindly insisted on myspending my first few days in London as his guest. It was an unexpectedpleasure, but a great one, to receive my first impressionsof London in the agreeable company of the Reverend ErnestHawkins, a person singularly qualified to share the feelingsof a stranger, but upon whose valuable time I should not haveventured to trespass, except at his own friendly instance. Afterrenewing the acquaintance, formed during his short visit to ourcountry in 1849, the question was, Where shall we begin? Afine day was already clouded over, and alternate light and shadewere inviting and again discouraging out-door amusem*nts. However,a turn through St. James’s Park to Whitehall was practicableenough, and at Whitehall I was resolved to begin. Forthwe go, step into the Athenæum Club House, and descend into thePark, by the Duke of York’s Column, descrying through themist the towers of Westminster Abbey, and soon passing throughthe Horse-Guards, stand “in the open street before Whitehall.”There is the Banqueting-room—there the fatal window—here isthe very spot, where the tide turned between old and new, andparted on an axe’s edge. That martyrdom! What that hashappened in Church and State, not only among Anglo-Saxons, butin the greater part of Europe, since 1649, has not resulted from thedeed of blood done here!

My kind friend took me out upon Hungerford Bridge, and bademe use my eyes, and tell the different objects if I could. I turnedtowards Lambeth, saw the old towers through the gray mist, andbegan with indescribable pleasure to single out St. Mary’s, Lambeth,the New Parliament Houses, Westminster Hall, the Abbey, St.Margaret’s, and so forth, till turning round, I descried St. Paul’s,(vast, sublimely so, and magnificently tutelary,) and nearer by,Somerset House and the bridges, and the little steamers shootingto and fro beneath their noble arches. Enough for a first glimpse!We went into Regent Street, and by Burlington Arcade into Piccadilly,and turning into St. James’s Street, I first saw the oldPalace at its extremity, looking just as one sees it in Hogarth’spicture of “the Rake going to Court,” in the last century, oldand shabby, and venerable altogether. Such was my first ramblein London and Westminster.

I was so happy as to meet at dinner that evening, a small partyof the clergy of the Metropolis, in whose company the hours wentrapidly and delightfully by, with many warm, and, I dare say,heartfelt expressions of interest in America and her Church; thewhole presided over by my reverend entertainer, with the mostanimating spirit of dignified cordiality. The general desire whichprevails to know something of a new Bishop of the Church, mayexcuse my particularizing the Rev. John Jackson, Rector of St.James’s, Westminster, and Chaplain in Ordinary to the Queen,who was one of the party, as a person of very unassuming, butattractive manners, of whose subsequent elevation to the See ofLincoln, it has given me no little pleasure to learn.

With what a world of new and confused emotions, I tried todrop to sleep after such a day! The roof beneath which I wasreposing was an historic one. Standing in the precincts of St.James’s, it had once been the abode of the beautiful but unhappyNell Gwynne, the one of all those wretched creatures whodisgraced the Court of the Second Charles, for whom one feelsmore pity than scorn; and for whom, remembering the comparativegoodness of her natural qualities, and her own plaintivelament over her education in a pot-house to fill glasses for drunkards,there must have been compassion from the Father of Mercies,and possibly pardon from the blood that cleanseth from allsin, her penitent death being more than probable. It is certainlygratifying that a mansion once given up to such associations isnow turned into an abode of piety and benevolence, and made thehead quarters of the operations of the venerable S. P. G. In thechamber where I was lodged, had lately rested those estimablemissionaries, Bishops Field, and Medley, and Gray, and Strachan;and I felt unworthy to lay my head where such holy heads hadbeen pillowed. But a blessing seemed to haunt the spot whichthey, and many like them, had reconciled to virtue, and hallowedby their pure repose; and I slumbered sweetly, dreaming of Lud’stown, and King Lud, and of divers men of divers ages, who hadcome to London, upon manifold errands, to seek their fortunesthere, and there to flourish and wax great, or to rise and fall,until now it was my lot to mingle with its living tides, and thento pass away again to my far-off home, as “a guest that tarriethbut a night.”

When I rose in the morning, I looked out into the park, andnow for the first time, gained a clear idea of that strange scenedescribed in Evelyn’s Memoirs, as occurring between KingCharles and Mistress Nelly, while the grovelling monarch waswalking with him in the Mall. The wretched woman was standingon a terrace, at the end of her garden, and looking over intothe park, when the king turns from Evelyn, and going towardsher, holds a conversation with her in that public place and manner.“I was heartily sorry at this scene,” says the pure-mindedjournalist; and indeed it forboded no little evil to both Church andnation, as well as to the miserable Prince who could thus debasehis crown and character, in the face of the open day, and of avirtuous man.

And now, having a whole day before me, I began by attendingdivine service in Westminster Abbey. Through the park andBirdcage-walk, I went leisurely to old Palace Yard, passing roundthe Abbey and St. Margaret’s, and so entered by Poets’ Corner.Service was going on, and of course I gave myself as much aspossible to its sacred impressions, but was unable to repress somewandering thoughts, as my eyes caught the long lines and intersectionsof nave and aisles, or turned upwards to the clere-story,where the smoky sunlight of a London morning was lingeringalong the old rich tracery and fret-work, to which every cadenceof the chaunt seemed to aspire, and where just so, just such sunbeamshave come and gone as quietly over all the most speakingand eventful pageants of the British Empire, since William Firstwas crowned here, in the midst of those Norman and Saxon antagonistswhose blood now runs mingled in the veins of the Britishpeople. Nay, we must send back our thoughts at least so faras Edward the Confessor, who was also crowned here, and whosesepulchre is hard at hand. What thoughts of human splendor,and of human nothingness! The anthem was—Awake up myGlory—and as it rose and fell, and tremulously died away, distributingits effect among innumerable objects of decayed antiquity,I seemed to catch a new meaning in the strain of the psalmist.How many tongues were mute, and ingloriously slumbering aroundme—the tongues of poets and of princes and of priests: but the livingshould praise the Lord in their stead, and in this place that humblesthe glory of men, it was good to sing—“Set up thyself, oh God,above the heavens, and thy glory above all the earth.” Whenthe service was over, I preferred to leave the Abbey, with thisgeneral effect still upon me, and to take it, at some other time, indetails: and so, with only a few glances at the familiar objects inPoet’s Corner, I passed thoughtfully through the choir, which isextended down the nave, and so into the south aisle, and out intothe cloisters. I took passing notice of the Andre monument, andof the Thynne monument, which I recognized by their sculpturealone. I saw at once that I was not likely to be satisfied withsuch ill-placed memorials, interesting as they may be in themselves.In the cloisters, I was so fortunate as to meet Lord JohnThynne; and on being introduced to his Lordship, and remarkingthat “I remembered very well his connection with the Abbey, asSub-dean, from Leslie’s Picture of the Coronation,” (in whichhe bears the chalice, as the Archbishop gives the Bread of theSacrament to Queen Victoria,) he courteously suggested thatperhaps I might think it worth while to look at the coronationrobes, which are not usually seen by visitors, but which were inhis custody, and which he should be happy to have me see. HisLordship then led the way into the famous Jerusalem Chamber,a place not ordinarily shown, but full of interest, not only as thescene of the swooning of Henry Fourth, but as the seat of theHoly Anglican Synod, which has since revived, (“Laud be to God,”)in the same Jerusalem where Henry died. This place is by nomeans such as my fancy had led me to suppose, but has the air ofhaving been remodeled in James First’s time, although an ancientpicture of Richard Second—I think in tapestry—is sunk in thewainscot. The chamber is small, and of very moderate architecturalmerit, but must always be a place of deep and hallowed associations.Adjoining this is the Refectory of the Westminster school-boys,into which we were shown, and where his Lordship remindedus that the tables were made of the oak of the Spanish Armada.They were full of holes, burned into them by the Westminster boys,who are always ambitious each to “leave his mark” in this way:so that as you look at them, you may fancy this to have beenburned by little George Herbert, or Ben Jonson, or John Dryden,or Willie Cowper, or Bob Southey—all of whom have, in theirday, sat on the forms of Westminster. Until so late as 1845,this refectory was warmed by the ancient brazier, the smokeescaping through the louvre in the roof. On coming to the Deanery,Dr. Buckland reformed this ancient thing, and a very ugly stovenow reigns in its stead, as a monument of the Dean’s utilitarianismand nineteenth-century ideas on all possible subjects.

After we had carefully inspected this interesting hall, LordJohn was as good as his word, and took us to see the robes, butprecisely where he took us, it would be hard for me to say. Itwas in some room contiguous, where a fidgety little woman withkeys in her hands, attended as mistress of the robes, and openingthe repository of the sacred vestments, displayed them with suchprofound obsequiousness to the mildly dignified ecclesiastic whoconducted us, that if she called him “my lord” once, she did sosome twenty times in a single minute. The readers of Mrs.Strickland’s “Queens of England” will not require me to enlargeupon these superb vestments, now dimmed and faded in theirsplendour by the lapse of nearly two centuries, since they weremade for the coronation of the luckless, and almost brainless,James the Second. They are worn at coronations only, by theclergy of the Abbey, and we had the pleasure of seeing our reverendguide in his appropriate cope as Sub-dean; the same whichhe wore when Victoria was crowned, and which has been wornby his predecessors, successively, at the coronations of Williamand Mary, Queen Anne, the four Georges, and William the Fourth.Similar vestments in form, though not in splendour, are to thisday the rubrical attire of the clergy of the English Church incelebrating the Holy Communion, but I believe they are nownever used, although they were in use at least in Durham Cathedral,so late as the middle of the last century. Having seenthese interesting and historical vestments, we thanked the amiabledignitary, to whom we had been indebted for so much polite attention,and took our leave, emerging into Dean’s Yard, and so findingour way to the New Houses of Parliament.

Sight-seeing—Westminster Hall.

My emotions on first entering Westminster Hall, were scarcelyinferior to those excited by the Abbey. Of course my first glancewas towards the oaken roof, whose noble span, and elaborate construction,have been so largely eulogized, but which derives a richerglory than its material one, from the moral sublimity of the historicevents, to which its venerable shadow has been lent. Beneaththis roof the Constitution of England has steadily and majesticallymatured for centuries; and to this spot belongs thesomewhat mysterious credit of an assimilating power, akin to thatof digestion in the human system. Whatever has been the food,it has always managed to turn it into wholesome nutriment, andto add it to the solid substance of the British State in the shapeof bone and sinew, or of veins and nerves. It has been the sceneof violence and outrage, and of both popular and imperial tyranny.No matter! Out of all this evil has always come substantialgood. The roof dates from Richard Second’s time; and scenethe first is the usurpation of the fiery Bolingbroke. Here rose upthat daring subject, amid astounded bishops and barons, andcrossing himself broadly on the breast, profanely uttered thefamous bravado—“In the name of the Father, and of the Son,and of the Holy Ghost, I, Henry of Lancaster, do challenge thisreaume of Englande”—adding mysterious words, from which it isequally difficult to say on what grounds he did or did not rest hisclaims. Here old Sir Thomas More forfeited his head, for hightreason against “the best of princes,” as he had long called oldHarry Eighth; and here sat old Hal himself, at Lambert’s trial,interrupting every fresh rejoinder of the reformer, with the savageassurance—“Thou shalt burn, Lambert!” I looked towardsthe great window beneath which he sat—and, lo! it was no longera window, but an open way, just constructed for access tothe New Houses of Parliament—a noble alteration, and a veryspeaking symbol too, in my opinion; for thus, in the path of history,and from the seat of law, will the future Senate of the Empirego to their responsible labors as stewards of the noblest inheritancethat exists among mankind. Let them think, as theypass, of Strafford and of Charles; how in suffering and sorrowthey contributed to the British people that distinguishing elementof loyalty, which has rendered healthful their not less characteristiclove of liberty. Too many, I fear, imbued with the superficialviews of Macaulay, invest with sublimer associations the fanaticalCourt which tried and condemned their Sovereign. Here satthose bold, bad men; and daring, indeed, was their work; nor doI doubt that it has been over-ruled for good to England; but thenit should not be forgotten, that the subsequent history of progressiveand rational freedom is far more directly the result of thewholesome resistance opposed by Church and Crown to thespirit of anarchy, than to anything in that spirit itself. Had theKing of England been a Bourbon—had the Church of Englandbeen a Genevan or a Roman one, that flood must have washedall landmarks away: and the fabric of Constitutional Liberty,which now attracts the admiration of all thinking men, couldnever have been constructed. Honour, then, to the martyrsof Law and of Religion, who, beneath this roof, built up theonly barrier that has turned back the turbulent waves of modernbarbarism! I stood, and thought of Charles, with sorrow for hisgrievous faults, but yet with gratitude for the manly recompensehe offered here to a people whom he had unintentionally injuredthrough their own antiquated laws, but whom he defended againstthe worse tyranny of lawless usurpation, by his majestic protestin this Hall, and by sealing it with his blood. Here, too, theseven bishops delivered the Church and State of England whenthey stood up against the treacherous son of Charles, and completedthe triumph of the Church by proving it as true to the people,as it had been to the throne, on the same foundation of immutableprinciple. This was the roof that rang with the shoutsof vindicated justice, when those fathers of the Church were setfree! I looked up, and surveyed every beam and rafter withreverence. The angels, carved in the hammer-beams, were lookingplacidly down, each one with his shield upon his breast, likethe guardian spirits of a nation, true to itself and to ancestralfaith and order. The symbol is an appropriate one; for the frame-workof the British Constitution is like this roof of Richard inmany respects, but in none more than this—that the strength andbeauty of the whole are fitly framed together, with inseparable featuresof human wisdom and of divine truth; the latter being alwaysconspicuous, and investing all with reverend dignity and grace.

The floor of the old Hall presents a less sentimental aspect, andmight easily plunge imagination, by one step, into the ridiculous.Here are the barristers walking about with clients, and with eachother, arm in arm, their gray wigs of divers tails, some set awry,and some strongly contrasted with black and red whiskers, givingthem a ludicrous appearance; while their gowns, some of themshabby enough, are curiously tucked under the arm, or carelesslydangling about the heels, apparently an annoyance to the wearers,in either case. The several courts were in session, in chamberswhich open out of the hall, along its sides. I stepped into theChancellor’s Court, where sat Lord Truro, listening, or perhapsnot listening, to the eminent Mr. Bethell. His Lordship in hiswalrus wig, with a face proverbially likened to the hippopotamus,seemed to represent the animal kingdom, as well as that of whichthe mace and seal-bag, lying before him, were the familiar tokens.The court-room is very small, popular audiences being not desirable,and open doors being all that popular right can require.Here the same barristers looked far from ludicrous—their attireseemed to fit the place and its duties. Doubtless the influence ofsuch things is an illusion, but nevertheless it is a useful one, andcontributes to the dignity, which it only appears to respect. Weneed some such things in our Republic. Next I stepped into theVice-Chancellor’s Court, and saw Sir J. L. Knight Bruce administeringthe law; and here I was introduced to several eminent lawyers,whose cauliflower wigs covered a world of learning and of graveintelligence. Stepping into the Common Pleas, there sat in a row,Lord Chief Justice Jervis, and Justices Creswell, Williams andTalfourd. I could not but look with interest at the author of Ion,but in the disguise of his magistracy, I looked in vain for any featurewhich I could identify with his portraits. In the Court ofQueen’s Bench, Lord Campbell was presiding, with three others;in the Bail Court, I saw Justice Coleridge; and in the Court ofExchequer, Lord Chief Baron Pollock, with Barons Park, Plattand Martin. Thus, with the greatest facility, and in a very shortspace of time, can one see the most favoured sons of the BritishThemis, and gain a good idea of the dignity and close attentionto business with which these courts are managed. The SupremeCourt of our own country, is far inferior in appearance, althoughit is the only American Court which admits of any comparisonwith these, and yet it is allowed on all hands, that “the law’s delay”in England is an intolerable grievance, and that the expenseof obtaining justice, at these tribunals, is of itself a crying injustice.

Sallying forth into the street, I went round to view the risingsplendours of the Victoria Tower, the massive proportions ofwhich almost dwarf those of the Abbey. It confuses the beholderby the elaborate richness of its details, its profuse symbolism,and all the variety of its heraldic and allegorical decoration.When completed, it will give a new, but harmonious aspect, tothe acres of sacred and princely architecture which spreadaround; but these English builders are very slow in its construction,and prefer that it should rise only ten feet a year, ratherthan hazard its chance of continuing forever. How differently wego ahead in America! This new palace of Westminster will stillbe many years in finishing, but it is worthy of the nation to let itthus grow after its own fashion. Alas! one fears, however, thatit is to be made the scene of the gradual taking down of the nationitself. It is too likely to prove the house in which JohnBull will be worried to death by his own family.

In company with a friend, I next “took water” at Westminsterbridge, for a trip down the river. This silent highway is now asbusy as the Strand itself—the spiteful little steamers that ply upand down, being almost as numerous and as noisy as the omnibusses.Very swiftly we glide along the river’s graceful bend, passing Whitehall,Richmond Terrace, and the house lately occupied by Sir RobertPeel; shooting under Hungerford bridge, past old Buckinghamhouse, and the Adelphi Terrace, and so under Waterloo bridge,to the Temple Gardens, where we land, and where I find myselfdelighted with the casual survey of the different walks andbuildings, and especially with the Temple Church. Emerging intoFleet-street, choked with carts and carriages, here is Temple-bar!Passing under its arches, we are in the Strand, and so make ourway to Charing-Cross. Having made a complete circuit, by landand water, I again went to Westminster bridge, and stepping intoa steamer sailed up the river to Chelsea. Here we pass the river-frontof the New Houses of Parliament; and granting that thereis a monotony of aspect in the long stretch of the pile, as it risesfrom the water, I think it must be allowed that, when complete,with its towers and decorations, the whole, taking the Abbey alsointo view, will furnish the noblest architectural display in theworld. Westminster bridge should be reconstructed, in harmonywith the rest, and then, whoever may find fault with the scene,may be safely challenged to find its parallel for magnificence andimperial effect.

And yet looking to the other side of the river, how far moreattractive to my eye were the quiet gardens and the venerabletowers of Lambeth! Its dingy brick, and solemn little windows,with the reverend ivy spreading everywhere about its walls,seemed to house the decent and comely spirit of religion itself:and one could almost gather the true character of the Church ofEngland, from a single glance at this old ecclesiastical palace,amid the stirring and splendid objects with which it is surrounded.Old, and yet not too old; retired, and yet not estranged from men;learned, and yet domestic; religious, yet nothing ascetic; and dignified,without pride or ostentation; such is the ideal of the Metro-politicalpalace, on the margin of the Thames. I thought as Iglided by, of the time when Henry stopped his barge just here totake in Archbishop Cranmer, and give him a taste of his royaldispleasure: and of the time when Laud entered his barge at thesame place, to go by water to the Tower, “his poor neighbours ofLambeth following him with their blessings and prayers for hissafe return.” They knew his better part.

We had a fine view of Chelsea Hospital, and passed by ChelseaChurch, famous for the monument of Sir Thomas More. Welanded not far from this Church, and called upon Martin, whoseillustrations of Milton and “Belshazzar’s Feast” have renderedhim celebrated as a painter of a certain class of subjects, and in avery peculiar style. He was engaged on a picture of the Judgment,full of his mannerism, and sadly blemished by offencesagainst doctrinal truth, but not devoid of merit or of interest.He asked about Allston and his Belshazzar, and also made inquiriesabout Morse, of whose claim as the inventor of the ElectricTelegraph, he was entirely ignorant. Returning, we landedat Lambeth, and my friend left his card at the Archbishop’s; observing,as we passed into the court, that we should find the doorof the residence itself standing open, with a servant ready to receiveus, as we accordingly did. Such is the custom.

We then crossed Westminster bridge, and went to Whitehall,on foot, visiting the Banqueting-room, now a royal chapel. TheApotheosis of James the First, by Rubens, adorns the roof, but Itried in vain to be pleased with it. The first question—“whichis the fatal window through which King Charles passed to thescaffold”—I asked quite in vain, for nobody seems to be entirelysure about it. The chapel is heavy, and unecclesiastical, althoughmore like a sanctuary, in appearance, than the Sistine Chapel inthe Vatican. We went into the court, or garden behind theBanqueting-house, to look at James Second’s statue, by GrinlingGibbons. It is in Roman costume, and defiled by soot and dust,and the peculiar pointing position of one of its hands, has givencurrency to a vulgar error, that it indicates the spot where theblood of Charles fell from the scaffold. A soldier mounts guardin this place, for it is yet regarded as a royal palace; all beside isquiet, and I often returned to the spot during my residence inLondon, as one well fitted for meditation, recalling such historicalassociations as memory retained, and striving in vain to conceiveit possible that here, in very deed, such thrilling scenes were enactedtwo hundred years ago. Even now there is nothing ancientabout the looks of Whitehall. It requires an effort to connect itat all with the past: and when one sees the vane upon its roof,and imagines it the very one to which James Second was alwayslooking, while he prayed the Virgin and all the Saints to keepWilliam of Orange off the coast, even the era of 1688 seems reducedto a modern date, and stripped of all its character assomething ancestral, and belonging to past time. I confess thatin this garden of Whitehall, I awoke from an American illusion,and began to feel that two centuries is a very short period oftime; just as afterward, on the Continent, the scale took anotherslide upwards, and taught me to feel that everything is modernwhich has happened since the Christian era. This discoverygives one a curious sensation, and I am not sure that I am thehappier for having seen monuments of real antiquity, which havehad the effect of freshening the comparative antiquity of England,and of reducing everything in America to the dead level of timepresent. I was happier when I visited the ruins of the old Forton Lake George, and innocently imagined it a spot both ancientand august.

My reader will think my day sufficiently full already, but Imust not conclude without some reference to the pleasures of theevening. I drove out to Chelsea, where the pupils of St. Mark’sTraining College performed the Oratorio of “Israel in Egypt.”The hail-stone chorus was given with great effect, and several of thesolos and recitatives were creditably executed. I saw there, amongothers, Lord Monteagle, better known as Mr. Spring Rice, but wasmore pleased with an introduction to the head of the College, Mr.Derwent Coleridge, who showed me a very striking portrait of hisfather—“the rapt one of the godlike forehead,” and made somefeeling allusions to his brother Hartley, then lately dead. I sawalso another member of this interesting family, Sara Coleridge, oneof the cleverest of womankind. Returning to London, I steppedfrom the carriage at Hyde Park Corner, where chariots andwheels of every description were still rumbling incessantly, andwhere the gas-lamps made it light as day, though it was noweleven o’clock. I looked at Apsley-house, where the Iron Dukewas then living, and so made my way along Piccadilly and St.James’s-street, as pleasantly as if I had known them all my days,but thinking such thoughts as nothing but an American’s earliestexperiences of London life can possibly inspire.

Hyde Park—Excursion to Oxfordshire.

My plan was to fix my head-quarters in London, and to makeexcursions thence into the various parts of the country which Idesired to see. This enabled me to choose my times for being inthe Metropolis, and also for visiting other places; and I found itbetter, on many accounts, than the more usual method of seeingLondon all at once, and then going through the rest of England in atour. I took lodgings in Bury-street, St. James’s, a time-honoredplace for the temporary abode of strangers, and in all respectsconvenient for my purposes. On looking into Peter Cunningham,I found I had unwittingly placed myself near the oldhaunts of several famous men of letters. Dean Swift lodged inthis street in 1710, and Sir Richard Steele about the same time.Crabbe took his turn here in 1817, and here Tom Moore wassought out by Lord Byron, a few years earlier. Just round thecorner, in Jermyn-street, Gray used to sojourn; and there, too,Sir Walter Scott lodged for the last time in London, after hisreturn from the Continent in 1832. Hard by, still lives old SamuelRogers, and Murray’s famous publishing-house is but a few stepsout of the way. I was, at first, a little provoked at Cunninghamfor getting up a book which tends to put the most stupid visitor ofLondon on a footing with the man whose general reading hasfitted him to enjoy it: but many little pleasures which he thussupplied me, by recalling things forgotten, quite altered my humourtowards him; especially as I soon reflected that the travellerto whom he only restores such information, must always have theadvantage over one who gains it for the first time, at secondhand.

I could now step into St. James’s Park, and freshen my appetitefor breakfast, while enjoying its delightful air, and venerableassociations. I soon learned how to protract my walk, passingBuckingham Palace, up Constitution Hill, and so into HydePark—where one may spend the day delightfully, and almostfancy himself in the country. Indeed, stretching one’s ramblesinto Kensington Gardens, it is not easy to be moderate in the enjoyment,or to return without fatigue; so vast is the extent of thesesuccessive ranges, and so much of England can one find, as it were,in the midst of London. Oh, wise and prudent John Bull, to ennoblethy metropolis with such spacious country-walks, and to sweetenit so much with country air! Truly these lungs of London arevital to such a Babylon, and there is no beauty to be compared tothem in any city I have ever seen. Talk of the Tuilleries—talkof the Champs Elysées—you may throw in Luxembourg and Jardindes Plantes to boot, and in my estimation Hyde Park is worth thewhole. I do not think the English are half proud enough oftheir capital, conceited as they are about so many things besides.They are ashamed of Trafalgar Square and some other slight mistakes,and they always apologize for London, and wonderwhat a foreigner can find to please him, in the mere exterior ofits immensity. But foreigner, forsooth! I always felt that anAnglo-American may feel himself far more at home in London,than many who inhabit there. Who are the reigning family, buta race of Germans, never yet completely naturalized either inChurch or State? What is England to Prince Albert, except ashe can use it for his own purposes? But to me, and to many ofmy countrymen, it is as dear as heart’s blood; every fibre of ourflesh, every particle of our bone, and the whole fabric of ourthought, as well as the vitalizing spirit of our holy religion, beingderived from the glorious Isle, in whose own tongue we callher blessed. It is not as unfilial to America, but only as faithfulto the antecedents of my own beloved country, that I ask noEnglishman’s leave to walk the soil of England with filial pride,and in some sense to claim “a richer use of his,” than he himselfenjoys. He dwells in it, and uses it of necessity for some ignoblepurposes; but I have no associations with the malt-tax, or withmanufactories. England reveals herself to me only in her higherand nobler character, as the mother, and nurse, and glorious preceptressof the race to which I belong. Hence, I say, it is onlya true American who can feel the entire and unmixed sentimentand poetry of England.

It was soon after my arrival in the Metropolis that I went, oneafternoon, to see the display of horsemanship, in Hyde Park.Strange that the scene of so much aristocratic display should beknown as “Rotten-Row!” It is a road for saddle-horses exclusively,and very exclusive are the equestrians generally, who enjoytheir delightful exercise in its pale. Here you see the best ofhorse-flesh, laden with the “porcelain-clay” of human flesh.The sides of the road are lined with pedestrians, some of whomtouch their hats to the riders, and are recognized in turn; but mostof them look wishfully on the sport of others, as if they were consciousthat they were born to be nobody, and were unfeignedly sorryfor it. Ha! how dashingly the ladies go by, and how ambitiouslytheir favored companions display their good fortune in attendingthem! Here a gay creature rides independently enough, withher footman at a respectful distance. She is an heiress, and theyoung gallants whom she scarcely deigns to notice, are dying oflove for her and her guineas. Here comes an old gentleman andhis two beautiful daughters. It is Lord ——, and the elder ofthe twain is soon to be married, the fortunate expectant being anobleman of large estates. We look in vain this afternoon for“the Duke.” But very likely we shall see him before our walkis done. Yonder whirls a barouche, with outriders. It is theQueen and Prince Albert taking an airing. A Bishop comesalong on horseback. “It must be one of the Irish Bishops,”said the friend with whom I was walking, “for I certainly havenever seen him before.”

I now saw the Crystal Palace for the first time, and scarcelylooked at it at all. It was just what every body knows, from tenthousand pictures. I had a prejudice against it, at this time,heightened by the fact that many, whom I had met, had innocentlytaken it for granted that an American must, of course,have come to England to see the show. The idea of going toEngland to look at anything short of England itself! Besides, Isupposed it a mere toy of Prince Albert’s—just the thing for aDutch folly—or, like the Russian ice-palace,

I looked, therefore, and passed by. A fine walk we had toKensington Gardens, and round by Bayswater, returning acrossHyde Park. It was pleasant to see the good use to which thesevast grounds are put by the People proper. Children and theirnurses seem to take their fill of them. It was George the Second,I think, who asked Walpole what it would cost to fence inSt. James’s Park, so as to keep the people out. “Only threecrowns,” was the reply; and the heavy Hanoverian learned animportant lesson, as to the difference between British freemen,and the sort of people he had been wont to deal with, in hisdarling Electorate.

One morning I attended a meeting of the Venerable S. P. G.The estimable Bishop of Bangor presided, and the ordinarymonthly business was despatched. On this occasion, I was sohappy as to meet with Lord Lyttleton, Mr. Beresford Hope, andothers, whose names are familiar to American Churchmen, asidentified with zeal and devotion to the noble work of Evangelization.The American Church, and her relations with her nursingMother, were frequently alluded to; and, as an act ofChristian recognition, I found myself admitted a correspondingmember of the Society. Though I could not suppose the complimenta personal one, designed as it was in honor of the Ordersof our Church, I felt it no small privilege to receive this humbleshare in the noble organization to which, under God, our Churchowes its existence; and I felt it the more, as being myself thedescendant of a lowly but devoted Missionary, who died in theservice of the Society. I was pleased with the earnest, but veryquiet and affable spirit of this meeting. No show, nor swellingwords; and yet the spiritual interests of empires, and of nationalChurches, present and yet to be, the fruits of the Society’s labors,were deeply and religiously weighed, and dealt with. Beautifultokens of the Society’s fruitfulness hung round the walls—portraitsof English Missionary Bishops, such as Heber, and Selwyn,and Broughton. These are its trophies.

My first excursion into the country was made somewhat earlierthan I had forecasted, in accepting a kind invitation to Cuddesdon,from the Bishop of Oxford. This promised me the doublepleasure of an immediate acquaintance with Oxford itself, and ofa no less agreeable introduction to the eminent prelate, whose elevationto that See has so highly served the dearest interests of theChurch, not in England only, but also throughout Christendom.The name of Wilberforce has received new lustre in the personof this gifted divine; and certainly there was no one in Englandwhom I more desired to see, for the sake of the interest inspiredby public character and by published works. His known hospitality,and interest in visitors from all parts of the world, relievedme from surprise in receiving this unexpected attention, and Ifelt sure I should experience no disappointment in indulging theconfidence and affection inspired by such cordiality. Arriving inOxford, I threw myself into a cab, and set off for the Bishop’sresidence, about eight miles distant—taking a drive throughHigh-street, in my way. Every object seemed familiar; I couldscarcely believe that I was, for the first time, looking at thosevenerable walls. Here was St. Mary’s—here All Souls—hereQueen’s—and there is the tower of Magdalen. Even “the Mitre”and “the Angel” looked like Inns, in which I had often “takenmine ease.” A few gownsmen were loitering along the streets,but the town was quite deserted, it being the Easter holiday time.Here, at last, were the old gables of Magdalen; and now I passthe Cherwell, and get a view of Magdalen-walks on one hand,and of Christ Church meadows on the other. And now a tollgate,and now the country road—and I can scarce conceive thatI have passed through Oxford, and that mine eyes have reallyseen it, and that fancy, and the pictures, are no longer my chiefmedium of knowing how it looks. How rapidly I have lost theuse of helps on which I have depended for years! Like the lameman healed, I can hardly believe that I have gone on crutches.But honestly, now—is the reality up to what I looked for?Thus I thought, and questioned, as I jogged along.

Cuddesdon is the name of a little hamlet in Oxfordshire, on awooded hill, overlooking a wide extent of country, besprinkledwith many similar hamlets, and distinguished by a pretty parishChurch, and the adjoining residence, or palace, of the Bishop.The residence is one of those rambling and nondescript houses,of ecclesiastical look, which one associates with English ruralscenery; but of a class which it is difficult to characterize, exceptas something too modest for a nobleman’s seat, and somethingtoo lordly for a vicarage. The nearness of the parish Churchmight, indeed, suggest the idea of the parson’s abode—but whatshould a parish priest want of so large a house, or of the littleprivate chapel which, on one side, makes a conspicuous part ofthe pile? On the whole, one might conceive it the residence ofa Bishop without being told the fact, or before descrying the armsof the See, over the entrance, encircled by the Garter, of whichmost noble Order, the Bishop is Chancellor. Nothing could exceedthe kindness and affability with which the estimable prelatereceived me, and made me welcome as his guest: his manner, atonce dignified and engaging, sufficing immediately to make a visitorat home in his presence, however deeply impressed with reverencefor his person. I esteemed it an additional privilege to bepresented to the Bishop’s brother, Archdeacon Wilberforce, thenjust arrived at the palace from his own residence in Yorkshire:and I soon found, among the guests of the Bishop, several otherpersons of eminent position in society, from whose agreeable intercourseI derived the highest satisfaction. I had arrived on aSaturday, and, after a pleasant evening, the week was solemnlyclosed in the private chapel, with appropriate prayers. Here,twice every day, all the members of the household, the family,the guests, and the servants together, are assembled before theLord their Maker, while the Bishop, like a patriarch, assisted byhis chaplains, offers the sacrifices of prayer and thanksgiving, andsanctifies his house. It was beautiful, on one occasion, to seesuch a household together receiving the Holy Eucharist, and itwas good to participate in the solemnity. The sanctity of myprivilege, as the guest of such a family, forbids any further allusionto the delightful scenes of domestic piety of which I was soconfidingly made a sharer; but I cannot withhold a tribute to thecharacter of a true Bishop, who has incidentally enabled me totestify of at least one English prelate, that “he serves God withall his house,” and makes that service the one thing indispensableand most important, in all the distributions of private life, itskindly offices, and endearing charities.

I accompanied his Lordship, next day, into Oxford, where hepreached at St. Ebbe’s to a very large congregation. ThisChurch is very plain and countryfied—astonishingly so for Oxford;but the worshippers were devout and earnest in their attention.The sermon was suited to the Service for the day, and I was notdisappointed in the manner, nor yet in the matter, of it. TheBishop is a truly eloquent man. His voice is sweet, and oftenexpressive of deep feeling, or of tender emotion. He uses moreaction than most English preachers, or rather he has much less ofinactivity in his preaching. Occasionally he looks off from hismanuscript, and launches into warm extemporaneous address.Altogether, I regard him as very happily combining the advantagesof the English and American pulpits. More than any otherof whom I know anything, he unites the delicacy and refinementof the former with the earnestness and practical effect of thelatter.

After a short visit to Wadham College, where I had thepleasure of meeting the late Vice-Chancellor of the University,Dr. Symmons, we returned to Cuddesdon. Our road lay throughthe village of Wheatley, where the bells were chiming for serviceas we passed. Ascending the hills, we alighted and walked; and,by and by, the good Bishop, pointing to a little hamlet not far off,said to me, “there lived, once upon a time, a man named JohnMilton. There is Forest Hill—there is Shotover—and walkingover these hills, he composed Allegro and Penseroso.” How itthrilled my soul, as I listened to his words, and looked delightedlyover the scenes to which he directed my attention! We soonreached Cuddesdon, and attended divine service in the parishChurch, which was filled chiefly with a rustic people, many ofthem in hob-nailed shoes, and brown frocks, neatly arrayed, butin the manner of a peasantry, such as we know nothing about inAmerica. The chancel of the Church has been lately restoredby the Bishop, and is in excellent taste and keeping throughout.The Church itself is a cruciform one, originally Norman, butmuch altered, and in parts injured, during successive ages. Itsaisles are early English; but many details, in perpendicular, havebeen introduced in different portions of the pile. Here and therein the wood-work are touches of Jacobean re-modeling. Still,altogether, it is a most interesting Church, and it afforded megreat pleasure to worship there, with the rustics and their Bishop,and with a pretty fair representation of the divers ranks ofEnglish society, all uniting, happily and sweetly, in their ancestralworship. It was a delicious day, and the glimpses of sky andcountry, which we gained through the portals and windows, wereadditional inspirers of gratitude to God. After service, theBishop led me round the Church, and showed me the grave whereone of his predecessors had laid a beloved child. A stone layupon it, containing the exquisite lament of Bishop Lowth for hisdaughter, which I remembered to have seen before, but whichnever seemed half so touching and pathetic as now, while BishopWilberforce repeated it from the chiseled inscription:—

That evening, as we sat at the Bishop’s table, the bells of Cuddesdonpealed forth a curfew chime. Oh, how sweet! A ladythen reminded me that Cuddesdon was one of the “upland hamlets,”alluded to in L’Allegro,—

And so happily closed my day, that, but for some revertingthoughts to the dear home I had left behind me, I must say Iwent as sweetly to sleep, in the spell of its delights, asdid poor Pilgrim in that chamber of his Progress, from whencehe was sure of a view of the Delectable Mountains as soon as heshould awake in the morning.

Miltonian ramble—Forest-hill, etc.

Horton, in Buckinghamshire, is supposed to have supplied toMilton the imagery of the Allegro and Penseroso, chiefly becausehe there composed those delightful poems, in which the veryessence of what is most poetical in the scenery and rural life ofEngland is so admirably condensed. But if it could be shownthat, so early in the maiden life of Mary Powell as when thesepoems appeared, she had become the cynosure of Milton’s eyes,and had attracted him to Forest-Hill as a visitor, it might, onewould suppose, be very fairly maintained, that this place aloneanswers, in all respects, to the demands of the poetry in question.It may at least be said with justice, that when the poet visitedForest-Hill with his bride, he realized more perfectly there thananywhere else, the rural delights which he has so exquisitely detailed;and which he has invested at one time with the sprightlyaspect in which Nature reveals herself to youth and health, and,at another, with the more sentimental beauties which she wearsbefore the eye of refined and meditative maturity. However, itwas not for me to settle such nice questions. Forest-Hill liesnot far from Milton, where the poet’s grandfather lived, and fromwhich comes his name; and Shotover-Forest, of which the grandfatherwas ranger, is part of the same vicinage. It is very probablethat the Powells were early friends of the poet, and thathis youthful imagination was wont to haunt the whole hill-countrythereabout, in honour of the lady’s charms to whom he afterwardsgave his hand. Such at least was my creed, for the time, whenI enjoyed a delightful walk over the scenes in the company of intelligentpersons whose remarks often heightened not a little theextraordinary pleasures of the day.

Among the Bishop’s guests, at breakfast, there was the usualplanning of occupations for the morning, and I heard with greatsatisfaction the proposal of a walk to Forest-Hill, in which it wassupposed I might be glad to share. Our party was soon made up,consisting of the Archdeacon, the Rev. Mr. J——, Sir C——A——, a young Etonian closely related to the Bishop’s family, andthe Bishop’s youngest son. After some preliminary reconnoiteringsabout the hamlet of Cuddesdon itself, (of which the adjoiningslopes and meadows furnish very pretty views,) off we went, wellshod and with sturdy staves in hand, and in all respects well-appointedfor an English ramble; which implies everything requisitefor thorough enjoyment of the diversion. We stretchedour legs, as Walton would say, over Shotover-Hill, encounteringa variety of rustic objects in the fields and farms; here a fold ofsheep, and there a hedge, and again a ditch, or a turnip-field, buteverything in its turn was of interest to me as presenting, in someform or other, a contrast to similar objects in my own country,the advantage being generally in favor of England, so far as thepicturesque is concerned. I can indeed think of many a walkin America, incomparably more interesting than this in the characterof its scenery; but what I mean is, that the same kind ofcountry with us, would have been almost devoid of interest.Thus, instead of presenting field after field, cultivated like a garden,beautifully hedged and exhibiting every mark of carefulhusbandry; or a succession of green pastures, in which fine cattle,and the whitest and fattest of sheep were disposed in a mannerentirely suitable to the painter; or instead of a succession ofviews of the most pleasing variety; here a hamlet and spire, andthere a neat cottage, and there a lordly mansion among trees,and there a snug farmhouse: the same number of miles with us,over a slightly undulating country, devoted to pasturage andfarming, would scarcely have offered a single scene on which theeye could rest with satisfaction. At length, we reached Shotover-Lodge,which has unfortunately been rebuilt within the lasthundred years, but the original of which supplies the ideal ofthose famous lines in L’Allegro—

Next we descended into a daisied meadow, and looked for theplowman and the milkmaid, as it was yet too early for the tannedhayco*ck, or the mower whetting his scythe. Here the Archdeaconrecalled to my mind a criticism of Warton’s, which I hadquite forgotten, asking me if I remembered the meaning of thelines—

in which the idea is not that of narrative, or eclogue, but themore English one of Thyrsis turning the sheep out of fold forthe day, and counting them, one by one; that is, telling the tale,like the tale of brick exacted by the Egyptians, as we read inGenesis. Many such comments from my companions gave greatinspiration to the ramble, which brought us at last up the sidesof Forest-Hill itself, where we first encountered some cottages ofsurprising neatness, inhabited by thrifty tenants, who farmed afew acres of their own hiring. Here Sir C——, like a true Protectionist,stopped to ask a few questions of Hodge and his familyabout the prospects of “the British farmer,” and the practical resultsof Cobdenism; and I fancied, from the interest taken in the disclosuresby my young friend from Eton, that the lads who now playcricket on the banks of the Thames, under “the antique towers,”are not unlikely, at some future day, to maintain the rights of thelanded gentry, with the same primary reference to agriculturewhich so largely distinguishes Mr. Disraeli. And now we cameto the little Church of Forest-Hill, where, for aught I know,Milton was married to the daughter of the good old cavalier, butwhere he could not have been surrounded by a very great crowdof rejoicing friends upon the happy occasion, as the sacred placewill scarcely contain threescore persons at a time. It has notower, but only one of those pretty little gable-cots for the bell,so familiar of late in our own improving architecture of countryChurches. The altar-window is near the road, and the bell-gableis at the other extremity, surmounting the slope of the land, ona pretty terrace of which, embosomed among the trees and shrubs,is situated the parsonage. The little Church itself is of the earlyEnglish period, but has repairs in almost every variety of pointedstyle, and some in no style at all. It has had very little aidfrom the builder, however, for nearly a century. In the earlyCaroline period, or a little before the date of Milton’s marriage,it was probably new-roofed and put into good order, possibly asthe result of injunctions from the King and Council, with someof whom, “the filthy-lying of Churches” was not reckoned aproof of growing godliness in the nation. Accordingly I noticedon one of the tie-beams of the roof, the inscription, C. 1630 R.,and again on the door, C. R. 1635. In the churchyard is a remarkablyfine holly tree, and, what is still more interesting, thegrave of Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad. Here he lies, ignorantalike that his Lusiad is almost forgotten, and that his littleballad of Cumnor-Hall has reproduced itself in the world-famousstory of Kenilworth. We ventured to call at the parsonage,where we were very courteously shown the parish-register, a littleold parchment book, in which I observed the entry of MaryPowell’s christening, and also the record of burial of personsbrought in after such and such a fight, in the Civil Wars. In anice little cottage hard by, we found an old dame teaching half-a-dozenchildren; and if any one marvels at my mentioning so insignificanta fact, let me say that it was one of the most pleasingof my day’s adventures to visit this school, which seemed to bethe original of many a queer cut, familiar from the painted story-booksof the nursery. The cottage seemed to contain but oneroom, the dame’s bed being turned up against the wall, and neatlyconcealed by a check curtain. The windows were casem*nts,with diamond panes—and the walls were so thick, that the window-sillafforded space for several boxes of plants, set there forthe sunlight. The floor was so neat, that it might have servedfor a table without offence to the appetite; sundry shelves shonewith polished pewter and tin; the whitewash, without and within,was fresh and sweet; and sundry vines were trained aboutthe door. The little scholars, evidently the children of laboringpeople, were tidy in their appearance too, and they sat, each uponhis stool, with A-B-C-Book held demurely before the nose, andeyes asquint at the visitors. Every thing convinced me that theold dame was a strict disciplinarian, whose “moral suasion” consistedin the rod of Solomon, fairly displayed before the eyes ofthe urchins, and no doubt faithfully used. And yet nothingcould exceed the good-nature and propriety of her appearance,except the humility with which she seemed to regard the literarypretensions of her academy. Good-bye, dame! Reverend isthy little starched cap, and dignified thy seat in the corner of thechimney. True, they teach greater things hard by, at Oxford; butthou art an humble co-worker with its ablest Dons and Doctors:and happy are the children, who have only to peep out of theirschool-house door to see the top-rounds of the ladder, about thefoot of which they climb; even the towers of Christ Church, andof Magdalen, and the dome of the Radcliffe Library.

“Yes,” said one of my companions—“when the Great Tom ofOxford rings its hundred-and-one of a summer evening, then,standing on this hill, you will get the meaning of Milton’slines:—

To which I ventured to object, that although the heavy sound of abell like the Great Tom would alone justify the description in thelast of these lines, I saw nothing in the view before me, to accountfor the allusion to a “wide-watered shore.” This, however,was met by the assurance that the little rivulet, whichmight be seen in the mead, was not unfrequently lost in aspreading inundation, and that at such times nothing could bemore descriptive than the very words of the poem! This, I wasbound to admit as satisfactory. And now I made a discovery ofmy own. Hard by the dame’s cottage I found a spring, overarchedwith substantial masonry, and adorned with ivy. Isuggested that John Milton had certainly tasted of that water,for that the well was antique, and evidently designed for the useof a gentleman’s household; to which Sir C——, who is a judgeof such matters, at one assented, pronouncing it of the period ofMary Powell’s youth, and paying my discovery the practicalcompliment of producing his sketch-book, and drawing it on thespot. A similar drawing he made of the Powell house itself, towhich we now proceeded. It presents the remains of a muchlarger house, but even in its reduced dimensions, is quite sufficientfor a comfortable farmer. Still the rose, the sweet-briar andeglantine are redolent beneath its casem*nts; the co*ck, at thebarn-door, may be seen from any of its windows; and doubtlessthe barn itself is the very one in which the shadowy flail ofRobin Goodfellow threshed all night, to earn his bowl of cream.In the house itself we were received by the farmer’s daughter,who looked like “the neat-handed Phillis” herself; although heraccomplishments were, by no means, those of a rustic maiden, forshe evidently had entered fully into the spirit of the place, andimbued herself with that of the poetry in no mean degree. Wewere indebted to her for the most courteous reception, and wereconducted by her into several apartments of the house, concerningall of which she was able to converse very intelligently. Inthe kitchen, with its vast hearth and over-hanging chimney, wediscovered tokens of the good-living for which the old manor-housewas no doubt famous in its day: and in its floor, was alarge stone said to have been removed from a room, now destroyed,which was formerly the poet’s study. The garden, in itsmassive wall, and ornamented gateway, and an old sundial, retainssome trace of its manorial dignities in former times—whenthe maiden Mary sat in her bower, thinking of her inspired lover;or when, perchance, the runaway wife sighed and wept here overa letter brought by the post, commanding Mistress Milton to returnto her duty in a dark corner of London, on pain of herhusband’s displeasure, and of being made the heroine of a bookon divorce! Our fair conductress next called our attention toan outhouse, now degraded to the office of domestic brewing, butwhich she supposed to be the “still, removed place” of Penseroso;and in proof of the nobler office to which it had been originallydesigned, she pointed out the remains of old pargetting, or ornamentalplaster-work, in its gables. The grace with which sheused this term of art, would have rejoiced the soul of an ecclesiologicalenthusiast. Moreover, she brought forth a copy of SirWilliam Jones’ Letters, and pointed out to us his description ofthe place, proving that our researches on Forest-Hill can makeno pretensions to originality, though certainly he could not boastof the advantages we derived from the illustrative powers of ourhostess. It was her idea that the house had originally been aconvent; and this notion, she said, receives force from the lines:—

imagery, which, in her opinion, could only be suggested by theassociations of the spot. Many a worse theory in literature hasbeen built upon foundations quite as slender; and so withoutcommitting ourselves to this interpretation, but with many thanksfor the hint, and for all her civility, we respectfully bade adieuto the house, and its respectable occupants, with all necessaryapologies for our intrusion.

Next morning, when I met Sir C—— at breakfast, he startledme by throwing upon the table two accurate and beautiful drawingsof the well and mansion at Forest-Hill. He had producedthem from the little sketches which I had seen him take upon thespot; and as they must have been made either very late at night,or very early in the morning, they were pleasing proofs of his kinddisposition to gratify and oblige me, by the gift of a memorial ofour Miltonian day, that must long afford me the additional pleasureof renewing its associations with him. In a few hours I badefarewell to Cuddesdon; but it so turned out that some of the acquaintancesthere formed, were subsequently renewed in otherplaces, and in travel on the Continent. Nor can I forbear to mentionwith gratitude, that the kind attentions of the Bishop to his guest,so far from ceasing when I had taken leave, were continuedthrough the whole period of my sojourn in England, and frequentlyopened to me unexpected sources of benefit and enjoyment.

But I must not conclude without observing, with referenceto Forest-Hill, that Sir William Jones declares its groves to havebeen long famous for nightingales; while, at the same time, bydistinctly recognizing the “distant mountains that seem to supportthe clouds,” as part of the view to be gained from the summitof the hill, he has done much to identify the spot as indeedthe true scene of the poems. It is allowed that nothing likemountains are to be seen from Horton; but Sir William fullyjustifies the allusion, as suited to Forest-Hill, while at the sametime he removes all ground for the hackneyed complaint, thatthis reference to mountains is a blemish to the poem, as beingwholly unwarranted by the character of English scenery.

Oxford—New College—Magdalen.

Now came my first day in Oxford—a day depended upon fromboyhood, and from which I had expected more quiet and meditativedelight than from any other enjoyment whatever. Toevery one who has made English literature and English history astudy, I need not explain why. But Oxford has not only a literaryprestige: it is so intimately connected with the history ofour holy religion, that all other associations receive, as it were,an unction from this. Every college has its history; everystone, and every tree, and every turf, suggest ennobling reflections,as memorials of departed worth, but the hallowed memory ofMartyrs sheds over all a deep and sober glory, that awes while itinspires. I know that our age has seen men, aye, and Oxfordmen, who could sneer at the reverend names of Cranmer, andLatimer, and Ridley: but who that has a heart not absolutelydead to generous emotion, but must feel a warm re-action in viewof such impotent malignity? Who, in the days of the apostateand the dupe, can go to Oxford without blessing God that otherdays have left us the blessed example of men faithful unto death,and triumphing in the fire?

I stopped at “The Angel,” but it was not long before I foundmyself hospitably taken up, and transported to the house of afriend in the Turl, next door to Exeter College. My kind entertainerwas one widely known throughout Anglo-Saxondom, notonly by the books which he publishes, but by those also whichhe writes: and to whose elementary works on architecture we, inAmerica, are indebted for about all that is popularly known ofthat beautiful art and science. As it was now vacation, I hadan opportunity of seeing Oxford first, as it were, in scene, withoutthe dramatis personæ; and no one is more capable than mykind host, of explaining the antiquarian and architectural gloriesof Oxford to a stranger. As he courteously gave me his valuabletime, I made my primary rounds under his guidance.

As I came into Oxford, from Cuddesdon, I heard the bells ofSt. Mary’s in full peal, and experienced an exhilarating emotionthat greatly heightened my impressions. After my arrival in theTurl—a name which indicates that the street was once a country-lane,guarded by a turn-stile—I took my second walk through thecity, my first having been on the previous Sunday, passing fromSt. Ebbe’s to Wadham College, with the Bishop. Now, beginningwith New College and the glories of William of Wykeham,I felt a new impulse of wonder and admiration, as if the halfhad not been told me. In vain does the pedant complain of thearchitecture here displaying the genius of that munificent founder,and tell us that it marks a decline from the elevation of thedecorated period; for who can but see, in what is called decline,something much more like an elaborate adaptation of sacred artto academic purposes, exhibiting high invention, and a sense ofthe fitting and appropriate, which proves a taste truly refined, anda fancy rich and creative? So, at least, it strikes me; and themoral element is not less observable, the very stones seeming vitaland instinct with the designer’s great soul and spirit. Thus thegateways, as has been well remarked, exhibit strength and utility,with little to advertise what is within; the domestic part is simple,and chaste and homelike; the hall bespeaks a generous hospitality,and suggests the social and civilizing character withwhich religion invests the table and the meal, and elevates it toa feast of reason; while, at last, the chapel is full of divine majesty,and commands abasem*nt of self in the house of God, andat the gate of heaven. Wykeham was, for his day, a reformer,as really as Wyckliffe, and nothing is more certain than that thetrue Anglican alone has a right to glory in his achievements.They mark a period of contest with the papacy, every step ofwhich contributed to the ultimate liberation of the Church ofEngland from its Italian yoke, and they were perfected in thatEnglish spirit, against which the Pope was always at war, andwhich late apostates from our Nicene faith detest and anathematizeas schism. True it is that we differ with Wykeham andWaynefleet in many items of opinion and practice, in which theywere no wiser than their times; but they are one with us, historically,in the communion of the Church of England, in themaintenance of her individuality and independence, and in theconfession of the Nicene Creed, as the authorized symbol ofChristendom. These impressions, forced upon me within thesewalls, and growing on me every day that I spent in England, returnedwith ten-fold power after I had seen the Continent, andagain beheld English Churches and colleges, and felt their essentialantagonism to what is Italian and Tridentine, and theiralmost physical tendency towards the production of such aChurch, in their ultimate result, as the Anglican Communion isat this day, and is likely to be in future. Let us depend upon it,and act upon it, as a fact in the providence and design of God,that the Church of England, from the first day she was planteduntil now, has been, as it were, “the Church in the wilderness;”retaining always a primitive and individual element, and preparingfor eventual manifestation in the pure glory of the Bride, thegreat adversary of the harlot, with whose painted front andvirago fury she now patiently contends.

Although the modern parts of the College are conspicuousfrom the gardens, I found in them a fascination which I canhardly account for or describe. The ancient city walls, withtheir bastions and defences, are still preserved as the boundariesof the premises, and possibly it is to them, with their emboweringverdure and isolating effect, that one owes a feeling ofenchanting seclusion and quietude. Here my trans-Atlanticeyes first beheld the loop-holes and embrasures of mediæval fortification;first grasped the idea of intramural siege, and bow-and-arrowfight! It struck me overwhelmingly with a sense ofloss and mental injury, that I should have known only faintly,and from books, what thus the Oxford student receives in passiveimpressions of reality—the ennobling idea of our connectionswith the past, and its paternal relations to us. To see every daythe walls on which one’s forefathers, ages ago, patrolled in armor,or from which they aimed the cross-bow; to walk andstudy and repose habitually under their shadow; to have always,in sport and in toil, in sorrow and in joy, such monuments oftime and history about one: how ought it not to refine and maturethe character; and make a man feel his place between twoeternities; and inspire him to live well the short and evil day inwhich, if ever, what he does for futurity must be done quickly,and with might!

But now, somehow or other, we emerged into “The Slipe,”where one gets a fine external view of old wall, chapel andtower. But I was impatient to see Magdalen College, and Addison’sWalk, and thither we bent our way. Passing under its newand beautiful gateway, I stood before that effective grouping ofarchitectural detail which makes up the western front. Hereare tower, turret and portal, chapel, lodge, and non-descriptdoorway; here are great window, and oriel, and all sorts of windowsbesides; and trees and vines lending grace to all; and hereis that queer little hanging pulpit, for out-door preaching, which,with all the rest, always made Magdalen, to my boyish taste, thevery Oxford of Oxford. And I am not sure that this notionwas a wrong one; for now that my ideal has received the correctionsof experiment, what college shall I prefer to Magdalen?Perfect and entire is Wadham, where, in the warden’s lodge, Ifirst broke academic bread; lordly is Christ Church, with itswalks and its quadrangles; lovely is Merton, as it were the sisterof Christ Church, and gracefully dependent; New College ismajestic; All Souls worthy of princes: but Magdalen alone isall that is the charm of others, compendious in itself; yieldingonly a little to each rival in particulars, but in the whole excellingthem all.

In Addison’s walk I gave myself up to delightful recollectionsof the Spectator, and marvelled not that the thorough-bredEnglishman of that bewitching collection, was the product, inpart, of such a spot as this! Here that great refiner of ourlanguage breathed the sentiment of his country, and nourishedthe spirit that knew how to appreciate her, and how to transfusethe love of her into others. I defy the most stupid visitor to feelnothing of enthusiasm here! I made the circuit of the meadow,surveyed the bridge over the Cherwell, took a view of Merton-fieldsand Christ Church meadows; and, after meeting with thelate Vice-President, Dr. Bloxam, and encountering in him acordiality of reception which I can never forget, concluded byattending prayers in the chapel. I was placed in a stall, andhad as favorable a position, for sight and sound, as I could havedesired. The service was sung throughout—although, as it wasnow vacation, comparatively few were in attendance besides thesingers themselves. I observed that here, as in other college-chapels,the chapel itself is the choir of a cruciform Church, theante-chapel is the transept, and the nave is wanting. Add thenave, that is, and you have a cathedral, or minster, complete.In the ante-chapel of Magdalen, there are always persons devoutlyfollowing the service; and although they can see nothing,they hear it with very sweet effect, the chaunt being softened bytheir separation from the singers, while it is articulate and altogetherdevotional.

Magdalen became my home in Oxford, for there I more frequentlywalked, and worshipped, and visited than elsewhere—andthere, for a time, I was lodged; while in its grounds I becamea frequent and familiar guest; taking, in grateful confidence,the repeated invitations which I received from Dr. Bloxam andother members of the College, although obliged to decline farmore of their kindness than I could possibly accept. Duringthis first visit I dined in the Hall, meeting a number of eminentmembers of the University, and greatly enjoying their conversation.This superb Hall is lined with portraits of the distinguishedsons of Magdalen. As I sat at meat, Addison’s portraitwas just before me, and at the end of the Hall was the portraitof one whom I am accustomed to reverence even more, as thepattern of the true Anglican pastor, the pure and holy Hammond.All around hung the venerable pictures of great andhistorical personages, who have illustrated their college in becomingillustrious themselves. Among such worthies, none can forgetBishop Horne, who, although he died in 1792, was theimmediate predecessor in the presidency of Dr. Routh, thepresent incumbent, now very nearly a hundred years of age.This venerable and extraordinary man is, indeed, as was oftensaid to me—“the greatest wonder of Oxford.”

But how many are the sources of delight in this august University!Even the meanest are not unworthy of note. At dinner,in the Hall, for example, I remarked, that the queer oldmug from which I was drinking, was the gift to the College of“Robert Greville, second son of Lord Brooke;” and when weadjourned to the common-room, for fruit and conversation, thetraditions of the spot, which were recounted, were all of historicalinterest. In this very room, that sturdy champion of his College,Bishop Hough, by boldly resisting the Commissioners of thePopish James, with their three troops of horse at the door, pavedthe way for the Revolution of 1688; and yet no College in Oxfordwas so much distinguished for its subsequent loyalty to thehouse of Stuart as Magdalen—following, in this, the example ofBishop Ken and the non-jurors, who liked the usurpation of Williamquite as little as the oppression of James. A Jacobitegoblet was put into my hand, bearing the inscription Jus suumcuique, which admirably apologizes for the position of the College,in both these historical issues; while, on the other side, isthe legend, to which I gave emphatic utterance, as I drank—VivatMagdalena! After an hour in the common-room, we returnedto the Hall, where the choristers were rehearsing theanthem for the next service, and where I heard not a little sweetsinging during the evening. The fire was brightly blazing in itschimneys; and the light and shade of the vast apartment, withits pictures reflecting the playful glare from painted armor, orrobes of lawn, and academic scarlet, to say nothing of the visagesof ancient worthies clad in such array, very much heightened theeffect of the scene.

Before returning to London, besides making a general surveyof the city, I became somewhat more particularly acquaintedwith Christ Church, its hall, and common-room: and with itschapel, which is the cathedral. In Oriel College, also, I passedsome pleasant moments, and drank of the College beer, from anold traditional cup of the time of Edward Second. I also worshippedat St. Mary’s, and did the same at St. Thomas’s, a picturesqueand venerable fabric in the outskirts of the city, nearthe site of Oseney Abbey. Here the late restorations were veryfine; and, although it is a parochial Church only, the servicewas sung. I observed a somewhat excessive external devotionon the part of a few of the worshippers, which struck me unfavorably;but, perhaps, in times of less dubious allegiance to theChurch, I should not have noticed it as peculiarly pharisaical.I paid a visit to the Bodleian and the Picture Gallery, and inspectedthe architecture of “the Schools;” and, finally, saw some ceremoniesin the Convocation House, which were very well worthseeing, as illustrating the academic system of Oxford. Severalmasters-of-arts were made, the Vice-Chancellor, Dr. Plumptre,presiding, in his scarlet robes; but all was done with an entireabsence of pomp, and in presence of very few spectators. I wasthe more surprised, as this was the first day of Easter-term; and,from the general peal from towers and steeples, one might havesupposed it a great day. Even the ceremony of admitting thenew proctors, and the Latin speech of one of them going out,seemed hardly to have any interest for the academics, or others.The Heads of Houses were assisting, and looked well; and,when all was over, there was a procession, the Vice-Chancellorgoing in state, solemnly preceded by the bedels, with their maces—profanelycalled pokers by the undergraduates. There was, however,no strut, but rather the contrary. You saw, at a glance,that all this was the mechanical routine of the University, doneas business; and so regarded by every body concerned. It isonly when men are acting that they become sublimely ridiculous.

This remark applies to the May-morning celebration, on topof the Tower of Magdalen. To read of it, one would think it mustbe a romantic, or enthusiastic, piece of absurdity: but done, asa matter of course, and in continuity, year after year, fromancient times, it has, on the spot, a very different effect. Thecustom dates from 1501, the first year of the 16th century,when, in gratitude for a royal benefaction from Henry VII., aHymn to the Holy Trinity, with the Collect of Trinity Sunday,and other solemnities, were instituted as a commemoration, to becelebrated on the first day of May. The produce of two acresof land, part of the royal gift, was at the same time to be distributedbetween the President and fellows. It now goes to payfor an entertainment supplied to the choristers, in the College-hall,at which a silver grace-cup is passed around with greatformality. The boys have a complete holiday, moreover, andfrom sunrise to sunset are set free from College-bounds; but itmust be understood that the boys here spoken of are those of theschool and choir—not the undergraduates, of whom there areprecious few at Magdalen—which is not an educational establishment,but a society of educated men, devoted to academic pursuits.But I suppose I need not explain the difference betweensuch Colleges and our own, now so generally understood. Toremedy what is considered by the progress-men a crying evil,and to turn the splendid revenues of Magdalen to the largest benefitof the largest number, is one of the professed purposes of thelate Royal Commission: but, unfortunately, no confidence can beplaced in its professions. Were the thing in the hands of trueChurchmen, and relieved from the tinkering of Lord John Russell,there can be no doubt that a competent and moderate Universityreform might vastly augment the resources of the AnglicanCommunion, and furnish a noble and safe expansion to her missionaryand colonization enterprises. The Lord hasten such agenuine improvement, and deliver the University from therash and presumptuous hands of political capitalists and adventurers!

I was premonished by one of the Dons, that there would bevery little danger of over-sleeping on a May-morning in Oxford,for that an old remnant of Druidical times still flourishes unrestrainedamong the lads of the town. This is nothing less thanthe blowing of all sorts of dissonant horns, about the streets, inhonor of the British Flora, from the earliest peep of May-day;as if to remind every body of the shame of sleeping when natureis displaying her fairest and most fragrant charms. Awakened,then, by the promised croaking, up I rose, and repaired to theCollege, towards which the whole tide of early-risers was setting.Here, those who are not admitted to the Tower, station themselvesin the street below, or line the bridge of the Cherwell,awaiting the aerial music. As I slowly wound my way to thetop of the tower, I caught beautiful views through its loop-holes,and breathed occasional puffs of delicious air. On the summitwere gathered almost as many gownsmen, and others, as half theplace would hold: the other half was railed off for the singers—menand boys, in their surplices and caps, with sheets of musicin their hands. The view of the surrounding country, towardsForest-hill and Cuddesdon, or round by Nuneham and StantonHarcourt, to Woodstock, was exceedingly lovely—and, ofcourse, the more so, for the inspiration of the hour. As theclocks of Oxford chimed the hour of five, every head wasreverently uncovered—and, while the morning sun made all thelandscape glitter, forth broke the sweet music of the old Latinhymn:—

Alas! it was too soon over; for while it lasted, looking upinto the blue heavens, one could almost imagine himself amidthe clouds, and surrounded by the melodies of the heavenlyhost. As soon as it was done, the bells beneath us began theirchorus, and the tower fairly rocked and reeled. After lingeringfor a time, to survey the effects of a bright morning on thedomes and spires of the University, and on the aged trees ofChrist-Church meadows and the windings of the river, I descendedto the walks, and there passed an hour, sauntering about,as it were, in the very foot-prints of Addison and Bishop Horne.The bells discoursed their music for a full hour; the rooks chattered,and made holiday in the tree-tops; the sweet-briar androse perfumed the cloisters; the deer bounded across the Collegepark; and wherever I went, or wherever my eye rested, I sawnothing to remind me that this world is a wretched and work-dayworld, and that England is full of misery and sin. For a time,rhyme seemed reason, and fancy fact. In the enchantment ofthat delightful May-morning, one might be forgiven for lovinglife and being fain to see many such good days.

The Crystal Palace—Opening, etc.

Having frankly confessed my prejudices against the GreatExhibition, I must now as frankly own that I am ashamed of them.The whole thing was indeed strongly marked by the spirit ofthe age, and was, therefore, such as no one who sees andunderstands the faults of our own times can enthusiastically admire.Yet, little by little, I saw so much in it which illustratesthe better elements of that spirit, and which is capable of beingdirected to noble results in behalf of the whole family of man,that, to some degree, I rejoice in the complete success of thatsplendid experiment. I was nicely punished for my folly at theoutset, in losing the pageant of the opening, of which I took nopains to be a spectator, until it was quite too late to obtain admittance.If I lost any thing, however, I suffered in good company.I am astonished, at this time, to remember the indifferenceof many Englishmen, in different ranks of society, to theentire project, until its success was demonstrated. From TheTimes, which was a great grumbler at first, and from old Blackwood,which railed at the Temple of Folly, down to the shopkeepersin Regent-street, there was a wide-spread feeling of contemptfor Prince Albert’s hobby, as likely to cost more than itwould come to: while sincere apprehensions were entertainedthat something revolutionary and bloody might be the result ofthe collection of vast bodies of men, with a large proportion offoreign republicans among them, into the bosom of the Metropolis.How idle all this seems now! At the time, I am sure, very fewwere satisfied that it was altogether idle; and I fancy the Queenand Prince Albert themselves wished the thing well over, for sometime before it was fairly inaugurated.

I went into Oxfordshire without making any plans to see theshow, and remained over the morning of the first of May, to hearthe hymn on the Tower of Magdalen. This was the day of the openingof the Palace, and accordingly I immediately hastened to London,to see how it would end. Riot and murder were the very leastof evil results predicted by some, and our American press had anticipatednothing less than general pillage and insurrection. Onarriving in London, I found that if I had only secured my ticketbeforehand, I might have been at the show, as well as at theOxford solemnity; for it was yet early in the day. Immensemasses of men were pouring into Hyde Park, as I drove downthe Edgeware road, and the crowd and crush of vehicles was notless surprising. It was with difficulty that I made my waythrough Piccadilly, especially as my cab emerged into the vicinityof Hyde-Park-corner. The police were everywhere on duty, butthere was no mob, properly speaking, to require their interference.Thousands of the humbler classes, men, women and children, intheir best clothes, were endeavouring to enjoy the holiday, andget a sight of the Queen. That was all, at this hour—and so itcontinued through the day. Towards noon, the crowd in thePark grew oppressive, and the slightest accident might have breda confusion, in which life would have been sacrificed; but therewas absolutely nothing but good-natured pushing and thrusting,and the occasional squall of an infant, whose mother was moreengaged to save her tawdry finery, than to secure the safety ofher child.

Finding myself one of the people, I resolved to enjoy a nobody’sshare of the sight-seeing. Some English friends whom I foundin the same predicament, and who assured me I had lost nothingworth a guinea to see, volunteered to accompany me into thePark, where they thought it not unlikely the most exciting scenesof the day would come off. So then, we elbowed and pushedour progress into the Park, and were elbowed and pushed in returnquite as much as we cared to be. At last, it became impossibleto fight it out three abreast, and we agreed to “divideand conquer.” The last I saw of my friends, one was here andthe other there, amid a crowd of hats and faces swaying about,with exclamations and entreaties in behalf of coats andshins, and toes, and umbrellas. We looked laughing adieus, andsaw each other no more. At length I found myself in the line ofthe Queen’s procession, and hired a convenient standing-place tosee her progress to the Palace. On she came at last, preceded bythose superb horse-guards, who dashed magnificently through thecrowd, and were themselves the finest military spectacle I hadever beheld. Several of the Court carriages followed, one containingthe Crown-Prince of Prussia; and then came the Queen’s,distinguished by many horses, coachmen, and footmen; the coachitself glittering with gold; the horses splendidly caparisoned;and the servants in showy liveries, with powdered hair, co*cked-hats,and immense nosegays thrust into their bosoms. The co*ckneys,however, had expected to see the coronation coach, andwere accordingly much disappointed with this modicum of show.Then followed more horse-guards, kicking up the gravel into thefaces of the plebeians, and sinking, with their haunches to theearth, as their riders spurred them into proud prancings andcurvettings, as if to intimate that the very beasts knew they wereattending the Sovereign of many Empires to a festival of all nations.Whew! how they dashed along! and soon a discharge ofartillery announced her arrival at the Palace; nor was it longbefore another discharge of the guns proclaimed the ceremonyconcluded, and the Great Exhibition opened. Everybody lookedhappy and contented; and everybody, with wife and children inthe bargain, appeared to be on the spot.

As the royal carriage passed, I observed the Queen to be apparentlyuneasy, and apprehensive. The glass was up, and shewas giving herself that constant motion which was Louis Philippe’sart of safety on like occasions. Without any distrust of her people,she may have remembered the attempt of the madman,Oxford, and she knew that any similar desperado must have a betterchance of success on a day like this. I saw the little princes,and the royal head, therefore, to great disadvantage; but fortunefavored me with a fuller satisfaction on their return. Whileeverybody was pressing towards the Crystal Palace, I now turnedagainst the tide, and gradually extricating myself from the Park,passed down Constitution Hill, and finally arrived at BuckinghamPalace just in time to get a full view. The crowd here was verylight, and I saw everything to great advantage. The Queen wasevidently in high spirits, the glass down, and she bowing mostmaternally. I was within a few feet of her, and lifted my hat inhomage to the broad, good-humoured smile with which sheseemed to regard her enthusiastic subjects. The grand-daughterof George the Third looks exceedingly like her venerable ancestor,and a glance suggested to me what must have been his appearancein his younger days. Her features are by no means unfeminine,though far from delicate; she was a little flushed, andhence less fair than she is painted; but her exhilaration at thehappy conclusion of her morning, gave an attractiveness to herexpression which she lacked when I afterwards saw her, on moresplendid occasions, languid with the routine of a drawing-roomat St. James’s, and sick enough, I dare say, of its heartlessnessand formality. After the Queen passed into her residence, Isupposed the pageant ended, but shortly after there arose a shout,which convinced me I was mistaken. I turned, and saw her exhibitingherself to the people in the balcony of the palace, in thecentre of a very splendid group, and with the little Prince ofWales, and the Princess Royal, at her side. The Princess Alice,the Crown Prince of Prussia, and the duch*ess of Sutherland,were in the splendid circle, but the Prince Consort I did notdiscover. The shouts of the people were not so vociferous as Ishould have anticipated; and the royal party soon withdrew. Iafterwards learned that this was a novel proceeding, and was meantby her Majesty as an act of most gracious and particular condescension.I trust my republican interest in the spectacle wasnone the worse, however, for being wholly unsuspicious of thegratitude with which it should have been mingled. I looked notwithout reverence, at the Sovereign Lady, and not without solemnthoughts of futurity at her lovely little family of children. Butthe influence of my country was so far upon me, that I neverconceived at the time, that her Majesty was doing more thanmight have been expected of her, in honour of her loyal and mostdecorous people.

To Americans in London the Crystal Palace soon became asore subject. We were the laughing-stock of nations; and I confess,when I first visited the vast desert at the American end ofthe show, in which many of the articles exhibited were evenworse than the lack of others which ought to have been there, Ifelt myself disposed, for a minute, to blush for my country. Itwould have been the very poverty of patriotism to plead that afew items of our contribution were of very great merit; and self-respectwould not permit me to multiply apologies, or even explanations.What was really good spoke for itself. What wasbad, or indifferent, was simply inexcusable. The fact is, ourprogress in the arts of civilization was not at all represented; andafter observing the things which attracted attention, from othercountries, I felt sorry that nobody had thought of making similarexhibitions for us. It really pained me to reflect, that I hadseen much more attractive exhibitions in our provincial towns;and I was quite sure that one day’s work, in each of our greatcities, might have sufficed to collect a far better show of industrialproduce out of the ordinary market. Fortunately, the yacht“America” came in at the last moment to “pluck up our drowninghonour by the locks;” and if we could but stop braggingabout it, that would be enough, until some future occasion mayafford us an opportunity of showing what American mechanicsand manufacturers are able to achieve in their various departmentsof skill and ingenuity.

I was pained to observe the feeling engendered by the Exhibitionbetween England and America, and by the highly-irritatedrecriminations of ill-bred representatives of both countries, onthe spot. On the other hand, I was sometimes amused by theludicrous attempts of some well-meaning Englishman to be complimentary.He would choke out something about the “GreekSlave,” and then pass rapidly to speak of his delight in meetingwith a model of Niagara Falls: an execrable thing, which onlyserved still further to confuse the unusually mudded ideas of thatprodigy of Nature, entertained by the English generally. As itwas simply an immense map of the Niagara, it of course representedthe Falls on such a scale as entirely deprived them of sublimityand beauty: and so, when the speaker would enlarge uponthe magnificence of this feature of our country, I usually tooksome satisfaction in confessing that the better half of the Falls is,after all, on the British side, and that I was sorry he could findnothing to praise that was entirely ours. The only instance inwhich I encountered rudeness upon this subject, was an absurdone, in a railway carriage, when a Paisley manufacturer, a littlethe worse for whiskey, and very rich in his brogue, after someimpudent remarks, which led me to decline conversation, stuckhis face into mine, with the startling announcement—“ye can’tmak’ shawls in your country!”

On my first visit to the Exhibition, I must own that my prejudiceswere utterly dispelled. The meagre effect of the exteriorwas forgotten in the enchantment of the view within. It wasa high-priced day, when rank and fashion had the scene to itself.The place where the interest of the whole was concentrated wasthat beneath the transept, commanding, as it did, the entireview; and where the great trees, preserved within the building,furnished a comparative measure of the whole. The crystal roofshowered a soft day-light over the immense interior; the treesand curious plants gave it a cheerful and varied beauty; the eyebewildered itself in a maze of striking objects of luxury and taste;musical instruments, constantly playing, bewitched the ear, theirtones blending, from various distances and directions, in a kindof harmonious discord; fountains were gurgling and scatteringtheir spray, like diamonds and pearls; and, amid all, moved thehigh-born beauty, and the rank and pride of England, mixed withauxiliar representatives of foreign states, but not unconscious oftheir own superiority, even while they seemed to forget that theywere insular, in their easy transition through the pavilion, fromEngland to France, and from France to Austria, and fromAustria to India and China. I thought of “the kingdoms ofthe world and the glory of them:” did the vision which theTempter disclosed to the Man of Sorrows glitter more ravishinglythan this?

But others have written so well on this magnificent spectacle,that I must not enlarge upon my own impressions. It grewupon me, to the last. It was an encyclopædia, which I am gladto have consulted. It was, in fact, a great piece of luck to atraveller. How much of Europe it showed him in a day: howmany leagues of travel it would have cost to have gained the information,with respect to divers countries, which here unfoldeditself beneath one mighty roof! I am convinced, moreover, thatit* influence, on the whole, was good. It was opened and dedicatedby prayer, and the blessing of the Primate; it was presidedover by the religious spirit of the British Empire; it illustratedthe pacific and domestic influences of a female reign; it furnisheda striking proof of the stability and self-reliance of the Government,as well as of the tranquil prosperity of the state; it unitedmany nations in a common and friendly work; it furnished atouching but sublime commentary upon the lot of man, to eatbread in the sweat of his brow, and it redeemed itself from thespirit of that other Babel, upon the plains of Shinar, by bearing,inscribed upon its catalogue, the text—“The earth is the Lord’s,and all that therein is: the compass of the world, and they thatdwell therein.”

On one of the days which admitted “the people,” I took mystand in a corner of the quiet gallery, over the transept, andlooked down on the swarming hive with a meditative pleasure.England was there, city and country, the boor and the shopkeeper,and all sorts and conditions of men. The unspeakablewealth of nations stood secure, and glittered, untouched, amongthem all. All men are brothers, indeed; and tears came to myeyes as I surveyed those sons of toil gazing for a moment uponluxury, and trying to extract a day’s satisfaction in beholdingthe pomps and vanities which Providence helps them, so sternly,to renounce. Each soul—worth infinitely more than all; andthe purchase of the blood that is beyond all price! Oh God, howsolemn the theatre, in which such a scene was presented to myeye; and what thoughts it gave me of glory and of vanity,of human joys and sorrows; of the speedy day when all thatmultitude shall have passed from a world as transient asthe show which then amused them; and of the day not verydistant, when they, with all nations, shall stand before the Sonof Man!

It is a good thing that the better counsel prevailed, and thatthe Crystal Palace, when it had served its purpose, was takenutterly away. It is now a thing of history, so far as Hyde-Parkis concerned; and the Transept Tree will long be its best memorialto surviving generations. In this way its memory will havea moral value, till the end of time. A bubble, like the world,it has glittered and vanished. An epitome of nations and kingdoms,and manners and men, it has served its purpose, and beenremoved by its imperial architects. Who can doubt that, in likemanner, when their noble ends are accomplished, the heavensshall be folded up as a vesture; and “the great globe itself, withall which it inherits,” shall forever pass away, according to Hispromise, who is King of kings and Lord of lords?

It would have been pity not to have seen poor Jack-in-the-Green,on a May-day, in London; and yet I had quite forgottenthe sweep, and his right to a share in the festival, until I saw thesight itself, as I chanced to be passing through one of the streets ofthe West-end. A chimney of green things, it seemed to be; walkingalong, and nearly or quite concealing the occupant, whogave it motion, while a crowd of boys did honour to the show.The game seemed to consist, in pausing before certain doors,and soliciting a gratuity. Certain it is, that no one can grudgea penny to such an applicant, or behold the one day’s sport ofthe poor climbing-boy, without wishing he may succeed in tryingto make the most of it. Lady M. W. Montague is said to haveinvented this beneficial anniversary of sweepdom, and the movingobelisk of green seemed to me no unmeet memorial of her benevolence.Better this, than the column of the Place Vendôme,unless it be better to be remembered for levying a world-widetribute of blood and tears, than for giving one new object of hopeand joy to the children of sorrow!

During the residue of the week I was engaged in the ordinarylionizing, but met several agreeable persons in company, diningone day at the Rectory of St. George’s East, and another day atClapham. My first impressions of the enormous extent of Londonwere gained in passing between these limits, and yet as vasta suburb lay unexplored beyond the former, as I had travelledthrough to reach the latter. Clapham is called four miles fromthe metropolis, but one reaches it, by omnibus, with no veryclear idea of having left London at all. And so, in every direction,London seems interminable, and villages known to us frombooks as highly rural, and as affording delightful retreats from thecity, are found, to our surprise, to be incorporated with the greatBabel itself, and that by no means as its extremities.

St. James—Wellington—St. Paul’s.

I had been invited by Dr. Wesley, Dean of the Chapel Royalof St. James’s, to attend service there on Sunday morning. Itwas the Second Sunday after Easter. The old clock above thepalace gate-way pointed eight o’clock as I entered the colour-court,and saw the flag of the regiment on duty, drooping aboutit* staff, inscribed with the names of famous victories. All theregion round about seemed to be fast bound in slumber. It wasthe cool, quiet Sunday morning of smoky London, to which onlythe most casual glimmer of sunlight gave any warm announcementof the advancing day. How still it seemed! A solitarysentinel, in scarlet, stood, six feet high, at the gate. “Servicebegun yet?” said I; and he answered, mechanically, “yes, theDuke just gone in.” I passed on; knocked at the door of thechapel; mentioned the Dean’s name as my warrant, and was admitted.The beadle, in livery, showed me to a seat, and after mydevotions, I was able to look around. It was a plain place ofworship, and quite small; just large enough for the royal household,none of whom, however, were now present, the Court being atBuckingham Palace. The book in my seat was stamped with theroyal initial of William Fourth, and marked for some great officerof the household. There was one seat between me and thepulpit, the seats running along the wall, like stalls, and not asordinary pews. The altar at the end of the Church, beyond thepulpit, was the conspicuous object of course, and the window aboveit—which one might hardly take for an altar-window in the street-view—gavethe chief light to the holy place. Was this the samechapel in which Evelyn so often anxiously marked the behaviour ofCharles and the Duke of York, at the celebration of the Eucharist?The place has been much changed, but I indulged the idea of itsessential sameness. On the altar were the usual candlesticks,and the glittering gold plate of great size and massiveness, in themidst of which was conspicuous the Offertory-basin, bearing theroyal cypher of Queen Anne. There was no one in the chapelbut the beadle and—one other person, in the seat next me, atmy right. There, in a dim corner, directly under the pulpit—quitecrouchingly and drawn together, eyes shut, and whitehead bowed down, Roman nose and iron features, and time-wornwrinkles, all tranquilized—sat in silence the hero of Waterloo.He was in the plainest morning dress of an English gentleman,frock-coat of blue, and light trowsers. I scarcely looked at him,and yet gained, in a moment, an impression of his entire person,which I shall never lose. Occasionally I could not resist thetemptation of a glance at the great man, but who would ventureto stare at the Duke of Wellington in such a place, and at such atime? The Dean of the chapel entered, with another clergyman,who was habited for the pulpit. A clerical personage, attendedby two ladies, at the same time, came in as I had done, and, duringthe sermon, there were four other persons present. The Deanbegan the Communion Service, which surprised me, as I had expectedthe usual Morning Prayer. Was the Duke about to communicate?Was I to see him in the most solemn act of our holyreligion? Was I to kneel beside him to receive the same cup ofsalvation and bread of life? It gave me solemn thoughts of ourcommon insignificance, in presence of Him whose majesty filledthe place, and on whose glorious Cross and Passion, I endeavouredto fix all my thoughts. For ages in this chapel, sovereignsand princes had literally brought gold and incense, (as they dostill, annually, on the Feast of the Epiphany,) and offered theirvows unto the King of kings; and now, there I knelt with thegreatest human being on the footstool; the first man of the firstnation; the great man of the greatest Empire on which the sunever shone; a man of blood, of battles, and of victories, comingas a worshipper of the Prince of Peace, to crave salvation andreceive its pledge! ‘And yet, a greater than Solomon is here,’said my inward thought, ‘and therefore let this impressive momentbe a foretaste of that terrible hour when the Judge of allthe earth shall sit upon his throne, and when all worldly gloriesmust shrink to nothingness before His Majesty.’

I could not but observe the Duke, at the saying of the NiceneCreed. As usual, in England, he faced about to the East, and atthe name of Jesus, the great Captain of his salvation, he boweddown his hoar head full low, as if he were indeed a soldier of thecross, and not ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified.The Duke was certainly not as eminent for sanctity as for hismany other qualities; but who shall say that his worship wasthat of the formalist, or that the secret of his soul, which is withGod, may not have presented to His eye the contrition and thefaith of a sinner “much forgiven!” Surely, the splendours whichseem so attractive to the superficial, must, long since, have becomeburdensome to him; and few, so well as he, have been able to confirmby experience the faithful witness of inspiration, that “manat his best estate is altogether vanity.”

The Dean is a grandson of the celebrated Charles Wesley, and Iwas somewhat disappointed that he was not the preacher. Thetext, it seemed to me, had been selected not without referenceto the great person, whose attendance at the chapel is sometimessolitary, and who having entered on his eighty-third year on thepreceding Thursday, might be supposed to regard this Sunday asone of more than ordinary solemnity. “Though thy beginning wassmall, thy latter end shall greatly increase”—(Job viii:7)—such wasthe text, and the reverend preacher dwelt on the approach of death,and spoke of “men covered with worldly wealth and honours, makingtheir end in remorse and misery.” If the deafness of the Dukedid not prevent his hearing, many parts of the sermon must haveaffected him, but he retained the immoveable and drowsy look ofwhich I have spoken before, and sat close in his corner. The residueof the service proceeded as usual; five persons, myself andthe beadle included, being the only persons present besides theofficiating clergy. The collection at the Offertory was duly madeas in parish churches, and at the proper time (the beadle openingthe doors of our pews) the altar was surrounded. Supposing thatsome etiquette might be observed in such a place, I was verymuch pleased to find that the contrary was the case; and that allpresent were expected to approach the altar together. The Duketottered up, just before me, and I knelt down at his side, justwhere the beadle indicated my place. Of course I had otherthings to think of at such a solemn moment, and I know nothingof his deportment, at the sacrament, except that it seemed humbleand reverential. When all was over, and the Duke had retired, theDean, who had beckoned me to remain, for the consumption ofthe residue of the sacrament, expressed great satisfaction at thepresence of an American clergyman, and spoke affectionately ofour Church. He told me that the Duke communicated thus regularlyon the first Sunday of every month: and I was glad, as Ileft the chapel, that I had been so happy as to see him for thefirst time when engaged in such a duty. He is now gone to thedread realities we there confessed; and there is something peculiarlytouching in the recollection of that morning at St. James’s, whenthat cup of salvation, out of which kings and queens have, so often,drank their weal or woe, passed from his lips to mine. It made mefeel, at the time, both out of place, and yet at home; for what hadI to do in a royal chapel, and in the company of the worldly great?and yet I was there because it was my Father’s house, and becausemy right to the children’s bread is the same as theirs, eventhe mercy which redeemed all men’s souls at the same unspeakableprice.

When I next saw the Duke of Wellington, I had the honour ofbeing presented to him, and of observing his person and his mannersmore narrowly, in a scene of private festivity. I saw himonce again, and that, too, was at St. James’s, amid all the splendoursof the Court, dressed in his military uniform, and glitteringwith decorations. Even there he was the “observed of all observers,”and long will it be before such another shall be seen amidits splendours, giving, rather than receiving lustre, in the face ofthe throne itself. But to have seen the old hero bowing at thethrone of grace, and asking mercy as a miserable sinner, throughthe precious blood-shedding of Jesus Christ, will often be one of thethings which I shall most pleasingly recall, when I see some poordying cottager, or tenant of a garret, taking into his hand, withas good a right, the same cup of salvation.

When I first came into the neighborhood of St. Paul’s, I wasfar more impressed than I had expected to be with its dingy, butstill sublime exterior. With this Cathedral I had no very agreeableassociations. Erected during the first period of decline incorrect taste and sound theology, subsequent to the Rebellion, itnaturally partakes of the cold formality of the age, and is altogetheras Anti-Anglican as pedantry and an over-estimation ofthe classical in art could make it. It is in the style of a RomanBasilica, rather than of an English Church, and is far more suitableto Tridentine notions, than any Church in England erectedbefore the Reformation. Still, it is beautiful; I think exceedinglyso: and St. Peter’s, in the Vatican, is as inferior to this, inmodel, as this is inferior to St. Peter’s in dimensions and internalmagnificence. I give my opinion boldly, for I feel sure thatthere can be no just room for difference of opinion as to this matter.The more I saw of St. Peter’s, the less was I satisfied withits ill-conceived and awkwardly developed bulk; while everytime I saw St. Paul’s, I found myself more and more in lovewith its rich combinations of grace and majesty. How it cameto pass that Michael Angelo and his partners produced only amagnificent monster, while Sir Christopher Wren came so nearproducing a model of magnificence, it may be hard to tell; butthough the latter has its faults, no one can do less than admit,that if the immensity of St. Peter’s embodied the same outlineand proportions which are preserved in St. Paul’s, the wholeeffect of the front, as you approach it between the colonnades ofBernini, would be inconceivably better. St. Paul’s unfortunatelyhas no such approach; but its great dome looms before you,as you begin to ascend Ludgate-hill, for all the world like a peakof the Alps descried through the gorge of Gondo. When the promisedimprovements are made in the neighborhood of the churchyard,and when a better finish and composition of details areadopted at the eastern end, or choir, of the cathedral, it may safelylay claim to the finest coup d’œil of its kind in Christendom. Itsdefects are notorious, but they appear to me of minor importance;and the double portico, at the west end, so mercilessly criticisedby the mere grammarians of architecture, strikes me as worthyof high commendation, as a happy license in the poetry of theart, distinguishing a Christian Church from a heathen temple.The Pantheon and Madeleine at Paris are doubtless more correct,but they look—the one as if Voltaire and Rousseau mighthave ordered it expressly for their Mausoleum, and the other asif Julian himself had built it in grateful remembrance of his earlyfriends, the Parisians.

I leave my readers to imagine the sort of enthusiasm with whichI first sauntered about the purlieus of the cathedral, and inquired ofmy guide-book the actual site of the old Paul’s Cross, and stroveto conjure up the images, thereto pertaining, by witness of thechronicler. Alas! how much rather would I have seen the oldPaul’s, which poor Laud so munificently repaired in the ill tasteof his day; and that old pulpit, in which Richard Hooker waggedhis venerable head, than all this Italian and classical displayof Wren’s! There is no relish of the past in it: and it haslittle that is truly religious in its effect on the mind. Yet asbeing St. Paul’s, one feels that a Greek and Roman compositionwould not befit any other of the apostles, so well as itdoes the one that was a Roman citizen, and the Doctor of theGentiles.

Going to St. Paul’s to morning service, on Sunday, the fourthof May, I entered the south transept, and for the first time beheldits interior. The effect of the immense vault of the dome, as itfirst struck my sight, was overpowering—the more so, because atthat moment, a single burst of the organ, and the swell of an Amenfrom the choir, where service was already begun, filled the domewith reverberations, that seemed to come upon me like thunder.I was so unprepared for anything impressive in St. Paul’s, that Ifelt a sort of recoil, and the blood flushed to my temples. I saidto an American friend, who happened to be with me—“after all,’tis indeed sublime!” I now went forward with highly excitedexpectations, and the voice of the clergyman intoning the prayers,within the choir, increased my anxiety to be, at once, upon myknees. I glanced at the monument of Howard, and entered beneaththe screen. The congregation seemed immense. A verger ledus quite up to the altar, and as he still found no place, conductedus out into the aisle, where I passed the kneeling statue of BishopHeber, with a trembling emotion of love and admiration, and sowas led about and put into a stall, (inscribed, “Weldland,” withthe legend, Exaudi Domine justitiam,) where, kneeling down, Igave myself up to the solemn worship of God. And solemn worshipit was! I never, before or since, heard any cathedralchaunting, whether in England or on the Continent, that couldbe compared to it for effect. The clergyman who intoned theLitany, knelt in the midst of the choir looking towards the altar.Even now I seem to be hearing his full, rich voice, sonorouslyand articulately, chaunting the suffrage—by thy glorious Resurrectionand Ascension—to which organ and singers gave response—GoodLord deliver us—as with the voice of many waters. Then,as the next suffrage was continued, the throbbings and echoes ofthis organ-blast supplied a sort of under-current to its simpletone, at first pouring down from the dome like the floods of Niagara,and then dying off along the distant nave and aisles likemighty waves of the ocean. Tears gushed from my eyes, andmy heart swelled to my throat, as this overwhelming worshipwas continued. It was all so entirely unexpected! Cold, cheerless,modern, all but Hanoverian St. Paul’s—who dreamed ofsuch a worship here! Yet so it was; and I am sure, from subsequentexperience, that it is capable of being made a most attractivecathedral, and a very useful one. Knock away that detestablescreen, and put the organ in a better place; confine the choirto the clergy, and compel all the canons, singers and officials ofevery grade to be there; fit up the Altar end, and make it newwith a pictured window, in keeping with the architecture andvastness of the place; subdue the light; set the pulpit at thehead of the nave, and let the entire Church be filled with worshippersand hearers: and then, with a little decoration, andwarm colouring to aid the improved effect, we shall hear no moreof the chilliness and poverty of this august interior. It might bemade a great Missionary Church for the seamen and other laboringclasses of the city and port of London; while the aisles shouldfurnish a succession of chapels, for services at successive hours,and for Sunday schools, and catechizings. Church Societies also,such as the S. P. G., might be allowed their chapels, in which,before sailing, Missionaries might receive the Sacrament, oroffer thanks after arriving at home. One would think, moreover,that a fitting use might be found for the great balcony,over the lower portico, at the west-end, if only the Dean andChapter would imitate the May-morning hymn of Magdalen, and,in that public place, offer annual prayers and thanksgivings toGod, for the health, peace, and prosperity of the vast Metropolis,to which they might make themselves the very centre of spirituallife, by a little inventive effort, in the line of useful and benevolentreform. Oh, for a besom and a reformer first, and then forthe line and plummet of the builder!

Dean Milman appeared in the pulpit, and preached a well-writtensermon (from Acts xvii. 26,) with evident reference tothe influx of divers nations at the inauguration of the Great Exhibition.But the Apostle, for whom the cathedral is named,would have preached very differently, I am persuaded, to theassembled Gentiles. In the congregation, I discovered manyforeign faces, and recognized, (by the familiar tokens of angularfeatures, goat-locks under the chin, and collars turned down,)not a few of the more inquisitive and irreverent class of our owncountrymen, who seemed to think the rhetorical powers of theworthy Dean altogether inferior to those of the stump, the camp-meeting,and the Tabernacle in Broadway. I must allow that,if such were their impressions, they are not much to blame. Theeditor of Gibbon, and of Horace, has other claims to our respect,and richly deserves an eminent station in the Academy, or inschools of Taste and Art; but the orthodoxy of a Hooker, andthe zeal of a Whitefield, are the better qualifications for such apost as the Deanery of St. Paul’s ought to be. Even a little enthusiasmmight be excused in cathedral preaching, as vastly preferableto the frigid decorum of a style and manner quite toorigidly harmonious with the Corinthian and classical details of thesurrounding architecture.

The same day I attended Evening Service at St. Barnabas’,Pimlico, of which everybody has heard something. At this timeMr. Bennett had ceased to be the incumbent, and I was informedthat the less defensible practices of this Church had been discontinued,in obedience to the injunctions of the Bishop. I cannotsay I saw anything that need have given great offence, in ordinarytimes and circ*mstances: but I saw not a little which, in thetime of apostacies and scandals, would more inevitably scandalizethe weaker brethren, than would many far more serious sinsagainst charity and brotherly kindness. Had these things beenother than absolutely indifferent in themselves, or had they beenless seemingly imitative of some ceremonies foreign to our primitiveCatholicity, one might have said, at any rate, that they werequite as tolerable as the corresponding ultraisms of the opposingextreme in the Church. I certainly tried to feel both charityand fraternal sympathy for the brethren of St. Barnabas’, for Ihad heard them well-reported of for many good works. Yet,my impressions were not altogether favorable. On the whole,the effect was that of formalism beyond anything I ever saw inour Communion. The architecture was somewhat too highlycharged with mediævalism for reformed Anglican worship, butwould be not less inappropriate, in several particulars, to modernRomanism. It was antiquarian, rather than practical in anyrespect. The service seemed to be performed in the sameæsthetic and almost histrionic spirit, even where the rubric wasstrictly complied with. One could not say just what was inexcusable,and yet felt that little was done unto edifying. The evilseemed to be that its good was made to be evil spoken of, by theexcessive and unnatural, if not unreal way in which it was exhibited.Good there was, undoubtedly, in the original idea ofthis Church, and one scruples to impeach the motive of such displaysof zeal for the glory of God: but we have the positive ruleof St. Paul, given by precept and example, that everything beyondwhat is the ordinance and custom of the Church, is to besubordinated to the great work of evangelizing men compassedwith infirmities, and who oppose to the Gospel the divers prejudicesof the Gentile and the Jew. I am very much afraid thecontrary is the rule at St. Barnabas’. After the Evening Service,the congregation was dismissed without a Sermon. Although theassembly was far from large, and however true it may be thatprayers are better than preaching, in certain circ*mstances, Icertainly felt that a few words of exhortation might have addeda spirit of reality to the solemnities, and could not have seemedout of place on the Lord’s Day, even at Evening Service. Still itis but just to say that the services are so arranged, in this church,as to secure an average both of teaching and worship, muchgreater than is usual elsewhere. With all this, why cannota bonâ fide English air of earnestness be given to the whole thing?Let us have a living ceremonial, at least, and a real one. Thereading which I heard was not English reading: if the preachingbe of the same sort, no wonder the people consider the whole amere imitation of foreign performances. An external standard, andnot the spirit of the English rubric, appears to be before the eyesof the ministers; just as a similar standard, and not the law, seemsto have guided Dr. Lushington in his late decision against them.Strange that while his judgment demolishes furniture to whichnothing but bigotry can object, he leaves the brazen doors of thechancel, which are repugnant to common sense, as they almostconceal the altar.

Later in the evening, I attended St. George’s, Hanover-Square,the Church so distinguished for marriages in high-life, and for afashionable prestige altogether. Here one sees Hanover indeed! Thenames of its successive Churchwardens are emblazoned on thegalleries, and I observed that they were generally those of noblemenand gentry. Fashion was much too prominent. A young andwell-looking preacher, in Episcopal robes, appeared in the pulpit,and discoursed articulately, and with some spirit, (on Rev. xxii.17,) though not remarkably in other respects. This was the newBishop of Nova Scotia, who has since entered into the labors ofhis missionary field with great diligence and success.

I had attended four distinct services in divers parts of theMetropolis this day, and I was informed that I might easily haveattended as many more. Very different hours are kept in differentparishes; and it is not unusual for one, two, or even threeMorning Services to be celebrated in the same Church, to accommodatedifferent classes of worshippers. Such is one fruit of theawakened vitality of the Church of England.

Rambles—The Tower.

In Paternoster-Row I cruised about, and came to Amen Cornerquite too soon for satisfaction. I strove also to understandthe precise bounds of Little Britain, as I plodded therein, andbethought me of its right worshipful reputation for books andmen of letters in olden times. In Cheapside, I could see nothingbut John Gilpin and his family, till I came to Bow Church, and,by good luck, heard a full peal of the very bells that make co*ckneys,and that whilom made poor Whittington o’ the Cat a LordMayor. What they were ringing for did not appear, as theChurch was shut. So I fared on through the Poultry and Corn-hill,paying due deference to the Royal Exchange, till on a sudden,by some odd crooks and twistings through the very ventricles ofthis heart of the Metropolis, I came before the Tower. It gaveme a thrill of emotion to see it before me: and ‘here is Tower-Hill,’said I—‘here stood the scaffold—and I am sure thesewalls must have been the last things seen, before they closedtheir eyes forever, by Strafford, and by Laud, and by so manybefore and after.’ And these the towers of Caesar, and theirhistory the history of England almost ever since his conquest!

The Church of All-Hallows, Barking, happened to stand open,much to my satisfaction, as I was threading a very narrow andold-fashioned street near the Tower; and I entered, with a thrillof emotion, to behold the venerable interior, where the service forthe burial of the dead was read over the bleeding corpse of ArchbishopLaud, as it was brought in just after the axe had madehim a martyr, and here temporarily interred. I remembered thatSouthey remarks that the Prayer-Book itself seemed to share inhis funeral, for on the same day, the Parliament made it a crimeto use it in any solemnity whatever: and I endeavored to recall thescene of desolation which must then have smitten to the heartany true son of the Church of England who was its spectator,beholding, as he did, the Primate of all England going down intothe sepulchre, as the last, apparently, of his dignity and order;the Church herself beheaded, if not destroyed, with him; andthe Prayer-Book reading its own burial! Thank God, there Istood, two hundred years later, a living witness of the resurrectionof that Church and its ritual, and of its powerful life, in thenew world of the West. I trust I did not offer a vainthanksgiving upon the spot. I then looked at the old tombs andbrasses, which are interesting, if not fine. Here kneel a worshipfulold knight and his dame, with their nine or ten children,demurely cut in alabaster, upon the common tomb of theparents; and there is a brass, said to be Flemish, commemoratinganother pair, who were laid to rest the same year that saw BishopFisher and Sir Thomas More beheaded and interred in this sameChurch. Here, too, is some fine carving; and some of the pewshave curious adornings, in token of their being the place formagistrates and high parochial functionaries, of divers degrees.Surely, no one should fail to see this Church when he visits theTower.

And now I turned towards that old historic pile, repeating, as itrose upon my sight, those striking lines of Gray’s—

Its very foundations were laid in blood, if so be, indeed, as theold chronicler asserts, “its mortar was tempered with the bloodof beasts;” and for long ages it has never slaked its thirst for theblood of human beings, till now, in the halcyon days of Victoria,it stands a lonely monument of those barbarian elements, out ofwhich has risen the nobler fabric of British freedom. Nor shouldit be forgotten, that popular violence as well as princely tyranny,has glutted the spot with murder. Of the many worthies whomwe must remember here, none were more grossly butchered thanLaud and Strafford, the victims of a ravening fanaticism; unlesswe except those gentler sufferers, whose sex and spotless innocenceleave their murderers without even the appearance ofexcuse. A cold chill fell upon me as I entered the fatal precincts,thinking how many had passed the same gates never toreturn. If there be a haunted spot in all the world, it should bethis Tower; and, indeed, strange stories are on credible record,which might well assist the fancy in conceiving that the ghostsof its old tenants, of the fouler sort, do sometimes revisit thescene of their dark and dreadful deaths.

The red-liveried yeomen, in the costume of the guards ofEdward VI., receive you as you enter the gate beneath its oldportcullis, and these are themselves no poor auxiliaries to yourefforts at reproducing the past. One of them (they are popularlyknown as beef-eaters) conducts you to the Armory and Jewel-roomforthwith, it being taken for granted that you have come to seethese things particularly. Imagine yourself, then, passing throughan immense outer-wall, in the circuit of which are set, like sentinels,the several inferior citadels, known as the Bloody Tower, theBeauchamp Tower, and the like. You gain the open court, orarea, and in the centre rises the immense quadrangular and turretedmass, which overhangs this part of London: it is the Keep, orWhite Tower, called also Cæsar’s, though built by William theNorman. You pass the Bloody Tower, in which the youngprinces were smothered by the hunch-back Richard, and areshown into the Armory. Here you see, amid all sorts of bristlingweapons, the sovereigns of England, from Edward I. toJames II., all on horseback, and most of them in the armour oftheir times. The growth and decline of knightly harness is thusexhibited entire, from the “twisted mail” of Edward’s hauberk,down to the merely ornamental breast-plate of the recreantStuart. What a procession! Some of the visors are down, andothers are lifted—but to an imaginative eye, every figure appearsinstinct with vitality. Their very steeds, in their plated steel andancient housings, seem clothed with thunder. Elizabeth, ofcourse, retains her own fantastic costume, but there she sitsbefore you, in spite of her peaco*ck display, a glorious memorialof Tilbury, and you can fancy her prancing before her troops,and inspiring them to repel the “foul scorn” of the Armada.That very suit of armour, now stuffed with the resemblance of herfather, was once worn by bluff old Hal himself; and further on,is the beautiful array of steel, in which the goodly limbs of theRoyal Martyr were once actually encased. Nor are the heroesof this august Valhalla without other trophies of their times andachievements. Here are bills, pikes and partizans, Lochaber-axesand glaives, broadswords and stilettoes; and then all mannerof fire-arms, from the earliest and heaviest matchlock downthrough all the grades of muskets, to musketoons, pistols, andpistolets. And then there are saw-shot, and bar-shot, andspike-shot, and star-shot; and then culverins and petards; andweapons offensive and defensive of all sorts and kinds. Andthey bear marks of having been well used in their day. Herethe wars of the Roses have battered a helmet and pierced ashield: through that hole in the corslet, once spouted the richblood of a hero at Tewksbury: that visor was rusted by the lastsigh of another such as Marmion, on Flodden-field. Even thisbludgeon of a staff, with pistols at the handle, has dealt midnightblows in the hands of the British Blue-beard, as he patrolled thestreets of his capital, in the spirit of Haroun Al Raschid, somewhatheightened by the spirit of wine.

I was not above looking curiously and thoughtfully at the exhibitionof Popery, displayed in the relics of the Armada. Atthe Crystal Palace there was a very bold and enticing parade ofthe modern instruments of this Protean enthusiasm, in the shapeof candlesticks and monstrances, thuribles and pyxes, and allsorts of embroideries, spangles, laces, and millinery. By suchthings it would convert England now. In Elizabeth’s day, itsmissionaries were less attractive. Bilboes, collars, thumb-screws,and iron cravats; stocks, fetters, and manacles; a sort of portableInquisition was, in short, the great reliance of the Pope inthose times, for the reduction of the heretic English: and here,no doubt, old Fuller would go on to say, that “if forsooth weshould feel closely about the fine things of even modern Poperie,we might, perchance, find a prickly point, or a sharp edge, or arough chain, if not fa*ggots and gun-powder also, stowed awayamong all their fancy stuffes and petticoats.” I could not satisfymyself with looking at these antiquarian treasures however, norshall I attempt to satisfy my reader by detailing them. Let himthink how he would feel to touch the very axe that divided the littlefair neck of Anne Boleyn, and the stiffer sinews of the Earl ofEssex. Even the block on which old Lovat laid his worthlesshead, loaded with crimes as many as his hoary hairs, gives one ashudder, though no man pitied him when he fell. It is, moreover,a monument of interest, because there the axe stayed, andhas never since been lifted on the head of a British subject. Hedied in 1746, in the cause of the young Pretender; and possiblythis fact suggested to me the thought, (by which alone I can conveyany just idea of this Armory,) that the whole exhibitionseems to be a complete property-room of the Waverley novels.If the characters of those successive tales could have depositedin one room the antiquarian implements and costumes to whichthey gave a sort of resurrection, they would have furnished uswith very much such a collection as that of this Armory of theTower.

A new stone strong room has been built for the Royal Jewels,and one now sees the Regalia by day-light. It is a glitteringshow; but nothing seems to be very ancient in the collection,except the spoon wherewith anointing oil has been pouredon all the royal heads that have been crowned since the days ofEdward the Confessor. How many Archbishops have held itshandle; how many princes have been touched with its bowl! Atthe bare thought, all the history of England seemed to risebefore my sight, and I felt that there is a value in such symbolsof a Nation’s continuous existence. When displayed, not asgewgaws of a vulgar pomp, but as the memorials of a fruitfulantiquity, they cannot but inspire a sentiment of veneration inevery beholder, and serve to keep alive the vestal flame of loyaltyand love for a throne which is invested, indeed, with traditionalsplendours, but which rests on the surer foundations of existingfreedom and righteous law.

When I stood again in the open court, I longed to be toldnothing so much as where the old Archbishop was confined,when he gave Strafford that parting benediction. It had beenarranged by Usher, their common friend, that they should thustake leave of one another. The noble Strafford came forthwalking to the scaffold on Tower-hill, but craved permission todo his last observance to his friend. For a moment he fearedthe old primate had forgotten him, but just then he appeared atthe dismal window of his own prison. “My Lord—your prayersand your blessing”—said Strafford, kneeling down: and thebenediction was given accordingly; after which the primateswooned in a fit of sorrow, while the stout Earl rising, said,“God protect your innocence,” and then stepped onward with amilitary bearing, and passed to his execution, as if it were to atriumph. Somewhere here, all this went on! I could almostfancy it before my eye. Then, too, I thought of Raleigh. Andhere, hard by, was the undoubted spot, within the walls, wherestood the scaffold on which suffered the Queens Anne Boleyn andKatharine Howard; and Lady Jane Gray, more lovely and moreinnocent than either. But it was not the thing to be looking atsuch a spot in broad daylight. How much I should have beenpleased with the privilege of lodging, just one night in the WhiteTower, not to sleep, but to stand at my window and look outupon the Court, and upon Tower-hill, by pale moonlight, and so—tothink, and think, and think!

By dint of perseverance, I gained admission to the BeauchampTower, occupied at present by some officers as a mess-room.The apartments are covered with carvings and inscriptions, thework of many illustrious prisoners, in past times, and with somethat merely tell of human sorrow, mysteriously, and without thename of any one that is known, to satisfy the curiosity they excite.A rich carving, in which figures the well-known bear andragged staff, reveals the prison thoughts of Dudley, Earl of Warwick,father-in-law to the Lady Jane. There is another inscription,very naturally ascribed to poor Lord Guilford Dudley—the simpleletters IANE. His sweet Jane was soon to breathe herfarewells to him from her own lonely cell, and, after seeing hisbleeding corpse brought in from the scaffold, to follow him to theblock. The initials R. D. betray the work of another Dudley,who lived to be the favorite of Elizabeth, and the dismal husbandof Amy Robsart. Here figure also memorials of Henry’svictims, and of the Marian Confessors, and not a few of thosewho suffered under the last of the Tudors. Underneath theserooms is the “rats’ dungeon,” where many have suffered the extremeof human agony; and directly overhead is “the dolefulprison” of Anne Boleyn. Remorseless, indeed, must have beenthe heart of her husband, if in truth she sent him the letter, saidto have been endited there, and if, after reading it, he couldstill abandon to the block the head that had so often reclined inhis bosom.

I was resolved not to leave these awful precincts until I hadalso visited the Church of St. Peter ad Vincula, the burial-placeof so many of those whom I had thus endeavored to recall tomind. After some patience and perseverance I was admitted,and stood upon what a clever writer has justly called one of thesaddest spots on earth. So many graves, of so many destroyedworthies, are here gathered together, that one necessarily thinks,as he stands by them, of the day of judgment. What a resurrectionthere will be in this place at that day—a resurrection of thejust and the unjust! The Church is sadly disfigured, and shouldbe reverently restored, but its pointed arches and mural monuments,with kneeling figures, and one rich altar-tomb, with effigies,still elevate the interior above an ordinary effect. Nearthis tomb repose the bodies of the weak Kilmarnock and thesturdy Balmerino; and upon my saying something about them tothe sexton, he told me that, in digging lately, he had come to therelics of their coffins. He then lifted a cushion in one of theseats, and showed me the coffin-plates, which he had taken fromthe earth. Sure enough, there they were, quite legible, inscribedwith their names and titles, and the sad date, 1746. I rememberedhow I had read in a contemporary number of “The Gentleman’sMagazine,” and in Horace Walpole’s gossip, the contraryimpressions made upon these Jacobites by the scene in whichthey were to suffer. Kilmarnock acted pitiably, for his consciencewas alive to his sin and folly; but Balmerino was troubledwith very little of a conscience whatever, and what he had wassuch as to persuade him that he was dying in a good cause. Theold hero cried “God save King James,” to the last; and, stridingup to his coffin, put on his glasses, and read this very inscription,and said it was all right. Now, I was reading it fresh from theearth, after a hundred years had gone by. It greatly moved me.Then, I thought of Laud hobbling into this chapel, lame andfeeble, leaning on his servant, but standing up amid the people,while the preacher railed at him; said preacher wearing hisgown over a buff jerkin, as the holder, at the same time, of aparochial benefice in Essex, and the captaincy of a troop ofhorse in the rebel army! But where did memories begin or end,when I tried to collect them in such a place? Here lies, beneaththe altar, the daring Duke of Monmouth, hacked and hewed todeath by his awkward headsman; and, not less barbarously murdered,here lies that venerable lady, the last of the Plantagenets.Cromwell lies there, for helping Henry Bluebeard; and there,too, More and Fisher, for resisting him; Anne Boleyn and LordRochford lie there, for being innocent; and Katherine Howardand lady Rochford, for being guilty. Two Dukes are buriedbetween the two Queens; and there Lord Guilford Dudley oncemore reposes with his lovely Lady Jane. Here lies brother slainby brother, the slayer sharing, in his turn, the fate of the slain;and these, with Monmouth, mercilessly condemned by his uncle,and the two Queens murdered by their own husband, seem toaccomplish the melancholy record with associations of crime themost complicate, and of accountability the most dreadful thatcan well be imagined. Oh, God! what reckonings yet to besettled by Thee alone, are laid up against that day, even in thelittle compass of these walls.

I made a parting circuit to survey the Bloody Tower and itssharp-toothed portcullis—the only one in England that still risesand falls in a gate-way, and refuses not its office; the Bowyer’sTower, in which poor Clarence was drowned in Malmsey; theBrick Tower, said to have been the prison of Lady Jane Grey;and the Salt Tower, which, with its adjoining wall, I foundnearly demolished, and in process of restoration. Finally, Iwent round upon the water-side and surveyed the Traitor’s Gate,so called. Here, then, are the jaws of this devouring monster,sated at last, apparently; but who knows? Under that arch havepassed, one after another, those great historic characters, whosenames we have already reviewed. They abandoned hope whenthey entered here; and almost always with good reason. Onealone on whom, in youthful sorrow, and by a sister’s cruel injunction,these massive gates yawned and closed, became, in turn,their mistress; and—alas! for human nature—made them oftengape for others. Think of Elizabeth Tudor passing under thisarch, the captive of the Bloody Mary! Who then could haveforeseen the days of Hooker, and of Burleigh, and of Shakspeare?Think of old Laud in his barge, day after day, returningthrough this arch from his trial, to his prison, exhausted andpanting like a hart pierced by the archers, from the cruel shaftsof Prynne and his confederates, but accompanied, perhaps, by hisnoble defender, Sir Matthew Hale. Oh! could he but have seenthe Anglican Church of the nineteenth century, how thin wouldhave seemed the clouds which were gathering around her at thatawful period, and which he feared, no doubt, were to overwhelmher forever. Such were some of the thoughts, partly sad, butlargely grateful, with which I found myself chained to the place;and even when it was time to go, still disposed to linger aboutthe spot, and bend musingly above the Traitors’ Gate of theTower.

Two Nights in the House of Commons.

As soon as I could devote an evening to the purpose, I mademy first visit to the House of Commons, going at a very earlyhour in the afternoon, and sitting through the whole till aftermidnight. This House, since removed to the new Palace, thenheld its sessions in what was formerly the House of Lords, saidto be the scene of all the historic events which have illustratedthat body for ages, down to the reign of William Fourth. Itwas fitted up for the Commons after the fire of 1834, whichdestroyed St. Stephen’s Chapel. It was, first of all, the hall ofEdward Confessor’s Palace; was subsequently the scene of afierce passage in the life of Cœur-de-Lion; and also of thatromantic incident which Shakspeare makes the first scene in hisRichard Second. There Bacon presided, and was impeached,and fell. Lord Chatham’s expiring effort was made there; andthere he thundered those noble remonstrances against the Americanwar, in which our own history is so intimately concerned.Its fitting-up, however, for the temporary use of the Commons,gave it a very modern appearance, and it was as plain as canwell be imagined. Before I returned to America, its interior hadbeen pulled to pieces, and the materials sold under the hammer.I saw it, therefore, in the Omega of its legislative uses, centurieshaving expired since its Alpha. Mr. Lawrence, our worthyAmbassador, had kindly supplied me with a ticket, which admittedthe bearer to the diplomatic benches. These are on the floorof the House, and are only separated from those of the membersby a nominal division; so that, in fact, I found myself surroundedby them. At first the House was thin, and it grew thinnertowards seven o’clock; but at about nine o’clock it began to fillagain, the members returning from their dinners, most of them infull dress. The earlier hours were consumed in dull and unimportantmatters, and business seemed to drag on like the daylight,till the place began to be as stupid as it was dark and gloomy;when suddenly the Speaker touched a bell, and a flood of softlight was showered from the ceiling, not a lamp or burner beingvisible. This mode of illumination was quite new to me,although I have heard of similar effects produced in the sameway in America. It seemed to quicken and cheer up everything,till the Speaker left his place suddenly, (for refreshments,it was said,) and then all stood still, the members yawning andlounging about, and talking in a very undignified manner. Whenthe Speaker returned, business seemed to have begun. A messagewas received from the House of Lords, with the usualformalities; but, I observed that as the messenger backed out,making his three bows, he stumbled, and excited a laugh, atwhich he also laughed, and then retired, winking and exchanginggrimaces with sundry acquaintances, as much as to say—whocares. He was dressed in wig and gown, and was probably oneof the clerks of the Lords; and he was attended in the Commonsby the Sergeant-at-Arms, who was dressed in court-costume, andduring the ceremony carried the Mace on his shoulder. Thesight of “that bauble” revived the recollection of scenes in theHouse of Commons of a very different character.

The great business of the evening was a debate on the Malt-tax,which brought out all the strength of the House, and enabledthe opposition to talk “Protection,” with a show of very greatsympathy for the distresses of “the British farmer.” Mr. Disraelimade a great speech, in his way; but it is a very poor way, hiswhole manner being declamatory and sophom*orical in the extreme.I had met him several times as I sauntered through PallMall, and looked in vain for any traces in his face and mannerof the clever author of Coningsby and its successors. A jauntyand rather flashy young man, with black ringlets, twisted about aface quite devoid of elevated expression—such was the impressionhe gave me in the open air, and in the House of Commons Isaw nothing at variance with it. He is certainly a man of parts,but that such as he should have forced his way to the Leadershipof the House of Commons, only proves the extreme mediocrityof this generation. That he is a Jew is a great bar to hisadvancement, although he is a Jewish Christian. He affects,however, to be very proud of his Oriental origin, and perhaps hemay be so; but one feels that he cannot be confided in, and thathe is a mere adventurer. He seemed to me to ape Sir RobertPeel, in his way of thrusting his arm behind the skirts of thecoat, and exposing the whole waistcoat in a flaring manner. Ihave heard as good talking at a debating club as he treated us tothat night in the House of Commons. Still he made some goodhits at Ministers, and was often interrupted by cries of hear, hear,hear, which are rather muttered than vociferated around thebenches. He has since been Chancellor of the Exchequer, himselfadopting the very policy which he then abused in terms themost noisy and passionate.

Ministers were, of course, not slow in replying, and I had achance of beholding some of the expiring grimaces of LordJohn Russell, whose feeble government was just ready to fall topieces of itself. I knew the man as soon as I saw him in theHouse. There he sat, under a hat that seemed to extinguishhis features, trying to laugh and look good-natured. At last herose, and I observed that the familiar caricatures of Punch werein fact good likenesses. He is his own caricature. A diminutiveutterer of “great, swelling words;” paltry, and yet pompous;and altogether as insignificant a person as I ever saw dressed inbrief authority. He had only a few plain things to say, and yethe contrived to utter them, as if he were saying—“I am SirOracle.” Cries of divide had circulated pretty freely during thewhole debate, and now I saw a division. A personage who hadbeen very polite to me during the evening, volunteered to put mewhere I might see the whole process. Just before the division,members came running in from the clubs, and the “whipper-in”returned to his seat, having discharged his duty in securing theattendance of votes for the Government. Members had beenpairing off the whole time, apparently to attend a ball or theOpera, as the pairs were nearly always in full dress. Theirnegotiations seemed to be made near the bar of the House, andthe Speaker was constantly silencing the buzz of members andspectators, by the cry of “order—order,” or “order at the bar,”which Mr. Shaw Lefevre knows how to speak most potently.At length for the division, the galleries were cleared at thesound of certain bells, which the Speaker appeared to pull; butmy kind Mentor clapped me into a sort of lobby, like a closet,in the door of which was a pane of glass, through which I sawthe entire performance at my ease, and quite by myself. Lessfortunate visitors were entirely ejected, and then the membersthemselves went into the lobby, and so passed in again, theirnames being pricked by the tellers as they passed, and the wholeoperation taking but a few minutes. The Ministry had a handsomemajority. Before the House rose that evening, there wasanother division; and it so happened that I heard most of themen of mark. Sir Charles Wood, Chancellor of the Exchequer,Hume and Bright, the amusing Colonel Sibthorp, and theMilesian Reynolds, all talked, and some of them several times.Mr. Keogh excited the significant cry of oh, oh, with laughter,and made some sport by rejoining, “the gentlemen may cry oh,but still it is true.” An allusion to the Scottish Universitiesbrought Sir Robert Inglis to his feet, and he said a few pertinentwords, in a manner worthy of himself as the best specimen inthe House of a true English gentleman of the old school. Mr.Sidney Herbert spoke in a handsome manner, and Mr. Gladstonealso made a very spicy little speech, which seemed to annoy hisopponents not a little. The House sat till two o’clock, but Ifinally gave it up, and left before the end. As I came out intoOld Palace Yard, and saw the towers of the Abbey in the stillsolemnity of the night, it seemed more strikingly majestic thanbefore. I thought what mighty interests of Empires had beensettled here, and how often Chatham, Fox, Pitt and Canning,had emerged at midnight from such scenes as I had just left,looking on the same towers, beneath which they now moulder inthe dust. The sombre mass of the Abbey seemed a commentaryon the hot debates from which I was retiring; a speaking monitorof the transient interests of the present, and of the eternalissues of futurity, as well as of the unchangeableness of thepast.

As I walked slowly to my lodgings, I passed Whitehall. Scarceany one was in the street, and all was silence. I stopped, andgazed on the white walls of the Banqueting-room, and said tomyself, ‘how strange! here I am alone on this most memorablespot, in the deep and solemn night. Can it be that here, whereall is now so quiet, there stood two hundred years ago a crowdof human beings, every one of whom was experiencing, at themoment, emotions the most singularly mixed and tumultuous thatever agitated the human soul? Can it be that from this samewhite wall issued the figure of King Charles, and that there—justthere—he knelt at the block, and in a moment was a headlesscorpse? Even so! Here rose that groan of a mighty multitude,sighing as one man, and there the ghastly headsman stood,holding up the royal head by its anointed locks, and crying—thisis the head of a traitor!’ I almost turned about to see whetherCromwell’s troopers were not charging down upon me, so strongwas the impression of the spot; but just then, the sight of a solitarypoliceman, patrolling beneath a gas-lamp, recalled me to myself,and I fared thoughtfully, by the statue at Charing-Cross,towards my temporary home.

The Papal aggression was still, in spite of the Crystal Palaceand its wonders, an absorbing topic, and my second visit to theHouse of Commons had been set for an evening when a debateupon that exciting subject was to be part of the entertainment.I felt sure that such an evening in the House would be, in somemeasure, an historical one, and might be useful to me throughlife, in watching the course of religious and political events.Besides, I wanted to hear a debate that should enable me to compare,by its unity of subject, a Parliament of Victoria, with thoseof the Plantagenets and Tudors. I had my desire.

It seems impossible for the American mind to appreciaterightly the very grave injury which has been done to the Britishnation by the attempt of the Papal Court to erect EpiscopalSees, and bestow corresponding titles within the jurisdiction ofthe British Church, and under the shadow of the British Crown.But when it is considered that the Pope has thus attempted toexercise a power to which he could never have aspired even whenEngland wore his yoke, and which would not now be suffered byany Popish sovereignty in Europe; when, to say nothing of theoutrage to the Church of England, the direct attempt upon theallegiance of subjects is considered, and its bearings upon thefuture are duly weighed: no well-informed mind can hesitate amoment as to the propriety of the feelings which it so generallyinflamed, or retain any other astonishment, than a profound one,at the feebleness and utter imbecility of the measures with whichthe advisers of the greatest Sovereign in existence have allowedher to meet the invasion. It was not a moment for hesitation,or for consulting economics; a demand should have been madeupon the Pontiff for an immediate alteration of his attitude towardsEngland, and the least attempt to palter on his part shouldhave been responded to by a British fleet off Civita Vecchia. IfFrance was an obstacle to such a demonstration, and if “thepeace of Europe” must be kept at all hazards,—even the hazardof a speedy Armageddon to pay for it—if such be the Englandof 1850—alas for the extinction of the England of 1588! Isthe spirit of Elizabeth past revival?

Since 1830, the whigs, laboring, as Mr. Macaulay now confesses,under a delusion as to the ameliorated spirit of the Papacy,have gradually advanced the Romanists to great power and influence.They had introduced them to parliaments; had flatteredthem with ecclesiastical titles; and unavailingly tried topropitiate them with gifts. Finally, hoping to secure the Pope’said in the management of Ireland, they had advanced, step bystep, to a point from which they could not recede, and at whichthey ventured to go further, and actually invite him to the daringencroachment, which to their horror and amazement, set all Englandin a blaze. At every step of this infamous and foolish compromisewith Rome, true Churchmen had protested, and pleaded,and struggled in vain; but these true men were now confoundedin the disgrace of an alarming apostacy, owing to a popular misapprehension,and it was easy to turn the whole fury of the fireupon them. Lord John, detected in the very act of inviting thePope’s attempt, had the cunning to point at them, and lay it onthe “Tractarians.” The trick succeeded: the Romanizers weregratified, for they wished well to any but the friends of a Churchwhich they meant to abandon and destroy; the Evangelicalsswelled the outcry, which brought popular gales to their owncanvass; and the Ministry chuckled behind their fingers. TheRomanists were triumphant, since they had the Ministry in theirpower; and the only real sufferers by all the tumult and indignationthus aroused, were the very class who alone had contestedevery inch of ground with Popery and the Whigs, from the“Emancipation” of 1829, to its sequel and direct consequence,the “Aggression,” twenty years afterwards!

Such was the very just review of the existing question, whichin different ways was brought before the House on the evening ofthe ninth of May, 1851. The debate was on a motion of Mr.Urquhart, to the effect that “the act of the Pope had beenencouraged by the conduct and declarations of her Majesty’sGovernment; and that large expectations of remedy had beenstimulated by Lord John’s letter to the Bishop of Durham, whichhis measures had entirely disappointed.” The member pressedhis resolution (offered as an amendment to the proposed bill) by areference to the history at which we have glanced, and by callingto mind some former passages in the political life of the PrimeMinister, which it could scarcely have been comfortable for himto hear just at that moment. Sir George Grey, in a very feeblespeech, replied in behalf of his friend, from the Treasury bench,and amused himself at some length, at the expense of Mr. Urquhart,without really affecting his argument. Lord John Manners retortedwith not a little force, at least in his matter. He declaredthe proposed amendment a mere truism, and yet one of practicalutility. Lord John had successfully thrown dust in the eyes ofthe people. Lord Powis and Mr. Dudley Perceval had in vainendeavored to place the facts before the country. Then followeda passage of pungency and truth. “The Prime Minister,” hesaid, “had twice encouraged the acts against which his puny anddelusive legislation was now directed; had twice defeated themodest attempt of the Church of England to place Bishops ofher own in the great towns now occupied by the Pope; hadgranted to Popish Bishops, in all the Colonies, precedence overAnglican Bishops; had yielded similar favors to the Romish titulariesin Ireland; had pertinaciously resisted the fair demands ofthe Irish Church for Scriptural Education; and yet—after apublic policy which had been one unvaried monotone of insultand wrong to the Church of England—had contrived, by onemagic stroke of the pen, to place himself before the country asthe champion of English Protestantism, and as the only effectualantagonist of the encroachments of the Church of Rome.” ARomish member now rose, and, while opposing the amendment,paid a singular tribute to its truth. “He was not the man toblame the noble Lord for encouraging the Pope’s measures; buthe blamed him for now attempting to contend with the directconsequences of his own flattering policy.” After a ramblingand incoherent speech, of tiresome length, from a Mr. Stanford,who supported the amendment, Sir Robert Inglis rose and opposedit with characteristic dignity, and with that grave and soberearnestness which, under the manifest control of taste and judgment,seems always uppermost in all his utterances. He showedthat, if the amendment were passed, it would defeat the bill.However true, therefore, he must oppose it, because the billwas all that the Government had offered to do, and somethingmust be done. He had no objection to calling on the Governmentto do more; he thought that Lord John might fairly beasked to meet, in full, the expectations he had excited; but hecould not vote for an amendment which would effectually preventthe doing of anything to carry out the just wishes of thecountry.

Sir Robert, during his remarks, dropped an expression, for thefirst time, if I am not mistaken, which soon became familiar.He spoke of the opposition of the Irish Brigade, referring to theRomish members then sitting, and voting together, with an appearanceof complete drill, and of absolute obedience to onecommand. The expression was repeated as a quotation byanother member, and raised a laugh, as something freshly caughtup, and this seemed to mark it as a hit. Finally, Mr. Reynolds,the apparent leader of the Brigade, gave it complete success byreplying to it. Sir Robert, after quietly delivering his remarks,had walked round from his seat, and was conversing with afriend, (while he twirled in his hand a rose, that he had takenfrom his button-hole,) when Mr. Reynolds stepped into his place,with a sort of bog-trotting movement, and facetiously remarkedthat, it might seem strange to see him standing, as it were, in theshoes of the venerable baronet, who had just called him and hiscountrymen, “the Irish Brigade.” He then acknowledged thatthey were banded together against the bill, and “against everyother, good or bad, which its author might propose.” He thusavowed their purpose, to throw their entire force against theGovernment, until Lord John should be driven out of power.He then went on with Irish volubility, and the no less characteristicaccent of the Patlander, to belabor Lord John’s bill. Hetold not a little truth: called it “sham legislation;” stuck out hisfinger towards the Minister, and said, “If ye pass it, ye dare notput it into execution.” Here, however, he gave it the praise of beingquite the thing for its purpose—“a cruel and persecutingmeasure—which, as such, had received the approbation of theProtestant watchdog of Oxford University.” By this epithet, significantof high fidelity, but not intended to be particularly respectful,he gave Sir Robert a Rowland for his Oliver.

The residue of this gentleman’s speech was amusing enough,as coming from a Papist. He was for liberty of conscience;couldn’t bear to think of religious persecution; and, as for theQueen, she had no subjects in the world that could compare withher Irish subjects, for the devoted affection with which they regardedher. One would think it a pity that such homage as heprofessed for a heretic sovereign, had not been as fashionableamong his co-religionists in the days of Guido Fawkes, or of theSpanish Armada.

At last, Lord John himself rose to reply. I thought of thehistory of the house of Bedford, from the back-stairs of HenryVIII., when, as Burke expresses it, “the lion having gorged hisshare of the Ecclesiastical carcase, flung the offal to his jackal,”down to the council-chamber of Victoria, where the jackal stillwaits on the lion, in the shape of this insatiable devourer of theChurch’s bread, and not less insatiable thirster for her blood.How should he dare lift up his voice to apologize for the brandof infamy which this evening’s debate had stamped upon hiscareer as a Minister, or rather which it merely showed to have beenalready set by his own hands! Forth he stepped, like himselfalone, and with the same pomposity to which I have alreadyadverted, went through a few incantations, which ended in afresh transformation of the diminutive conjurer before us, into amost earnest “deviser of securities for the crown and the nation.”He called the opposition “mean and shabby”—for such courtesiesseem to be the seven locks of a rhetorical Samson, in hisconception—and with a front of brass, only equalled by theaudacity of his imputations upon true sons of the Church ofEngland, declared “there had been nothing in the conduct ofthe Government which had a tendency to provoke the aggression.”He sat down, in his littleness, and was instantly pouncedupon by Disraeli, from the opposite side of the table, as it wereby a hungry terrier. “Is it a fact,” then, said he, “or is it not,that the First Minister of the Crown has himself in this Houseexpressed an opinion, that he saw no harm in Romish Bishops assumingterritorial titles in this realm of England? Is it a fact, or isit not, in the recollection of this House, and in the burning memoryof this country? Is it a fact, or is it not, that a Secretaryof State, in another place, has expressed his hope that RomishBishops would soon take seats as Peers of Parliament in theHouse of Lords? Is it a fact, or is it not, that a member of theCabinet has been sent as Plenipotentiary to Italy, and held frequentand encouraging conversations with the Pope? Is it afact, or is it not, that the Pope condescended to intimate to saidAmbassador his gracious purposes to do something that might affectEngland; and is it a fact, or is it not, that the Plenipotentiarythought it unnecessary to inquire what it might be?”

Lord John here rallied, and interrupted the speaker, by sayingthat “he had admitted the fact of a report that the Pope said so, buthad also stated that Lord Minto denied having heard it.” Thusterrier seemed to have rat in his fangs, but rat could still showhis teeth to terrier. It was the first impeachment to which hehad ventured any reply; and, by replying to this, he convictedhimself of the more grave charges, which he was obliged to hearin silence, with his hat slouched down over his criminal features.Who can feel any respect for an English patrician, caught insuch a felony, and proved as truly a moral delinquent, on agigantic scale, as ever a petty thief at the Old Bailey on a smallone? Oh! for a conscience in mankind to save their sympathyfor the poor wretch in the bail-dock, and to consign to meritedinfamy the titled and decorated offender, whose crime is unfaithfulstewardship in the State, and treason to the Crown Imperialof the Most High God! I have no abstract prejudice against apeerage. For my own country only do I deprecate the idea ofan aristocracy; but what are patricians worth, if they cannotpresent to the State, in which they are an organic part, a highand wholesome example of integrity and honour? In my heart,therefore, as I looked at this scion of the house of Bedford inhis moral degradation, I felt—would that he might know theunaffected pity with which a republican looks at him from thisgallery, as a man, in this great crisis of history, false to hisrank, false to his sovereign, false to his country, and false to hisRedeemer.

Mr. Disraeli paid no attention to his disclaimers, but, as it were,buffeted him smartly with another hit—“Is it a fact, or is it not,that the Vice-Royalty of Ireland was in indirect communicationwith the Pope, and expressed affection for his person, and reverencefor his character?” This brought out enthusiastic cheers;and Lord John tried to emerge from beneath his hat, to lookcontemptuous. Ministers had a small majority. But LordJohn must have felt that his time was coming, while, no doubt,Mr. Disraeli began to draw as near in fancy, to the envied benchon which he sat so little at ease. The latter had done decidedlybetter than when I heard him before; but, when the divisionwas taken, I could not but say to myself—is this all that England’sSenators have to say in such a matter? I felt that there werefew of them alive to the importance of the thing in hand; andthat no one seemed equal to the support of old England in consistencywith herself. Was this, indeed, the Senate in whichBurke had uttered his voice? Was it the hall in which Chathamhad rescued from the last disgrace the honour of his country?And were there to be no words, like his—burning words—livingwords—immortal words—to prove forever that England took nother shame in abject submission! At least no such words werespoken. There was not even a John of Gaunt there, to bewailthe disgrace of “the dear, dear isle,”

and, notwithstanding the eminent exceptions to the remark, I saidto myself, as I left the House after midnight—I seem to havebeen hearing only a “debate in the Senate of Lilliput.”

It seemed strange, before I sat at breakfast, early next morning,to take up the Times, and read, in four or five columns, a verytolerable report of the whole proceedings, and many of the wordswhich seemed, even then, to have scarcely ceased to sound in myear. I cannot but add the remark, that it is a great pity theamendment, which I had heard debated, failed to pass. It wouldhave loaded Lord John with the full consequences of his ownconduct, and it would have saved England from the degradationof enacting a law, devised as a mere expedient, and which affordsto the enemy the darling satisfaction of defying it with impunity.

The House of Lords—Their Lordships in Session.

The new House of Lords is a superb specimen of modern art;and, in every way, is worthy of the hereditary Senate of theBritish Empire. Perhaps it is too small for full effect, and yet,if larger, it would hardily answer the purposes of speaking andhearing. Its dimensions, however, are symbolical of its character,as intended for the use of a very select assembly; and wouldseem to indicate, moreover, (to copy once more the manner ofFuller,) that the Whigs are not to reign forever, seeing that ifsuch as my Lord John Russell should long continue in power, therewould need be built a much larger hall to contain all the brokenlawyers, hack politicians, Popish Bishops, and rich Jews, whomight justly expect, from former examples, to be fitted up withcoronets, coats of arms, and patents of nobility. The like ideaseems to obtain, moreover, in the decorations of the hall, inwhich History is artfully blended with Religion and Chivalry;implying, if my republican comprehension can rightly interpretthis writing on the wall, that to be a true patrician, one musthave historical antecedents, and should represent some great factin the annals of one’s country; and that such antecedents, to bemade honourable to an individual, must be sustained by personalworth, and by that refined and sublimated virtue which is calledhonour. Thus, for example, a Nelson or a Wellington is anobleman by the historic origin of his family, although of moderndate; while, with respect to “all the blood of all the Howards,”it is equally true, that if devoid of corresponding traits of magnanimityand honesty, its degenerate inheritor is, after all, onlyfit to be hooted at as a poltroon and a villain. This principle Ifully understand, American as I am. I feel that something is dueto the worthy representative of a name illustrious in the annalsof a great nation; but your mere Lord Moneybags, or the spiritlessand unprincipled shadow of a name that was once right-honourable,are creatures with whose acquaintance I should feelit somewhat discreditable to be bored. Every man who hasmoral worth, and who respects himself accordingly, must entertaina degree of honest contempt for such company, somewhatakin to that of good old Johnson, in his thread-bare coat, whenhe wrote his inimitable letter to Chesterfield.

However, their Lordships’ House! There is the Throne; andI defy any one to look at the Throne of England without veneration.It is a gorgeous seat, over which appear the royal arms,while on its right and left are seats for the Prince Consort andthe Prince of Wales. A splendid canopy overhangs the dais onwhich these seats are ranged, and the dais itself is covered witha carpet of “scarlet velvet pile, spotted with heraldic lions androses.” The ceiling is ribbed with massive gilded bands, andrichly bossed and set with devices in all the colours of blazonry.Between the lofty windows are niches intended to receive thebronze statues of the old Magna Charta Barons, while the windowsthemselves are filled with stained glass, commemorative ofthe Kings and Queens of England. The subordinate ornamentsand furniture are all in keeping. On the right hand of theThrone, are the seats appropriate to the Bishops, where theChurch “lifts her mitred front” before the Sovereign, and teachesher by whom she reigns, and how she may execute judgment.But directly in front of the Throne is the woolsack, covered withred cloth, and otherwise made suitable to “the keeper of theQueen’s conscience,” who ordinarily sits thereon. Before thisare the clerks’ table and seats, and then the bar; while on eitherhand range the crimson benches of the Peers. At the end of thehall is the reporters’ and strangers’ gallery, of very small dimensions,from which, however, one gets the best view of the wholeinterior, and of the striking pictures over the Throne. Theseare happily chosen as to subjects, and well executed as frescoes.In the centre is the Baptism of King Ethelbert—the symbol of atruly Christian realm: on one side is the Black Prince receivingthe Garter—a symbol of genuine chivalry; and on the otheris Henry, Prince of Wales, submitting to imprisonment for anassault upon Judge Gascoigne—a most speaking exhibition ofthe time-honoured relations subsisting between British Royaltyand British Law. It will be a wholesome thing for every futurePrince of Wales to look at this picture, before he presumes to sitdown under it. It may really have an important influence inmoulding the character of future Kings. God grant it may!

In surveying this splendid apartment, the mind naturally goesforward, since it presents the fancy with no past history. Whatis to be its future? Is this House to be the scene of a furtherdevelopment of vast imperial resources? Is it to be graced by aperpetuated aristocracy, surviving every change in society and inarts, by the force of their own character, as furnishing a highexample to mankind of “whatsoever things are lovely and ofgood report?” Is this roof to resound with the voices of high-mindedmen, asserting from age to age their privilege to be foremostin defence of religion and of humanity, and to do and to sufferfor the good of their fellow-subjects, and the welfare of mankind?Is the British Peerage to grow brighter with high moral qualities,than with hereditary honours, and to be cherished by an enlightenedspirit of public virtue as a standard of all that ishonourable, and as a pattern of what is most excellent in theideal of the true Christian gentleman? Or must the sad reversebe true, and must this House be the scene of the last act in theeventful history of England? Shall a factitious nobility becrowded into these chief seats of the realm; men devoid ofennobling antecedents, and not less so of honour and ofworth? Shall the decay of a mighty Empire be marked by sucha House of Lords as may facilitate the plans of the demagogue,sinking the Sovereign to a Doge, and the Church to a Statehireling, and giving to the Commons the unrestrained privilege ofrevolution and anarchy? These are questions which a well-wisherto the British Empire cannot but suggest, in view ofevents which have lately taken place; and especially in view of thefact, that the House of Lords has not unfrequently of late suffereditself to be disgraced by breaches of Christian courtesy, not tosay of common decency, which, if multiplied in such a conspicuousplace, must tend to barbarize the world. Let us hear nomore of disgraceful scenes in the American Congress, till hereditarynoblemen, who have little else to do, can furnish mankindwith a wholesome example of high legislative decorum! Forunless noblemen will reflect upon their position, and act uponconvictions of what is necessary to the credit of their rank, in aday when true gentlemen are by no means rare, outside their glitteringcircle, and even among plain republicans, they must notwonder if they too should become as a worn-out form, or an explodedtheory. Who knows how soon this superb hall of legislationmay be exhibited as the chief memorial of their existence?If the British Peerage proves untrue to the Church of England,and degrades itself to the bare responding of an Amen to everymomentary Credo of Ministers and Commons, what use of suchmachinery? This palace shall be even as those of Venice. Thisgorgeous interior shall be kept under the key of the mere cicerone,and shown as a thing of the past to the staring traveller, as hemarvels over tarnished gilding and faded damask, and at everytread disturbs the dust upon its floor, or breaks through cobwebsdangling from its ceiling.

When one sees, in the writings of such a man as Dr. Arnold,confessions of annoyance, if not of a sense of injury, from theexistence of a privileged class, to which merit must constantlygive way, where otherwise it would be entitled to precedence;and when one discovers, even in the highest seats of British intellectand piety, a certain deference to mere rank, which seemshumiliating; and when one finds something of the spirit of tuft-huntingdiffused through all classes alike, from the Tory school-boyto the Whig Bishop; one feels indeed that there may bearguments against the aristocratic element in society, which havenever been stated in their list of grievances by political agitators.But, after all, in an old country like England, the aristocracyexists, and there is no destroying it without destroying the nation.The infernal guillotine itself cannot wholly make way with it, asFrance has learned to its sorrow. What then? It must bemodified and perpetuated. It must be purified, and worked inwith society, as its ornament, but not its fabric. This is what isdone already in England. The nobility, the clergy, the gentry,the literati, the professional classes, and then the people—afterall, in England they are one; “shade unperceived and softeninginto shade,” and joined and knit together by habits, tastes, alliances,and interests, in a wonderful order. Much yet remains tobe done, and will be done, to smooth down remaining asperitiesbetween rank and rank; but the British aristocracy may be said,even now, to be a genuine one, identified with everything greatand good in the nation, and, on the whole, presenting a wholesomeexample to other classes in the State. In all probability,so virtuous an aristocracy has never been seen elsewhere amongmankind. Among them may be found specimens of humannature, whose physical and mental endowments, together withtheir moral worth, and intellectual accomplishments, entitle themto the highest admiration of their fellow-men. We are too wellaware that side by side with such, may sit, adorned with equalrank and titles, some wretch, whose coronet has been purchasedby infamy, and whose hereditary decorations are but the mockeryof a character, every way pestilent and detestable. The Englishthemselves are used to it; but it strikes a republican with amazementthat such creatures should be noble, even “by courtesy.”

To see the House, as I saw it first, empty, and for the sake ofits architecture and decoration, one gets a ticket by applying atthe adjoining office of the Lord Chamberlain, on specified days.To attend the sessions of the House of Lords, one must possessan autograph order by a Peer. With this I was kindly supplied,not only for one night, but for four; the orders being given mein blanks, which I was permitted to fill with any dates thatmight best suit my convenience. It so happened that little wasgoing on in the House of Lords while I was in London, and Idid not see it to advantage. As I heard several of its most eminentmembers elsewhere, however, and frequently met with themin society, I had less to regret than would otherwise have been thecase. In the House itself, I saw enough to familiarize me withits appearance and manners, and the rest is easily imagined,when one has before him the Times’ report of any particularscene.

Lord Truro, sitting on the woolsack, was the first object thatstruck me on entering—and it was by no means a majestic one.He is a Russell Chancellor, and of course no Clarendon. Shadesof Somers and of Eldon, what a figure I saw in your old seat!The sight of the Bishops, in their robes, with the old Primate, inhis wig, reminded me of Chatham’s appeal to “that right reverendbench, and the unsullied purity of their lawn.” Their Lordshipswere few in number, and among them the Bishop of Oxfordwas the man of mark. I doubt if he has his equal in the Housefor “thoughts that breathe and words that burn.” The Lordstemporal were lounging about their benches, hats on or off, aschanced to be, and what little speaking I heard, was by no meanssuch as to rouse them to particular attention. A hesitating, stuttering,and very awkward utterance would even seem to be thefashion in this noble House. I looked in vain for Lord Brougham,not because I have any great respect for him, but because onemay be pardoned for trying to see such a curiosity, when it is,possibly, just under one’s nose. He has been vastly over-rated,and will soon be forgotten. In general, their Lordships lookedlike well-bred gentlemen, and there was about them a certain airof travel and of finish, which marks the habituated man of theworld. Some of them were plainly dressed, but others wereevidently men of fashion. One thing they ought to know andfeel, and that is—that much is given them, and much will be requiredof them. No doubt every position has its qualifying disadvantagesand trials; yet it must be allowed that no station inwhich a human being can find himself placed by his Creator,affords so many advantages, at the very outset, for usefulness andhappiness in life, as that of a young English Peer of competentfortune and sound mind, with a healthful body, and a good education.What a hint for such a man is that challenge of nature’sown nobleman, St. Paul—Who maketh thee to differ from another,and what hast thou that thou didst not receive?

An incident which created some excitement in fashionable circles,shortly after the opening of the Crystal Palace, will illustrateone feature of British civilization which will not be out ofplace in connection with these remarks on the aristocracy.Everybody has heard of the London Police, their admirable drill,and great efficiency. Their impartial enforcement of the rulesof the Great Exhibition was peculiarly illustrative of thesecharacteristics, and also of the spirit of law and order, as paramountand inflexible in the Metropolis. No departure from theserules was allowed to any one; and carriage after carriage, allblazing with heraldic splendours, and filled with rank and beauty,was forced to change its route by the simple waving of a policeman’sfinger. It so happened that a dashing young fellow, a scionof the noble house of S——, driving his own equipage throughHyde Park, ventured to disobey. On this the policeman seizedthe horse’s head, and backed him. The hot-blooded Jehu instantlyraised his whip, and struck the policeman several violentblows over the face and head. The result was his immediate arrest;and on being carried before the Magistrate, young S——found himself committed for ten days imprisonment, which heaccordingly fulfilled with exemplary submission, wearing jail-clothes,and performing sundry penances, precisely as if he hadbeen the humblest offender in the land. On the same day thatthis happened, a cabman whom I had engaged to take me, in ahurry, to a certain part of the town, drove me rapidly throughSt. James’s Park, and was just making his escape into the street,near Buckingham Palace, when he was stopped, in the gate, by apoliceman, and ordered instantly back, with a threat of severepunishment should he again trespass where he knew that onlyprivate carriages were admitted. As my time was precious, Iventured to interpose, and exhausted every art, in vain, to inducethe inexorable policeman to allow the cab to pass on. He littleknew my sincere respect for him, and the real satisfaction I tookin thus finding him “a brick for his principles.” Finally, Ioffered to alight, and discharge the cabman there; but this alsothe policeman respectfully forbade. “It would never do,” hesaid, “to allow cabmen to take such liberties; the cab must goback;” but then he advised me not to pay the fellow a singlepenny, as he was not entitled to anything but an arrest, for exemptionfrom which he might be thankful. I was exceedinglyannoyed, in spite of my admiration for authority, but thought itbest to submit without further parley. Next day I heard of thefate of the Honorable Mr. S——, and, on the whole, felt gladthat I had got off so easily. Thus it seems that law is law inLondon, for all classes alike; and if the stranger, in his cab, isnot permitted to violate it, he may at least console himself withthe fact that he would fare no better if he were a home-bornaristocrat in a dashing tilbury. It is this well-defined system ofsociety, in which every man knows his rights, and where evenprivilege is limited, and as absolutely held in check as license,that makes even humble life in England, in spite of all its burdens,a life of liberty and contentment. Theoretical equalitymay exist with far less of real independence, and we who valueourselves on self-government, are perhaps in danger of findingourselves without government, and too jealous of authority tosubmit even to law.

St. Mary’s, Lambeth—Temple—St. Paul’s—Tunnel.

Time never need hang heavily on one’s hands in London. Astroll in the Parks is an unfailing resource in fair weather: whenit was wet, I used to take refuge under cover of some exhibition.The National Gallery, in Trafalgar Square, and the Vernon Gallery,gratuitously opened to the public, in Marlborough House,were quite a resource; although the annual show of pictures inthe former was nothing extraordinary. The portrait of Dr.Wiseman was displayed there, and a sight of it cured me of allcuriosity to see more of him. Its coarse and sensual effectafforded a very striking contrast to the refined and intellectualhead of the Bishop of London, which was hung vis-à-vis, perhapsnot without design. But of pictures I do not propose to speakparticularly.

In the cool of a charming May morning I sauntered forth, andcrossed Westminster Bridge. It was too late for the full enjoymentof Wordsworth’s emotions, on that thoroughfare, for alreadythe city was astir; and yet there was enough in the scene it commandedto make one stop a few moments and conjure up theimagery of his inimitable sonnet:—

So I passed on to Lambeth, and came by Bishop’s Walk, underthe walls of the Archbishop’s gardens, to Morning Prayer at St.Mary’s. It was here, under the shadow of this Church, that thepoor Queen of James, the Runagate, stood shivering on a stormynight, with her unfortunate little babe packed up in a basket,awaiting a start to France. Had the baby only cried, how differentmight have been the history of the British Crown andnation! A great many Scotchmen would have lived quietlythrough the greater part of the succeeding century, who (as thebaby slept soundly) were only born to be hanged, shot, and beheaded;and then, in all probability, we should have had noWaverley novels! However, I now found the Church a ruin;only its tower standing, and a bit of the chancel, while the rebuildingwas going bravely on. But I am glad to say that thedaily service was not therefore interrupted. The chancel wasroughly boarded up, and protected from the weather, and there agood congregation was at prayer when I entered, two curatesofficiating. I was rejoiced to worship there, in such a primitiveway. The bones of the brave old primate Bancroft, and of goodArchbishop Tenison were beneath us as we knelt; and the meekSecker reposes hard by.

After breakfast, at the Rectory, in a room overlooking thearchiepiscopal grounds, I went to the river, and hunted up oneof those deposed and antiquated things—a wherry, resolved to goby water, in the old fashioned way, from Lambeth to the Temple.Now, then, I was legitimately afloat upon “the silent highway,”only that the hideous little steamers would destroy my anti-modernimaginations, as they paddled triumphantly by. I wastrying to imagine myself in the primate’s barge, with Cranmer orwith Laud; or again, as I “shot the bridge, with its roar ofwaters,” I conjured up the day when Dryden, with his fashionablecompanions, took water, that they might the better hear thedistant guns, by which they knew “the fleet, under his RoyalHighness, was then engaging the Dutch upon the coast, and thata great event was then deciding.” Ah! it was the poetry of theThames to go upon it with oars, and to hear the watermanlament the degenerate days of steam; or to draw out his Allegroby questions about the “champion of the river,” and the greatrowing match soon to come off, to the probable discomfiture of thathero’s further claims to that dignity. The salt talked very bad dryEnglish, but his wet vocabulary was truly rich; and I left hisboat at Blackfriars Bridge, with a sort of feeling that, instead ofa few paltry shillings he had earned by his conduct on the voyage,the not unusual compliment to affable sea-captains, of “avote of thanks, and a piece of plate.”

I now went to the Temple Gardens, where, according to greatWill, began the wars of York and Lancaster, by the plucking ofthe two roses; and, for a while, I sauntered about those pleasantwalks, in the company of one of the benchers, feeling very muchas if I had found a little Oxford on the margin of the Thames.After a subsequent visit to the room which Dr. Johnson once inhabited,and sauntering through courts and alleys, where one seesmany a celebrated name painted over a door, as a business sign,we entered the Temple Church. Great restorations have beenmade here of late, at an immense expense, and generally in goodtaste and on correct principles, save that unsightly seats, toomuch like pews, encumber the space in front of the altar, whichought to be entirely open. What a reverend old Church; builtin the twelfth century by Crusaders, and consecrated by aPatriarch of Jerusalem! Under its walls, inside, lies Selden,and outside, lies Oliver Goldsmith; but, to me, its most sacredinterest is the fact, that here the immortal Hooker erected thosenoble defences of the Church of England which broke the risingtide of Puritanism, and ultimately saved us from its floods. Herethat great “Master of the Temple,” while his inmost soul waspanting for a quiet country cure, bore patiently the heat andburthen of the day, in wearisome conflict with the dogged Travers,who could always preach “Geneva in the afternoon, againstthe morning Canterbury.” On entering “the Round,” you arestruck with its venerable effect, heightened by the fine figures ofthe old Templars, stretched, cross-legged, upon the floor. Thesefigures were sadly mutilated, but have been admirably restored.The Round is free from pewing, and opens into the choir, wherethe benchers’ stalls are ranged on either hand. The two societiesof the Middle and Inner Temple worship here together, and theirrespective arms—a Pegasus and a Lamb—are interchanged inthe showy decorations of the vaulting.

I ascended into the triforia by a cork-screw staircase, pausingto enter the famous Penitential Cell—a dismal hole in the wall,in which a refractory Templar was sometimes confined, butwhich offered him the consolations of religion, by means of ahagioscope, or slit in the masonry, through which he could seethe altar of the Church, and join in the devotions of his brethren—thoughit may be feared he more generally responded totheir chant with anything but benediction. In the triforia arehappily preserved all the monuments which lately disfigured thewalls below: and so set are the benchers against any renewing ofa bad example, that I was told they had resisted the erection ofeven Hooker’s bust in the choir. This I was sorry to hear, asone really felt the want of it on looking about the walls whichonce reflected the sounds of his earnest and persuasive voice.And what was my surprise, on my next visit, to find a workmansetting it there, just as it should be! It was covered. I beggedhim to let me see it. ‘Honour to thy old square cap, thouvenerable and judicious Richard,’ said my inmost heart, as thewell-known features emerged in all their dignity; and then Iasked if I was so fortunate as to be the very first to salute it.The workman, who was the sculptor himself, assured me that Iwas. ‘It is well,’ I answered, ‘that an American clergymanshould have the privilege. We know how to value in Americathe great defender of Law and of Religion, and much as Englandowes to Hooker, America owes infinitely more, or will do sowhen the Church shall have proved herself, as she will in the end,the salvation of the Republic.’

Under the roof of the Middle Temple Hall, where the benchers,barristers and students still dine together, was first acted onTwelfth night, 1602, Shakspeare’s play, so called. A visit to thatnoble hall, and a sight of its celebrated equestrian Charles First,by Vandyck, gave me great delight. There are also several otherroyal portraits, and many heraldic memorials of the great historiclawyers who once “ate their terms” within its walls. The hallof the Inner Temple is less striking, but of similar character.One wonders what future Lord Chancellor sits daily at theseboards, among the students. But in the Inner Temple, I thoughtchiefly of that gentle Templar, more gentle than its armorialLamb, who once sat with them, the author of “the Task.”

My next visit was an ambitious one. I spent an hour, or so,in climbing to the ball of St. Paul’s, within which, of course, Iensconsed myself, and indulged in very sublime reflections. Thefact is, however, that it was very hot, and when some half dozenco*ckneys had wedged themselves in, after me, I verily thoughtthe chances lay between smothering and being toppled down in alump into the street (400 feet below) like a big pippin; for theball shook and trembled upon the rods which support it, in amanner by no means soothing to excitable nerves. I was glad whenI got safely back to the “Golden Gallery,” and could cool myself,and look down on the roofs and chimneys of the million at oneglance. Here is your true view of London! Here that “mightyheart” is seen, and felt, and heard in its throbbings. Here athoughtful man finds food for reflection, and a benevolent one forinterceding prayer. Oh, God! to think of the life and death,the joy and misery, the innocence and the guilt, and all the mixedand mingled passions, emotions, thoughts, and deeds which aregoing on beneath these roofs, along those labyrinthine streets, andalleys, and in all this circuit of miles and miles, and close-packedhuman beings! God alone understands the issues there deciding:it is too much for one to dwell upon a single moment;but, thank God for the assurance that “He remembereththat we are but dust:” yea, thank God, for a Saviour andan High Priest, who can be touched with the feeling of humaninfirmities!

In the successive stages of mounting to the ball, one passes, ofcourse, many objects of interest. The original model of St.Paul’s is well worthy of inspection, as conveying Wren’s ownideal of the cathedral. He was so attached to it, that he criedwhen forced to depart from it; but it strikes me as greatly inferiorto the actual design. It might better suit the dilettanti, butexcept in the unreality of the second story, which is a merescreen to the roofing and buttresses, I can see nothing to regretin the substitution. The model room is also the depository ofsundry old and tattered flags, which, after escaping “the thunderof the captains, and the shoutings,” were formerly suspended inthe dome. It was fashionable to say that they desecrated it—butwhy so? The God of battles and the Prince of Peace areone: and I can see no reason why the flags of Waterloo shouldnot be hung up before the Lord of Hosts, in His Holy Temple.The question is merely one of taste; but the flags may be as wellconsidered as tokens of peace, as trophies of war; and whyshould not the providence of God, as the giver of all victory, bethus recognized, by a significant acknowledgment, that to Him,and not to the Duke of Wellington, for example, we owe thegeneral peace which has for so long a period blessed the world,since the overthrow of Napoleon? It is a sublime associationwith this cathedral, that it was first used for Divine Service incelebrating the Peace of Ryswick, which, with all its faults, hassecured to England inestimable blessings: and, perhaps the virtualappeal to God, which is made by connecting His awfulname with the awful issues of battles, may have a happy effecton the national conscience. It may make men afraid ofmere wars of ambition; may keep in view the fact, that peaceonly should be the end of conflict; and may also correct thesentimentalism which fails to see that war may sometimes bea just and a holy exertion of that magistracy with which Godhas girded the loins of rulers, and for which they are responsibleto Him who commands them not to “wear the sword invain.”

The Library is a place of little interest to one who has butlittle time. You look with reverence at the great bell, whichthunders out the death of time from hour to hour, and only tollswhen a Prince’s departure, or that of some great ecclesiastic, isto be announced to the nation. The vastness of the clock andits dial, give you fresh impressions of the enormous scale of everythingabout you, and the Whispering Gallery is reached with asense of fatigue, which quite accords with this effect. Here abore of a fellow shows off the petty experiment of the whisper,and stuns you by slamming a door; after which you are vexed tofind that the paintings of the dome have disappeared under thehumid influences of the London climate. It is only when thesefirst annoyances are over, that you regain entire command ofyour thoughts, and are able to measure “the length and breadth,and depth and height,” of the noble dome within whose concavityyou are now walking about, and perchance listening to the gloriousswell of the organ below. The architecture of this dome becomeseasily understood, as one ascends between its inner and outer surfaces,and one cannot but regret to find that the former is sovastly disproportioned to the latter. Here the triumph of MichaelAngelo, and the one grand superiority of St. Peter’s, begins to bepowerfully felt. Wren has constructed his dome prosaically; therhetoric and the poetry of architecture are sublimely displayedin the work of the mighty Florentine.

During the ascent, you emerge from time to time to open air,and get external views from the successive galleries. Londonchimneys are, at first, below you, and then the steeples, and theneven its canopy of smoke and vapour; and all its mingling soundscome to your ear at last like the murmur of the sea. “Howdizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low.” The elevation is indeedconsiderable; but with such a Babel at one’s feet; with the fleetsand the treasures of nations all in sight; and with a million ofmen swarming like ants in their mole-hill, just below, it is one’sown fault if the moral elevation be not far more sublime, and ifthe impressions of the hour are not forcibly suggestive of aglimpse of the world from the mansions of eternity.

After a very cursory inspection of the ill-judged sculpture inthe nave and transepts, and a more affectionate visit to the statueof Howard, to the kneeling figure of Heber, and that of BishopMiddleton, which represents him as confirming two Indian children,I had time to survey the crypts before the Evening Service.Here lie Reynolds, and West, and Lawrence, and several of theirbrothers of the Academy; and here, in a sort of chapel, whichadmits the external air and light through a grating, lies the architecthimself—the truly great Sir Christopher.

But now you come to the circular vault, upheld by massivepillars, and lighted partially from the dome above, but morestrongly by gas-burners, where you stand before the sepulchre ofNelson. The sarcophagus is an empty relic of Cardinal Wolsey’sambition, but looks so modern, that one is tempted to believe heordered it in prophetic spirit, expressly for its present purpose.After all, it is not Nelson’s sepulchre, for he is buried under it.The hero and the ecclesiastic have alike been compelled to accepta “little earth for charity,” and this hollow semblance of a coffindangles like that of Mohammed, between them. Alas! that Nelson’stomb should suggest any meaner thoughts than those of hisgenius and glory; but it was in fact a relief to turn to the simplemonument of Collingwood, and to be able to say, here lies notonly a decaying hero, but a slumbering Christian.

I looked for the monument of Dr. Donne with especial interest.You grope amid interesting relics of old St. Paul’s, a fragmentof Lord Chancellor Hatton’s effigy, a piece of Dean Colet’s, andanother of Sir Nicholas Bacon’s. At last, in one corner of adismal cell, feebly lighted by a grated window from without, yousee the old worthy, in his shroud, precisely as Walton describesthe figure, but leaning against the wall like a ghost, or rather likeone of the dried corpses in the Morgue, on the Great St. Bernard.You think of his truly heavenly mind, and strange life; of hisrusty old poetry, and sound old sermons; of his ancestor, SirThomas More, and of his descendant, William Cowper. It isstrange that no one ever thinks of Cowper as the inheritor of thisdouble genius, and as owing some features of his intellect not lessto the rhyming Dean of St. Paul’s, than to the author of Utopia.One would hope that under the Deanship of another poet, thegraceful and scholarly Milman, this one historic relic of theold cathedral, and of a brother of the sacred lyre, might beset in a fitter place, or at least more decently erected in theplace where it now seems irreverently set aside to moulder andbe forgotten.

The Thames Tunnel was pronounced, by Canning, “the greatestbore in England:” he was bored to death by applications forGovernment aid in completing it, and hence spoke feelingly. Itis now apparently done, though not finished, and is a co*ckneywonder, well worth a visit. Were it only in actual use as athoroughfare under the bed of the Thames, thus realizing theoriginal conception, it would not be without an element of truesublimity; but to see it degraded to a miserable show, scarcelypaying for its keeper, and serving only to enable the visitor to saythat he has walked under the Thames, is enough to justify one innaming it a folly. Its uses, however, may even yet be demonstratedto be great, and I cannot but feel that this noble workhas not been executed for naught. It will even yet have ahistory. Pity it is that the Duke of Wellington had no occasionto use it, in planning the defences of the city on thememorable tenth of April, 1848. It needed but the passageof a single regiment, under his command, through this mysteriousexcavation, for actual purposes of surprise and stratagem,to give the place a charm forever; and had such a passage beenby chance accomplished in the night, and led by the Duke inperson, for the sake of some masterly result, a new and romanticinterest would have been added as well to his own marvellousstory, as to that of the Tunnel itself. If the caverny wine vaultsof the London Docks were but connected with the Tunnel onone side, and the Tower on the other, so that there might be asub-marine passage to the Tower, from the Surrey side, it wouldat least furnish associations of a military character to this daringachievement of Brunel.

Such were some of the random suggestions of my fancy, asI descended the shaft, on the Wapping-side. I entered the darkhole, with a vague realization of the descent of the Trojanhero into the shades of old. The first glance reveals a narrowstreet, with very narrow side-walks, or trottoirs, arched overwith masonry, which is quite devoid of anything remarkable initself. It is here and there a little damp-looking, but not moreso perhaps than tunnels under ground. Gas burns along thedismal vault, but hardly lights it; enabling one to amuse himselfwith the thought of seeing fire beneath a river, and to pickhis way comfortably; but otherwise only rendering darknessvisible. The corresponding way, or the other half, is quitefilled up with stalls and shops, in which they offer, here a raree-show,and there refreshments. A wretched grinding organ fillsthe cavern with doleful music, and little peddlers offer thingsfor sale. So few, however, seem to be passing, that one wondershow they find it worth while to carry on this mermaid merchandise.You are so bored with their importunity, that it is notwithout an effort that you compose yourself, and reflect thatfishes are swimming, and that the keels of countless ships, withthe wealth of nations in their holds, are passing over your head,and that the very smallest breach in the arch above would“hurl an ocean on your march below.” This is the one greatidea of the Tunnel. I passed through and emerged at Rotherhithe,and then descending, returned in the same way. Itoccurred to me, what if Guy Fawkes the Second should fill thisplace with gunpowder, and touch off the magazine, by electrictelegraph, just as a royal fleet was passing the critical point!Strange to say, it might be so arranged, by means of the telegraphand Cardinal Wiseman, that the Pope himself, sitting in his armchairat the Vatican, might produce this terrible explosion in theThames; and I suppose he is quite as likely to do it, as he is toeffect the other results which he and the Cardinal (or the Cardinaland he) are actually attempting.

The shipping which one beholds in the vicinity of the Tunnel,is such as to produce a powerful impression upon the mind, infavour of the vast scale on which the commerce of London ismaintained with the whole world. Truly—“the harvest of theriver is her revenue, and she is a mart of nations.” As comparedwith the port of New-York, the narrowness of the riverhere rather increases than lessens the effect, bringing the forestof masts and the bulk of steamers close together, while, in ourgreat harbour, they are stretched along such a circuit of shore,or anchored in such an expanse of water, as materially diminishesthe general impression of multitude and immensity. Itmust be remembered, however, that in estimating the tonnageof London, a vast number of vessels are included which arenever thought of at the Custom-house in New-York. Thus,our river craft, which supply the city with produce for themarket, such as eggs, poultry and the like, with the whole fleetof our domestic steamers, go for nothing with us; while on thecontrary, the hoys that bring the like from the Low Countriesand the coast of France, with the steamers that ply to otherBritish ports, are all religiously reckoned in the commercial listsof the British Metropolis. With this abatement, one is surprisedto see how respectable a proportion the tonnage of New-Yorkbears to that of the populous Tyre of England; a proportionwhich is probably destined to a direct reversal at no distantperiod, when once the Pacific and the Australian and Asiaticcoasts are fairly opened to our direct trade through the Isthmusof Darien.

London Sights and By-places.

It is surprising how deep-rooted in one’s mind is the nonsenseliterature of the nursery, and how practically useful it often rendersitself in the serious occasions of life. The Cries of London,and the rhymes of Mother Goose may often point a moral of graveimportance to mankind; but not less were they serviceable to me,in enlivening many a nook and corner of the great Metropolis,whenever I gave myself up to a city stroll, as I frequently did,without plan, and in the merest mood of adventure. ‘Heigho!here is Holborn’—or again—‘this, then, is Eastcheap’—orsimilar exclamations in view of St. Bride’s or St. Helen’s—suchwere my entertainments, as I moved musingly along, among stock-jobbersand Jews. The sight of Pannier Alley, or PuddingLane, I am free to confess, raised emotions truly lively and refreshing;and seldom was I in want of associations, equally sentimentaland profound, while I traversed, with all the reverence of apilgrim, the mighty realms of co*ckaigne.

From Charing-cross to Temple-bar, in spite of the modern improvements,one picks not a little of this sort of pleasure as hesaunters along. Turning aside for a moment, let us step intoCovent-gardens. There is the Church, so memorable fromHogarth’s picture; and so illustrative of the piety and taste ofthe Russels, one of whom being forced to build it here, amid histhousand tenants, gave Inigo Jones the order, and suggested themunificence of his plans in the words—“anything—a barn willdo.” Accordingly, a barn it is. I searched its precincts for thegrave of Butler, that marvellous Daguerreotypist of Puritanism,whose rhymes and aphorisms will live as long as the languagewhich they so curiously shape and conjure into forms the mostcongenial to their pith and purpose. In the market one lingersamid the fruits and flowers, which here, every morning, offer tothe Londoners a toothsome and brilliant display. “Buy myroses”—“cherry ripe, cherry red”—“strawberries, your honour”—and“flowers all a-blowing, all a-growing”—such are thesounds with which you are for a moment emparadised, albeit inLondon streets. Here also you spy an alderman’s dinner atevery turn, and wonder how Chatterton could have contrived tostarve, within call of such a surfeit. But alas! full many a raggedvisitor looks on with lean and hungry stare, and famishes themore bitterly for the sight of plenty, which he cannot enjoy.

But resuming our walk, we again step aside to look at theSavoy. To do this, we pitch down hill, towards the Thames;and there is all that remains of the famous Palace, in the littlehomely old Church, to which I did reverence in gratitude to Godfor the famous Conference, which resulted in enriching thePrayer-book with several good things, (and with the significantaddition of two words in the Litany, rebellion and schism, amongstthe rest,) as the result of the Restoration. Next we survey thesplendours of Somerset House, not without regretting the obliterationof the old historical landmarks which it has deposed. Inthe middle of the street, before it, is the Church of St. Mary-le-Strand,where stood, in good old times, that famous May-pole, soprofane and odious to the Round-heads, but which makes sopicturesque a figure in our visions of the past. It perishedhonourably at last, for when no longer used for Spring dancesand revels, it was given to Sir Isaac Newton, who hung his telescopethereto, and made it serve him in exploring the stars. Socome we to St. Clement Danes, where grave visions of Johnson,keeping Easter, and approaching the Holy Sacrament with fearand trembling, give dignity to its otherwise lack-lustre appearance.And here is the Bar, where we enter Fleet-street and thecity, and where less serious memories of the great moralist afflictone’s desire to preserve propriety. Fancy him here, with Boswellto look at him, holding on to a post, and making the nightresound with his ha-ha, as he burst into earth-shaking laughterover his own wit. Even in his day, this gate of the city used,occasionally, to be set with the grim heads of decapitated traitors,and I remembered that, for once, poor Goldsmith got the better ofhim here, by an apt allusion to the ghastly spectacle. They hadbeen moralizing together in Westminster Abbey, where Johnsonhad pointed to the busts in Poets’ Corner, and whispered, in aponderous Latin quotation, to his brother poet—“perhaps ourheads shall yet be set with theirs.” Poor Goldy kept his wit pentup till he arrived at this spot, when, pointing Johnson to thegrim skulls of his fellow-Jacobites, he slyly repeated—“perhapsour heads shall yet be set with theirs!” In further honour ofthese worthies, I hunted up that orthodox chop-house, “theMitre,” and explored with awe the dingy precinct of “Bolt-Court:”nor should I have forgotten, before leaving the Strand,to make worthy mention of “Clement’s Inn,” where I surveyed,for a few minutes, what remains of that ancient haunt ofFalstaff’s memories; remembering too that “forked radish” of aman whom Falstaff’s recollections did so vilely disparage. Buttime would fail me to detail my various ins and outs, as I surveyedthe streets of London from St. Dunstan’s to Whitefriars.

In company with a gentleman of the Middle Temple, I wentone morning to Lincoln’s Inn, and surveyed its Hall and Library,which have been lately restored, in the style and taste of theolden time. I had the pleasure of looking at Lord Erskine’sstatue, under the kindly guidance of one of his descendants. Inthe chapel, the pulpit where Heber used to preach, was my chiefobject of interest. Lincoln’s Inn Fields attracted my attention,for a time, though it is hard to conjure up, in such a spot as it isat present, the scaffold and the block, and poor Lord WilliamRussell saying his last prayers. To the Temple gardens I thenrepaired for a little stroll, and there encountered the Crown-princeof Prussia, making his survey of the place, attended byhis suite. He moves rapidly, and cuts a good figure. What heis, we shall be likely to know if we live to see him reign. Fromthe Temple to Alsatia is but a step, and here I walked in painfulhonour of Nigel Olifaunt, as long as the sights and smells, whichstill preserve a thievish richness, would allow a mere romance tosupport my enthusiasm. And so from Whitefriars to Blackfriars,where, upon the very walls of ancient London, “the Times Newspaper”now flourishes, in its modern offices, and oft “with fearof change, perplexes monarchs.” I had been so happy as to makethe acquaintance of Mr. Walter, its eminent proprietor; andunder his hospitable roof, in Upper Grosvenor-street, I met withsome of the most agreeable personages whom I encountered inthe society of the Metropolis. The day’s adventures closed witha visit to Herald’s College, and to Doctors’ Commons. A slightinspection of the latter sufficed; but as I was in company withone who had business at the former, I lingered for a while in itsworshipful chambers, and was glad to see something of the processof the anti-republican mystery to which it is devoted. Hereare the historic books, from which pedigrees are furnished; andhere are the authorities for quarterings and emblazonings, and allsuch changes in coat-armour as marriages and entailments maymake necessary. Some interesting relics are shown of the dayswhen knights and tournaments, and battles too, were in higheresteem than now; and one cannot but be entertained with thebeautiful drawings and colourings of the divers artists here employedto “gild the refined gold” of British gentility. In thequadrangle of the College are the escutcheons of the Stanleys,marking the site of the ancient Derby House.

I had met, more than once, with Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd,and by his invitation, I took an opportunity to be a spectator atthe Old Bailey one morning, when some flagrant criminals wereto be tried. It is a horrid spectacle, but one would see everything,except the last act at Newgate, on many reasonablegrounds. I shuddered as I entered the street before the prison,where such crowds of brutal human beings have long been wontto congregate around the gallows. Dr. Dodd was not hanged here,but I could think of him only as I entered the doleful little courtroomin which he was tried. I found an inferior magistrate tryingsome petty offenders; but when this was over, the judges, intheir robes and wigs, made their appearance, preceded by thesheriff, dressed in a full court suit, and bearing a drawn sword.The judges were Baron Alderson, and my kind friend, JudgeTalfourd. I was seated, by his order, in a raised box, or pew,at the side of the bench, apparently reserved for invited strangers.Directly one Francis Judd, a youth of seventeen, was put to thebar, to be tried for the murder of his father! There was aboutthe very opening of this trial something stern and awful, whichthe poor prisoner appeared to feel. He stood pale and haggard,picking the sprigs of rue, which, according to custom, were stuckin the spikes before him, and seemed simply sensible of the factthat he was in the clutches of the law. There was a majestyabout the administration of justice here, which is utterly wantingin our courts. The case was opened with short speeches—thewitnesses were examined—the instrument which dealt the deathblow was produced, and some bloody relics were exhibited by thepolicemen who had detected the culprit. The case was clearagainst the lad, but he looked stupidly on. Then came the summingup. His counsel admitted the deed, but claimed that it wasonly manslaughter. The judge told the jury it was for them tosay whether it was murder or not. They conferred awhile—theylooked at the prisoner, and he at them—they gave their verdict—manslaughter.Baron Alderson, who seemed to have hisblack cap just ready to put on, thrust it aside, and lifting his glassto his eye, to survey the poor wretch, said:—“Francis Judd, thejury have found you guilty of manslaughter. For my own sake,and far more for yours, I thank God they have. Had it been averdict of murder, I could not have found fault with it, and myduty would have been more, far more, painful than it is now. Ihave looked in vain for proper signs of emotion in you duringthis trial. I am sorry you have not shown some feelings of horrorat your awful guilt. A father’s slaughter! The weaponwith which you struck the old man’s gray head brought beforeyour eyes, and even the covering of his pillow, stained with theblood! Poor youth, he may have been stern with you, but stillhe was your father. Your punishment will be severe, but it willgive you time to meditate and repent—the sentence of the courtis, that you be transported for life.” The whole trial had justtaken one hour and a half by the watch. Yet all had been fair,and merciful. What a contrast to an American trial! FrancisJudd was then removed, and soon another culprit, bullet-headedand brute featured, was standing in his place. I had seen enough,and, bowing to Judge Talfourd, I took my departure. I passedSt. ’Pulchre’s, whose bell still tolls the knell of the convicts, andwhose solemn clock is their last measure of time.

I went into the crypts of one of the old London Churches, tosurvey its Norman architecture, and there found myself standingamid piles of coffins, of all sizes and descriptions. Open gratingslet in the light from the streets, and disclosed the passers-by, whoseemed unconscious of the fact, that catacombs were so near. Inever was in such an awful place before. The smell was not sobad as I should have supposed would be the case, and chloride oflime was sprinkled liberally about. But here were the coffins ofa family, piled one upon another—a consumptive mother, and herone, two, three, five, or six children, in successive stages of decay.What a story it told—that pile of mortality! Here wasa coffin, so large that Goliath might lie in it. “Eight men nevercarried that coffin,” said the sexton, and on it I read the nameof some beef and pork consuming Londoner, whilom a substantialpillar of the Exchange. The sexton next brought me to acase, which he opened, exhibiting the dried corpse of a female.“This was here,” said he, “in the time of the great fire of London,and was then dried as you see.” Next he came to a sort ofchest, standing upright, and opening like a closet. He opened it,and displayed two mummy-like figures, singularly dried, and undecayed.He moved their horrid heads upon their shoulders, andsaid—“They were twin brothers that were hung, sir, long ago,sir, in George Third’s time.” I mentioned what I had seen to afriend in the Temple. “I am surprised,” said he, “but you haveseen the poor fellows whose fate sealed that of Dr. Dodd. Theyare the two Perreaus hanged for forgery in 1776; of whom LordMansfield said to the King—‘they must be regarded as murderedmen, if your Majesty pardons Dr. Dodd.’”

At another time, I paid my respects to the famous “London-stone,”a Roman relic set in the wall of St. Swithin’s, and familiar toShakspeareans, as the throne of the redoubtable Jack Cade. Ofcourse, I went to see Smithfield, reeking with smells, even whenvoid of cattle and swine, and donkeys, but still venerable for thefires of martyrdom with which it was once illuminated. Hardby is St. Bartholomew’s, whose tower once reflected the light ofthose flames of the Bloody Mary. So too, I visited old St.John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, familiar from the vignette on the“Gentleman’s Magazine,” and suggestive of Cave, and of Johnson’sfirst ventures upon his patronage. I went through andthrough the gate, and surveyed both sides with curious interest.There it has stood since the Crusades, and the dust and cobwebsin its old turrets have been gathering for ages undisturbed. Anold inhabitant told me she once opened a dark stair-way, andtried to go up, but the dry dust nearly choked her. So loungingabout, I ranged through Aldersgate, Charterhouse-Square, andthe Barbican, and, of course, to St. Giles’, Cripplegate. ThereI visited the grave of Milton, once so rudely profaned during therepairs of the Church, and still almost unmarked. Here Cromwellwas married, while as yet “guiltless of his country’s blood,”and here lies buried Foxe, the Martyrologist. Holy BishopAndrewes was once incumbent of St. Giles’, and this is itsfairest memory. In the churchyard is a great curiosity, nothingless than a portion of the old wall of London. Its foundationsare of Roman origin, and what I saw was, doubtless,built by Alfred, to keep off the Danes! I had never seen apiece of masonry so interesting. It is a bastion of massivestructure, yet by no means formidable as the fortifications of acity. And did the soldiers of immortal Alfred really man thiswall; and did London ever need such a bulwark against theDanes?

My Miltonic enthusiasm being now excited, I sought outBunhill fields, and the Old Artillery ground, near which he oncedwelt. Moreover, I fared through Grub-street, in whose garretshave dwelt the rhyming tribes, idealized by Hogarth’s DistressedPoet, from time immemorial. Tom Moore enjoys a laughat our American “Tiber,” formerly “Duck Creek;” but whatshall excuse the fact,—which, by the slightest substitution, I maytell in his own line—

The corporation of London must have made this change aftera very heavy dinner. Grub-street, however, has been alwaysfamous for very light ones; and if Milton did verily inhabithere, in her day, it is not surprising that Mary Powell bewailedher maiden life, and ran away into Oxfordshire. But enough ofhim and her. My reader will be more gratified to learn that oncrossing to Southwark, I had no difficulty in discovering themean and narrow entrance to an old-fashioned court, over whichis still legible, the following inscription—“This is the inne whereSir Jeffry Chaucer and the nine-and-twenty pilgrims lay, in theirjourney to Canterbury, Anno 1383.” It was “the Tabard”then, and it is, by some strange corruption, “the Talbot” now.Here then was that charmed spot, from which went forth thosedevotees of St. Thomas-à-Becket, who talked so merrily, andoften so well; and whose quaint portraiture as it has been preservedby genius, so embalms the peculiarities of thought, ofmanners, and of language, which characterized our English forefathers,in that marvellous age, when Wycliffe in prose, andChaucer in poetry, laid the foundation of our Anglo-SaxonLiterature, and scattered many goodly seeds of a reformation inreligion. I was entranced by the associations of the place, forit is yet an Old English Inn, and looks as if it might still be theidentical hostelry, built as it is around the inn-yard, with galleries,and ancient windows, and odd devices. It is but a halting-placefor wagoners and countrymen; but, in spite of myself, Icould not resist the temptation to enter its humble door, andorder a little something, for Chaucer’s sake, to refresh a wayfarer.

But, to resume my rambles, behold me, by various crooks andturns, visiting Houndsditch and Billingsgate, and St. Ethelburga’s,and St. Helen’s. This St. Helen, by-the-way, is the mother ofConstantine, and a part of London wall she built herself; sothat, from England to “stubborn Jewry,” her architecture is hermonument. I surveyed what is left of Crosby Hall; visited“the old lady in Threadneedle-street,” otherwise called the Bankof England; and, returning, heard the stupendous bells of Bowin their full harmony. That day was the festival of “the Sonsof the Clergy.” I arrived at St. Paul’s in time to see the processionentering the great western door; the Archbishop, theBishop of London, and the Lord Mayor, with other worshipfulcivic dignitaries, making its most conspicuous part. I lingeredwithout the choir, till the services were quite advanced, and againhad an opportunity of enjoying the effect of the distant service,and the rich reverberations of the dome.

London Society.

I have spoken of my daily occupations with little or noallusion to that, which proved to me the chief charm of life inLondon, its delightful society. It would be a poor tribute tomodern civilization to regard the social pleasures of a brilliantcapital, as presenting a secondary topic of remark; and yet sosacred are even the most public of domestic civilities, that whatevergoes on under a private roof, seems necessarily investedwith a character, to which types cannot do justice, without, atthe same time, becoming sacrilegious. The ethics of travel are,even yet, by no means settled; for persons who should beauthorities, have been often betrayed into the setting of an example,which, if all were free to follow it, would permit societyto be infested with hordes of literary pirates, whose flag wouldbe fatal to the freedoms and confidences of civilized intercourse,everywhere. On both sides of the Atlantic such social corsairshave too frequently paraded their spoils. It is not so much withthe fear of their ignominy before mine eyes, as in view of thatGolden Rule which they have flagrantly transgressed, that I shallrestrict myself, in my narratives, to the most general allusions tosocial scenes, and to the mention of such names only as are moreor less publicly known.

One needs only a few competent letters as a passport toEnglish hospitality. After first introductions, the way of thestranger who behaves himself, is as open as in his own land.Hospitality is, in fact, a truly English virtue. Nowhere elsedoes the word imply so much genuine kindness. Nowhere elsedoes it so completely make the stranger at home. Morning,noon, and night, it follows you up with its benevolent perseverance,and seems to exact the minimum of ceremony in return.It does not satisfy itself with politeness; it shows you the soulof friendship; and that, while it allows you all the freedom of apassenger, when you might otherwise feel embarrassed by yourinability to reciprocate such proofs of good will. The truth is,there is real heart in the civilities which are proffered, and wherepoliteness is rooted in sincerity, it is always considerate, inventiveand unfailing. An English gentleman, whatever his circ*mstances,as soon as he knows that you are entitled to his attentions,does all that he can to make you really happy. If hismeans are small he is not ashamed to offer you the best he cangive, and he is pleased with his success, if he feels that you haveaccepted his hospitality in the spirit which prompted it. Contented,self-respecting, hearty Christian love is the root of thematter, in those true specimens of English nature, which areuppermost in my memory, as I write, and “whatsoever thingsare lovely” are but the generous product of that sound and healthfulstock. Happy is he who has made a genuine Englishman hisfriend, for such a friendship implies the fullest confidence, and isa tribute to accredited integrity and worth.

In London, during “the season,” there is an incessant roundnot only of fashionable entertainments, but also of such as areindeed feasts of reason and of soul. You are invited to breakfastat ten or eleven o’clock, and are sure to meet an agreeablecompany, as few as the Graces, or as many as the Muses. Oneafter another the guests drop in, in morning dress, and among themare a number of ladies who sit at table in their bonnets, andgenerally add not a little to the liveliness of the company. Thereis nothing, perhaps, before you besides an egg, with your tea andtoast; but the side-board is loaded with substantials, and youhave a variety of fruits to conclude the repast. The party conductthemselves as if time were plenty, and easy conversationgoes round; your host occasionally drawing you out, on subjectsupon which you are supposed to be informed. After an hour ormore, there is a general breaking up, and Sir Somebody begs youto take a seat in his carriage, which is waiting at the door, or Mr.Blank proposes walking with you to the “University ClubHouse;” or you draw off to keep some other engagement. Tento one you breakfast somewhere else to-morrow, as the consequenceof making yourself as little disagreeable as possibleto-day; and so it goes on to your heart’s content, through theweek.

You are invited to dinner, at any hour from five to eight,sometimes, of course, very unceremoniously, and sometimes infull form. You go at the hour appointed, and discover thatpunctuality has ceased to be fashionable in London. I was oftensurprised to observe the latitude given to guests, and taken bythe cook. At dinners, everything goes on as with us, save thatthere is some form in announcing the guests, and also in placingthem at table. The servant vociferously proclaims “Mr. Green”—ashe flings open the door of the drawing-room, and if for amoment you find yourself abashed by the noise which you findyourself making, it is afterwards very agreeable to know who is who,upon the arrival of others. A reverend personage enters in anecclesiastical coat, with silk apron, or cassock, and you hear himproclaimed as “the Lord Bishop of ——,” or as “the Deanof ——.” A pleasing, but quiet-looking gentleman appears,under the sound of a name familiar as that of one of herMajesty’s Cabinet Ministers. “Lord ——” is announced, andyou behold a somewhat distingué figure, wearing a glitteringdecoration around the neck, or upon the breast. Several literaryor professional personages complete the company; and when theladies are waited upon to the dining-room, you are sure to bepaired with the suitable party, and to find yourself placed withcareful reference to your insignificance or importance, as the casemay be. As to the table, the good old English courses seem tobe giving way to foreign customs, as with us. It is not unusualto sit down to flowers and fruits, and confectionary, and to seenothing else for your dinner, except as the soup and other dishesare brought you in succession, the meats being carved by theservants, and all the old-fashioned notions, as to vegetables andside dishes, very much Frenchified, and revolutionized. Gracebefore meat, and after the removal of the cloth, was alwaysfaithfully performed in the circles which I frequented; but Iwas sorry to hear that this new style of serving the table hassomewhat affected those Christian proprieties, by confounding“the egg and the apples,” and leaving one in doubt as to wherethe dinner proper begins, or where it arrives at a legitimate conclusion.

The conversation at these dinners never seemed to me asanimated as that of breakfast parties. Even the half hour afterthe withdrawal of the ladies, and the disappearance of servants,was less sociable and sprightly. I must say, however, that Ientirely disagree with the profound Mr. Boswell, as regards theintroduction of children at the dessert, which, in my opinion,greatly enlivens such occasions. In they come, rosy and beautiful,fresh from the nursery toilet, and bringing joy and hilarity intheir eyes and faces! The son and heir steals up to his father;a lovely girl is permitted by mamma to come timidly to you. Iwas, indeed, a little surprised at a nobleman’s table, when hisboy, a youth of twelve or fourteen, came to his side, to find thelittle fellow introduced as “Lord C——,” instead of Harry orWillie, as it would have been with us; but, as nothing couldexceed the familiar and affectionate manner in which the titlewas spoken, I saw at once that it was natural enough to others,however unwonted to my Republican ear, to see a mere child soformally announced. After this announcement he was calledsimply “C——,” as if it had been his Christian name, and Iwas pleased with his simple and unaffected manners throughout.English children appear to be “under tutors and governors,” andgenerally behave with becoming deference to elder persons. Iremember not a few of my little friends in England, with realaffection. Blessings, then, I say, on the children, and may itnever be unfashionable for them to be seen amid fruit and flowers,at an American or an English table!

I accepted a few invitations to evening parties, but what tocall them I hardly knew. The superb apartments, in whichthey were given, were crammed with the company; there wereperpetual exits and entrances; cries were constantly heard belowof—“Lady K——’s carriage stops the way;” while theincessant grinding of wheels in the street proclaimed the arrivaland departure of the great and the gay, as they went the roundsof many a similar scene during the same evening. At a splendidresidence in Piccadilly, I was presented on such an occasionto the Duke of Wellington. He wore a plain black suit, with astar on the breast of his coat; and when I first saw him hewas standing quite apart, with a noiseless and even retiringdignity of appearance, to which his white head gave the chiefcharm. I had no idea that I was near him, till turning suddenly,his unmistakeable figure was before me. The rooms wereone blaze of rank and fashion; but for a while I could see noone but the old hero. When I was introduced, I could do littlemore than bow, and accept his polite recognition, for he wasquite deaf, and I had observed that conversation was evidentlydistasteful to him.

On another evening, just after the Queen’s State Ball, I wasamused to meet, in a similar scene, the dresses and costumeswhich had lately figured at the Palace. They were of historicalcharacter, and hence peculiarly interesting. Here was HenriettaMaria, the Queen of Charles First, and there was a lady ofthe Court of Charles the Second. The stiff court fashions ofthe Georges were also represented, and one could easily imaginehimself among Chesterfields and Rochesters. But, thank God,the British Peerage, in our day, is dignified by better men, andamid this brilliant masquerading, I first met with young LordNelson, so justly beloved for his active interest in all goodworks, and found him most agreeable in conversation, which,even in such an assembly, was entirely in keeping with hischaracter. Here, too, I saw and conversed with the Duke ofNewcastle, since an important member of the British Ministry,but then, and always, as I feel sure from his unaffected tone ofremark, not less than from his general reputation, an earnestChristian, anxious to be a faithful steward, and to do what hecan for the extension of the kingdom of Christ among all mankind.

The general interest felt in this country in the author of Ion,may excuse my particular mention of a party at Lady Talfourd’s,in which the literary and legal professions were more fully represented.Here one saw the Barons of Westminster-Hall in theirproper persons, without the burthen of robes and wigs: whilemoving about the rooms, one encountered a poet or popularnovelist, and not least, the amiable host himself. He made kindinquiries concerning several of my distinguished countrymen,and touching upon matters of law, paid a very high complimentto the ability and legal skill with which the trial of ProfessorWebster had been managed in Boston. Judge Talfourd appearedthen in the prime of life, and inspired me with respect byhis modest but dignified personal demeanour. He has since dieda death, on the bench, more impressive than that of heroes onthe field.

With regard to the tone of society in general, I think everystranger must be struck with its elevation, whether intellectuallyor morally considered. An English gentleman is generally highlyeducated. Society consists of cultivated persons, male andfemale, whose accomplishments are not displayed, but exist as amatter of course, and as essential to one’s part in the duties andcivilities of life. No one ventures to feel better informed thanhis neighbour, and hence there is a general deference to othermen’s opinions, and a reserve in expressing one’s own, which ishighly significant of extreme civilization and refinement. Sucha state of society, however, has its drawbacks. Character oftenbecomes neutralized, and genius itself dulled and flattened, whereto distinguish one’s self is felt to be an impropriety, and wherethe manifestation of decided thought or feeling would be eccentric,and even rude. Hence I observed a sort of uniformity inmanner and expression, which is sometimes depressing; andwhen upon some private occasion, I discovered that the smooth,quiet personage whom I had seen only in the dull propriety inwhich the pressure of company had held him, like a single stonein an arch, was a man of feeling, of taste, of varied information,and accurate learning, I said to myself—‘what a lamentablewaste is here!’ This man who should have been enrichingthe world with his stores of erudition and of reflection, hasnever conceived of himself as having anything to impart, or bywhich his fellow-man should profit. His accomplishments are,like his fortune and respectability, his mere personal qualificationsfor a position in society, in which he is contented merely tomove, without shining, or dispensing anything more than thegenial warmth of good humour and benevolence. There arethousands of such men in England, living and dying in the mostexquisite relish of social pleasures, and deriving daily satisfactionfrom their own mental resources, but contributing nothingto the increase of the world’s intellectual wealth, and neverdreaming of their attainments as talents which they are bound toemploy. They live among educated men—knowledge is a drugin their market: of course they know this or that, but so doeseverybody else, and what have they to confer? It would be animpertinence for them (so they seem to feel) to teach or to dictatean opinion. Dr. Johnson has left a remark, in the recordsof his biographer, upon this tendency of refinement to abaseindividual merit, and I am sure a dogmatist like himself wouldnot now be supported in English society. So very odd and unaccountablea phenomenon, even were his manners less forbidding,would be intolerable in intelligent circles, to say nothing ofthose of splendour and fashion. England exhibits just now thesmooth and polished surface of a social condition which has nomarked inequalities. Even rank fails to create those chasms andelevations which were once so striking and formidable. Gentlemenare very nearly alike, whatever their antecedents. All arewell-informed, all have travelled, all are well-bred, and alikefamiliar with the world. The Universities, too, have done not alittle to assimilate characters. Minds have been fashioned in onemould, and opinions shaped by one pattern. Even language andexpression, and personal carriage are reduced to a common formula.I closely watched the pronunciation of thorough-bredmen, and often drew them into classical quotations, to observetheir delicacy in prosody, and their manner of pronouncing theLatin. I prefer very much the German or Italian theories ofclassical orthoepy; but for mere longs and shorts, there is nosuch adept as an English tongue. They carry it into the vernacular,however, against all analogy, and often startle an Americanby what seems elaborate pedantry and affectation. You are confoundedby an allusion to Longfellow’s Hyperion—accent on thepenultimate; or you are puzzled by the inquiry whether any doctrinaldifferences exist between the English and AmericanChurches—second syllable made studiously long! Yet the manwould be thought an intolerable ass who should display hisknowledge of purely French or Teutonic derivatives, by a similardeference to etymology: and no one thinks of carrying outthis principle in all words of like analogy. Usage, however,with all its caprices, settles every dispute; and we Americanshave no resource but conformity, unless we prefer to appearprovincial. English usage must be the law of the Englishtongue, and the fashions of the court and capital are the standardof usage.

Among the authors of England, I had desired to see especiallyMr. Samuel Rogers, who is now the last survivor of a brilliantliterary epoch, and whose long familiarity with the historical personagesof a past generation, would of itself be enough to makehim a man of note, and a patriarch in the republic of letters.Though now above ninety years of age, he still renders his eleganthabitation an attractive resort, and I was indebted to himfor attentions which were the more valuable, as he was, at thattime, suffering from an accident, and hence peculiarly entitled todeny himself entirely to strangers. His house, in St. James’s-street,has been often described, and its beautiful opening on theGreen Park is familiar from engravings. Here every Englishmanof literary note, during the last half century, has been atsome time a guest, and if its walls could but Boswellize the witwhich they have heard around the table of its hospitable master,no collection of Memorabilia with which the world is acquainted,could at all be compared with it. Here I met the aged poet, atbreakfast; Sir Charles and Lady Lyell completing the party.He talked of the past as one to whom the present was less areality, and it seemed strange to hear him speak of Mrs. Piozzi,as if he had been one of the old circle at Thrale’s. When a boy,he rang Dr. Johnson’s bell, in Bolt Court, in a fit of ambition tosee the literary colossus of the time, but his heart failed him atthe sticking point, and he ran away before the door was opened.Possibly the old sage himself responded to the call, and as he retiredin a fit of indignation, moralizing on the growing impertinenceof the age, how little did he imagine that the interruptionwas a signal tribute to his genius, from one who, in the middle ofthe nineteenth century, should be himself an object of venerationas the Nestor of Literature!

Oxford—Martyrs—Boat-race.

My reader will be ready to forget London for a time; andperhaps also to accompany me on an excursion. I went toOxford, for a few days, to keep some appointments, and found itfar more delightful than before, as the men were all up, andeverything looking bright and lively. The trees in the gardensand meadows were in fine leaf; and many shrubs in full blossom,so that what Nature has done for Oxford began to be as apparentas the enchantments it derives from Art. In the gardensof Exeter College I observed a Virginia creeper, luxuriantlycovering the walls, and had a good opportunity of contrastingits effect with that of the ivy, for which, in our country, it is sogenerally substituted. It is certainly more cheerful, but lacksthe dignity of its sullen rival. There is a fig-tree trained againstthe college walls, said to be that favourite of one of its formerworthies, 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 asimilar sort. Every tree and shrub seems to have a history,and “green memories” are here something more than a figure ofspeech.

A Sunday at Oxford affords one, at least, the opportunity forconstant attendance upon Divine Service. I went, at 7 o’clock,to St. Mary’s, where the Holy Eucharist was celebrated, andwhere I thankfully received the Sacrament, with a considerablenumber of the parishioners, and members of the University.After breakfast, at Jesus College, I returned to St. Mary’s, tohear the Bampton Lecturer—Mr. Wilson, of St John’s. Thelecture was delivered, of course, before the University, theUndergraduates filling the gallery, and the Dons the nave below.The lecturer, preceded by the bedels, entered in company withthe Vice-Chancellor, to whom he bowed, as he turned to thepulpit stairs. Mounting to his place, and covering his face withhis 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 ArchbishopLaud, etc.” But let no one imagine that this was aninstance of spontaneous reverence for the Anglican Cyprian, forthe lecture which followed might have moved the very bones ofthe martyr in his grave, so utterly did it conflict with the doctrinesof the Church. It was evidently received with greatdissatisfaction. It was decidedly clever, as to form and structure;but savoured of Bunsenism quite too much for the taste ofa genuine Churchman. It was read in a dull, dry manner, morebefitting the doctrine than the occasion. But, I must own thatI greatly admire this way of University preaching; and thefreedom of a sermon, thus delivered, by itself, apart from theservice, and as a distinct thing, having its own time and object.Subsequently, the Church having been emptied, and filled againby a different congregation, the parochial service and sermonwent on in all respects, as usual. Then, in the afternoon, therewas a sermon before the University, preceded by the bidding-prayers,as in the morning; save that the preacher made specialmention of Oriel College, of which he was a member, commemoratingits benefactors, “such as were King Edward theSecond, etc.” Then followed a powerful sermon, which evidentlyproduced 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 vigorousrebuke, he protested against the slavish dependence to which theState seemed resolved to reduce the Church. The Gorham caseseemed to be in the preacher’s mind, and perhaps the flagrantelevation to the Episcopate of Dr. Hampden.

The parochial service again followed; after which I dined inthe Hall of Oriel, where I met the preacher among his oldcollegians, and greatly enjoyed the company in general. Afterdinner, we went to service in the College Chapel; and after thisthere were still services in several places, though I did not attendthem. It would have been hard to have named an hour in thewhole day when services were not going on somewhere in thisCity of Holy Places.

In the Common-room of Oriel, I met with a very agreeableperson, to whom I owed not a little of subsequent pleasure, andto whom I became warmly attached. At his instance, duringthe week, I substituted the more recherché pleasure of a visit toNuneham Courtenay, for the more ordinary co*ckney pilgrimageto Blenheim. I went in his company, and in his own carriage,and had no reason to regret my adoption of his advice. Thegrounds of Nuneham are proverbial for the beauty of genuineEnglish landscape, and a range in this noble park affords continualprospects of cultivated fields, and snug hamlets, and thesilvery windings of the Isis through the meads. The gardensand shrubbery are interspersed with urns and tablets and inscriptions,in the Shenstone style, and among them I observed acenotaph of the poet Mason. The taste of the more artificialcharms of Nuneham is somewhat antiquated, and smacks of theHanoverian age, now happily departing: but it does one good tosee these things, as illustrating the period to which they belong.I was all the time thinking of Jemmy Thomson, as I rambledamong the elms and yews of Nuneham; and especially when Icame to a clump of those spreading beeches, with smooth columnartrunks, on which his swains were wont to endite theiramatory verses. Glimpses of Oxford, which one catches nowand then, add a special charm to this noble demesne, and theThames glitters here and there in the view to enliven a broadsurvey of rural scenery, which can hardly be said to lack anythingappropriate to its English character. The Church ofNuneham is the grand mistake. It looks like a fane erected tothe goddess of the wood, by some ancient Grecian, and provokessomething less pleasing than a smile, when one learns that it isthe successor of a genuine old English church, which wasjudged a blemish to the classical charms of the house and gardens.Of the rectory, although it is of modern design, I canspeak with more satisfaction. It is a charming residence, suchas an American parson seldom inhabits, but which one loves tosee others enjoying, and adorning with every domestic grace. Herewe lunched, substantially, concluding our repast with gooseberry-tartand cream, such as no one ever tastes except in England;thus gaining a conception of the rich glebe and pasturage ofNuneham, which a more sentimental tourist might fail to carryaway from a mere feast of the eye.

We visited the parish-school, and I was particularly struckwith the neatness and order of the little academy, and not lesswith the exactness of the instruction. The children of thepeasantry were the scholars, and, instead of jackets, the boysnearly all wore the little plaited shirt of coarse brown linen, sofamiliar to us from pictures, but so unlike anything worn byAmerican children, however humble in station. They werevery closely examined by their teachers, and their answers weregenerally correct. America was pointed out on the map, andwhen I was introduced to the little urchins as an American, itwas amusing to see their surprise. They seemed to pity me forliving so very far away! Then they were catechized. It didme good to hear the familiar words, so often uttered by littlevoices around the chancel rails of my own parish-church, nowrepeated, in the same way, by these little English Christians.Some of the subsidiary questions amused me, and not less theanswers, especially those under the phrase—“to honour andobey the Queen, and all that are put in authority under her.”Then came the clause—“to order myself lowly and reverentlyto all my betters.” “And who are your betters?” asked themaster: to which, “Lady Waldegrave,” and other names of thegentle inhabitants of Nuneham Courtenay, were most loyallyresponded. In practical matters of a more strictly religiouscharacter, the questions and replies were highly gratifying, andoften caused the tears to spring in my eyes, in view of the manifoldblessings which such instructions cannot fail to convey toa nation, and to the souls of all who receive them. Alas! forthe schools of our country, where the children come togetherunder the blight of divers creeds, or of utter unbelief, and wherein solemn deference to the spirit of sect and party, religion isdaily less and less a tolerated element in the training of immortalsouls!

We drove pleasantly back to Oxford, passing Sanford, andCowley, and Iffley, and stopping at the Church of Littlemore,which has been lately much improved, and in which we foundservice 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, whichwere now becoming quite familiar.

For several days I lingered in the bewitching society of theUniversity, sharing its hospitalities, and daily revelling in theinspection of its curiosities and antiquities. With what a spelldoes the enjoyment of those mornings and evenings revive in myfancy as I write. A breakfast-party at Merton, the cool breezeof the morn coming in at the windows, fragrant from themeadows; an extemporary lunch in the crypts of St. John’s,tapping the college beer, and inspecting the ancient masonry ofits Gothic vaults, once the substructions of a monastery; a dinnerin the lordly hall of Magdalen, with dessert and conversationin the Common-room; an evening party at Oriel, among wits,and poets, and divines! Who would not allow that such aresubstantial pleasures, realizing “those Attic nights, and refectionsof the gods,” of which our fancy is full, in the earlier enthusiasmof classical pursuits! And then the discourse was soanimating and refreshing. No hackney talk of dull common-placesentiment, or of small-beer literature; but a roving, haphazard,review of grave and gay together; a deep and earnestdiscussion of religious themes; a sprightly dash into politics;quick questions and replies about America, and republics, anddemocracies; illustrative quotations of a fresh and spontaneouscharacter, often garnished with some ingenious misapplication,or original supply of words, for the sake of sport; a sharp debateabout the civil wars; a dissection of Macaulay; a cleverstory of old Parr; and reviving anecdotes of Oxford and oldtimes; with a glow of kindly and religious feeling in all, withoutcant or ostentation; these were the filling up of successive daysand nights in those halls and chambers of dear, dear Oxford,which I cannot remember without a grateful thrill, and which Ican only put aside from covetous regret, by calm faith that “it ismore blessed to give than receive.” After all, it is in every waymore worthy of a Christian, to toil in the wilderness, than torecline in the bowers, and to enter into the labours of by-gonegenerations. Yes—dear as are the delights of a life in academicshades, and unparalleled as are the advantages of mind and bodywith which Oxford ennobles her children, I would prefer aDivinity chair at Nashotah, to a fellowship at Magdalen, or to therichest benefice which the University can bestow. It is hazardousto enjoy too much; and how great the responsibility in sucha world as this, of receiving anything for which we may fail tomake a return to God and men, and which must go to make ourstewardship more fearful, against the day of account!

We have gifts differing. Far be it from me to insinuate thatthe life of an Oxford Fellow is ordinarily an idle or useless one.Many of them are as laborious and as useful men as ever wroteor thought, and great are the blessings which they diffuse aroundthem. Too often have their generous hospitalities been mistakenfor habitual self-indulgences; and even guests who have tastedtheir wine without a murmur, have sometimes gone away tocomplain of convivialities, of which they were themselves theexacting proponents. But when the question is not as to them,but as to ourselves, we are surely at liberty to prefer our humblerand less favoured lot! Shall we repine because we are Americans,and because we shall never live to see an Oxford in ourown dear country? God forbid! I love to think that it istheirs to enjoy, and mine only to remember; and that if toil andself-denial are the lot of an American clergyman, he is, nevertheless,fulfilling a mission more immediately like that of his gloriousMaster, and less fraught with temptations to make one’s heaventhis 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 survivingpast. For sixty years had Dr. Routh been president ofMagdalen, and still his faculties were strong, and actively engagedin his work. I saw him in his 97th year; and it seemedas if I had gone back a century, or was talking with a reverenddivine, of the olden time, who had stepped out of a picture-frame.He sat in his library, in gown and bands, wearing awig, and altogether impressing me as the most venerable figure Ihad ever beheld. Nothing could exceed his cordiality andcourtesy, and, though I feared to prolong my visit, his earnestnessin conversation more than once repressed my endeavour torise. He remembered our colonial clergy, and related thewhole story of Bishop Seabury’s visit, and of his application tothe 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 seewonders,” and he added devout expressions of gratitude to God,and many inquiries concerning our Church. I had carried anintroduction to him from the Rev. Dr. Jarvis, and at the sametime, announced the death of that lamented scholar and divine,whose funeral I had attended a few days before I sailed fromAmerica. He spoke of him with affection and regret, and alsoreferred to his great regard for Bishop Hobart. I could not sayfarewell to such a patriarch, in the meaningless forms of ordinaryintercourse, and, as I rose to depart, I craved his blessing, andhumbly knelt to receive it. He placed his venerable hand uponmy head, and said—“God Almighty bless you, for Jesus Christ’ssake,” and so I took my departure, with my heart full, and withtears in my eyes.

Going, quite alone, to St. John’s College, I indulged myself indelightful meditations as I lounged in its gardens, and watchedthe young gownsmen shooting arrows at a target, or enjoyingthemselves about the walks. I went into the quadrangle, thatmunificent monument of Laud’s affection for his beloved college.I passed on to the chapel. The door was not locked, and I enteredit alone. Beneath the altar lies the Archbishop’s mutilatedcorpse; and there, too, lies the stainless Juxon, whom he lovedso well, and who served the last moments of Charles the Firstwith the holy offices of the Church. I gave myself up to thepowerful impressions of the spot, and spent a few minutes in verysolemn meditations. In the library of the college I afterwardssaw the pastoral crook of the martyred Primate; the little staffwhich supported his tottering steps on the scaffold, and the capwhich covered his venerable head only a few minutes before itfell from the block.

In the street, before Balliol College, the martyrs Latimer andRidley were burned. Perhaps the precise spot is not known;but among the paving-stones, there is fixed in the earth a littlecross, sunk to a level with the street, and simply designating thesupposed site of the stake. It was one of my pleasures, duringthis visit to Oxford, to meet with Bishop Otey, then just arrivedfrom America; and I had the pleasure of conducting that excellentmissionary prelate to this sacred spot of suffering for Christ.I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which he uncovered hishead, as he stood there, and blessed God for the testimony of HisMartyrs; and I am sure he will forgive this allusion to the scene,for it greatly impressed me at the time, and even now seems verystriking. “We shall this day light such a candle, by God’sgrace, as shall never be put out”—said old Latimer to Ridley, in1555, and in spite of fire and fa*ggot, and Armada, and Gunpowderplot, and Father Petrie, and Father Newman, there stoodin 1851, the Bishop of Tennessee, blessing God for the light ofthat candle in the wilds of America! A superb memorial of thethree Oxford Martyrs stands not far from the place where theysuffered—and should have stood just here, where it would havebeen more conspicuous and appropriate—but I felt that such anincident far more powerfully attested the prophecy. Howstrange it seemed, in St. Mary’s, on the preceding Sunday, toreflect that from those very aisles, not longer since than threesuch lives as Dr. Routh’s might measure, the venerable Primateof all England had been ruthlessly dragged forth, by the handsof brethren in the priesthood, and by the same hands burnt todeath, hard by, with the mockery of thanksgiving to God, andin the name of zeal for His glory! Truly, Rome may thankherself for the abhorrence with which the universal Anglo-Saxonrace (among whom a few emasculate exceptions are not to bereckoned,) regard alike her blandishments and her cruelties.

How rapidly flew the hours in which I lounged in the Bodleianand other libraries, or went from college to college, to inspectit* pictures and antiquities! Here, a manuscript of Cædmon,which the Anglo-Saxon professor kindly interpreted to meas I inspected it; and there, a Chaucer, and “the Game ofChesse,” from the primitive press of Caxton, exposed to my admiringgaze the small beginnings of the wonderful Literature ofthe English tongue. In the Ashmolean Museum I beheld, withstill greater reverence, the jewel once worn by the immortal Alfred,to which I felt that Victoria’s Koh-i-noor was but a twinklingand lack-lustre pendant. In the curious old muniment-room ofMerton, I was scarcely less pleased to behold the venerablecharters and patents, engrossed in ancient characters, and sealedwith quaint historic seals, by which their lands and hereditamentsare still retained, and from which the whole Collegiate Systemof Oxford is derived. The chapel of this charming college isworthy of the noble foundation to which it belongs; and, as myamiable cicerone was an accomplished architectural artist and antiquarian,I was not allowed to inspect its details superficially.His own hand had, very recently, restored the elaborate decorationsof the vaulting, in beautiful colours and designs; and heappeared to appreciate the high privilege which he had enjoyed,of mingling his own handiwork, in this manner, with that of ancientand inventive genius. His mediæval tastes had perhapsbecome a hobby with him; I observed, with pain, some morbidsymptoms of unreality in his excessive devotion to the mereæsthetics of religion; but did not then suppose, as since hasproved the sad result, that he was destined to add another tothose children of the captivity, who, by the rivers of Babylon,have so estranged themselves from Sion, that their tongue seemsindeed to have been smitten with the palsy of untruth, and theirright hand to have forgotten its cunning.

I saw, one pleasant evening, the first boat-race of the season.Going into Christ Church Meadows, in company with severalgownsmen, we soon joined a crowd of under-graduates, andothers who were seeking the banks of the Isis. The rival boatswere still far up the stream, but here we found their flags displayedupon a staff, one above the other, in the order of theirrespective merit, at the last rowing match. The flag of Wadhamwaved triumphant, and the brilliant colours of Balliol, ChristChurch, Exeter, etc., fluttered scarce less proudly underneath.What an animated scene those walks and banks exhibited, as thenumbers thickened, and the flaunting robes of the young academicsbegan to be seen in dingy contrast with the gayer silks andstreamers of the fair! Even town, as well as gown, had sentforth its representatives, and you would have said some mightyissue was about to be decided, had you heard their interchangeof breathless query and reply. A distant gun announced thatthe boats had started, and crowds began to gather about a bridge,in the neighbouring fields, where it was certain they would soonbe seen, in all the speed and spirit of the contest. Crossing thelittle river in a punt, and yielding to the enthusiasm which nowfilled the hearts and faces of all spectators, away I flew towardsthe bridge, and had scarcely gained it when the boats appeared—Wadhamstill ahead, but hotly pressed by Balliol, which in turnwas closely followed by the crews of divers other colleges, allpulling for dear life, while their friends, on either bank, ran attheir side, shouting the most inspiriting outcries! The boats wereof the sharpest and narrowest possible build, with out-riggedthole-pins for the oars. The rowers, in proper boat-dress, orrather undress, (close-fitting flannel shirt and drawers,) were lashingthe water with inimitable strokes, and “putting their back”into their sport, as if every man was indeed determined to do hisduty. “Now, Wadham!” “Now, Balliol!” “Well pulled,Christ Church!” with deafening hurrahs, and occasional peals oflaughter, made the welkin ring again. I found myself runningand shouting with the merriest of them. Several boats were buta few feet apart, and stroke after stroke not one gained uponanother, perceptibly. Where there was the least gain, it wasastonishing to see the pluck with which both winner and loserseemed to start afresh; while redoubled cries of “Now for it,Merton,” “Well done, Corpus,” and even “Go it, again”—whichI had supposed an Americanism—were vociferated from the banks.All at once—“a bump!” and the defeated boat fell aside, whilethe victors pressed on amid roars of applause. The chief interest,however, was, of course, concentrated about “Wadham,” theleader, now evidently gained upon by “Balliol.” It was indeedmost exciting to watch the half-inch losses which the formerwas experiencing at every stroke! The goal was near; but theplucky Balliol crew was not to be distanced. A stroke or twoof fresh animation and energy sends their bow an arm’s lengthforward. “Hurrah, Balliol!” “once more”—“a bump!”“Hurrah-ah-ah!” and a general cheer from all lungs, with handswaving and caps tossing, and everything betokening the wildestexcitement of spirits, closed the contest; while amid the uproarthe string of flags came down from the tall staff, and soon wentup again, with several transpositions of the showy colours—Wadham’slittle streamer now fluttering paulo-post; but victoriousBalliol flaunting proudly over all. It was growing dark; and itwas surprising how speedily the crowd dispersed, and how soonall that frenzy of excitement had vanished like the bubbles onthe river.

Iffley—A Drive Across the Country.

A visit to Magdalen School, and a subsequent dinner with thescholars, (who are the singers in the chapel), was another of mypleasures, from which I derived fresh convictions of the superiortraining of English school-boys, alike in physical, mental, andmoral discipline. Everything was done with method and precision.The boys looked fresh and rosy, and perfectly happy, andyet their master was as evidently strict with them, as he was alsokind. Some of them will win scholarships in the college, andfrom that, fellowships; and so will make their way to the highestposts of honour and usefulness, for which they will be thoroughlyfurnished in all respects. There is a new Educational College atRadley, several miles from Oxford, of which the projector andfounder is the well-known Mr. Sewell, of Exeter—by whosekind invitation I went out, one day, to visit it. I was kindlyaccompanied by a distinguished Fellow of Oriel, who with severalyoung men, whom he had enlisted for the purpose, gave me a rowup the Thames to Iffley. We took our boat, in Christ Churchmeadows, and so went over the scene of the race which I haveendeavoured to describe. I was unfortunately made steersman,and more than once found myself running the bow of the boatinto the bushes, while I stared around me, at every beast andbird, and at every wall, and every bush, and at every green thing,with a greener look no doubt, to my unlucky companions, thananything in the scene besides. It was the Thames—or the Isisif you please—it was the river of the Oxonians; and I lostmyself, in contemplations, on the most trifling suggestion of novelty,or of age, which surrounding objects presented. This littlevoyage was realizing to me the dreams of many years; and whenwe landed near the picturesque old mill, with which so manydrawings and engravings have made every one acquainted, I feltthat anything but my pilotage was to be credited with our escapefrom shipwreck. My conscience accuses me of having paid attentionto everything except my immediate duty.

Iffley Church, as every Ecclesiologist will tell you, is a studyof itself. Five windows in this Church are said to present thecharacteristics of five periods of pointed architecture, extendingthrough as many centuries; while the details of enrichment anddesign afford innumerable specimens of inventive art, embracingsomewhat of the rude and elemental Saxon, with the riper andmore varied beauties of Norman embellishment. The church issupposed to have been built in the earlier part of the twelfthcentury; it affords many interesting examples of subsequentalteration and repair; and has lately received much attention, inthe way of retouching and restoring its olden beauties. In thechurchyard is the remnant of its ancient cross, and also a yewtree scarcely less aged, but much decayed. The font, whichstands near the door, is of large dimensions and of very curiousconstruction, generally supposed to be Norman, and of the samedate with the Church. Although the beautiful interior retainssome useless appendages of mediæval rites no longer practised, itis a most fitting and becoming Anglo-Catholic church, and one inevery way satisfactory, as it stands, to the purposes of the EnglishLiturgy. Without and within, it was, at the time I visited it, themost interesting object of its kind which I had ever seen.

On resuming our boat, which had been lifted above the dam bymeans of a lock, we rowed about a mile further up the river, andthen, taking to the fields, went across them to Radley. Here Imet Mr. Sewell, and went with him to see Radley Church, apicturesque little temple, and then over his college, chapel andgrounds. This college is a very interesting experiment, and aimsto combine, on a plan somewhat novel, several important elementsof academic and religious life. The taste which has presided overits establishment is very apparent, and not less the benevolenceand piety of its founder. I was surprised to find it, although soentirely new, presenting everywhere the appearance of age andcompleteness. The architecture of the chapel especially, thoughplain in comparison with that of almost all older structures of asimilar kind, is yet very effective; and the service, as performedin it, by the aid of the pupils, was exceedingly inspiring andrefreshing. After a visit which I was kindly led to protractbeyond my intent, I returned to Oxford on foot, in the companyof Mr. Sewell. Our path lay through Bagley-Wood, and nevershall I forget the charming conversational powers of my guide, orthe pleasure of wandering, with such a companion, through thetangled and briery copse, and intervening glades of that academicforest. At last we struck the Abingdon road, and enteredOxford by the bridge under the Tower of Magdalen.

Amid so many recollections of a graver character, there is oneconnected with Oxford which never revives without exciting asmile. I went one day into the House of Convocation, where theVice-Chancellor was conferring degrees, in a business way, veryfew, besides those immediately interested, being present. Amongthe candidates was one very portly individual, who, either fromhis advancing years, or because of some new preferment, had feltit his duty to incur the expense of being made, in course, a Doctorof Divinity. It was evidently many years since the proposingDoctor 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 theperformance required him to do this, or that, it was apparent thatthe worthy divine was not a little confused, while it was still morepainfully clear, that his confusion afforded anything but feelingsof regret to the junior portion of the academical body which surroundedhim. When required to kneel before a very youthfullooking proctor, an audible titter went the rounds, as his burlyfigure sank to the floor, amid the balloons of silk with which hewas invested, to say nothing of the gaudy colours which he nowwore, for the first time, with ill-suppressed satisfaction. But theOath of Abjuration was to be administered, and this proved themost critical part of the proceedings: for, oath as it was, it wasmade almost a farcical formality, by the manner in which it wastaken. As this oath is a little antiquated, at any rate, and seemshardly demanded by the present relations between a powerfulsovereign and the mere shadow of a pontiff who now apes Hildebrand,on the Seven Hills, it would seem good taste to go throughwith 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 thatVictoria 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 doneher heart good to have heard the utterance of his loyalty on thisoccasion; for with most earnest emphasis did he swear, that “hedid from his heart detest and abjure, as impious and heretical,that damnable doctrine and position, that princes excommunicatedby the Pope, may be deposed or murthered by their subjects,”&c., &c. So, no doubt, thought and felt all present; but as theDoctor seemed to consider himself, for the moment, a sort ofAbdiel, and spoke with an epic dignity somewhat unusual to theConvocation house, it was irresistibly ludicrous to behold thesmothered merriment of the youthful Oxonians, who shook theirsides while the Doctor fulmined, and who seemed to think bothhim and the Pope a little too old for Young England and the nineteenthcentury.

My excursion to Nuneham Courtenay proved but the prefaceto a much more important episode, in company with the sameagreeable friend who was my guide on that occasion, and whonow drew me into a change of plans and purposes, to which Iowed much subsequent pleasure. We were at breakfast together,in the rooms of a common friend at Merton, when the schemewas perfected for a drive through Oxfordshire, in his private carriage,and for several subsequent excursions, of which the centreshould be his residence, near Cheltenham. A friend, then keepinghis terms for a Master’s degree, at New Inn Hall, gave us hiscompany for a few hours, on the way; and a delightful companionhe proved, not only for his essential qualities as such, butbecause he happened to have been a tourist in America, and wasable to imagine, in some degree, how an American must regardthe contrast continually furnished him by a tour in England.Our road first took us over a corner of Berkshire, through a pleasingvariety of hills and vales, sighting Cumnor on the left, andpassing Wytham on the other hand, and so again enteringOxfordshire, by a bridge over the Thames, which here makes abend among the little mountains. Our first stage was completewhen we arrived at Eynsham, where we drew up at the villageinn, and contrived to pass an hour very pleasantly, although, fromthe appearance of the place, one would say, at first, it was fit onlyto sleep in. How quiet a village can be, even in populous andbusy England, and so hard by Oxford! There stood the slendermarket-cross that had survived the storms of centuries, and themore violent batterings of Puritan iconoclasts. Broken andbruised as it was, it seemed good for centuries more, amid sopeaceful a community as now surrounds its venerable tutelage.Whether the exemplary character of the present inhabitants beowing at all to the parish stocks, which stand near the cross, inmost Hudibrastic grouping with surrounding objects, I cannotdetermine; but there they are, and I could fancy a stout braceof Puritans, of Butler’s sort, undergoing its salutary penance; oreven one of Hogarth’s unlucky wights experiencing the rudesympathies of men and boys in the passiveness of its bondage.How speaking a picture of rigorous parochial justice those queerold stocks, under lee of the market-house, afforded to my imagination!How many vagrant feet and ankles have there been relievedfrom the curse of Cain! how many a vagabond they have furnishedwith persuasives to rest and meditation! Really—one could notbe properly pensive, in sight of such a commentary on humanguilt and misery: for the parish stocks are but of distant kin togallows and guillotine, and hardly more than little brothers ofwhipping-post and pillory; their ignominy being rather that ofridicule than of scorn, and their severity being the very least ofall the penalties of law. I did not know that such instruments ofwholesome discipline were still in existence under the Englishsceptre, and hence my amusem*nt and surprise to behold them,and to find so many memories of their history reviving at thesight; among which were prominent those classical verses of theAnti-Jacobin—

Verily a queer old place is Eynsham, from the days of KingEthelred, the Unready, who had a villa here, and those of KingStephen, who gave it the very equivocal privilege of a market“on the Lord’s day,” under the patronage of its Abbot and itsmonks. On inquiring for the remains of the Abbey, we wereinformed that some new relics of its ancient chapel and cemeteryhad just been discovered in a neighbouring field. We had thereforethe pleasure of seeing, sure enough, the encaustic tiles of itssanctuary, just laid bare, after ages of concealment in the earth.They were of various patterns and devices, St. George and theDragon forming, apparently, a conspicuous part of the design.But the old gardener who showed us these discoveries, went onto tell us that in digging further, he had just laid bare some frameswhich he should like to have us see, and so leading us to anotherpart of the ground, he showed us the frames, indeed, whichproved to be nothing less than the skeletons of the old monks ofEynsham, protruding from their graves. Often had these same“frames” sung in the choir, and walked over those same tiles wehad just been viewing. How old they might be we could not say;but they were the bones of old Christians, and most probably ofChristian priests, and there they had been laid in hope of theResurrection, so that it seemed to me almost profane to bestaring 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. Therehad evidently been a fine rood-loft, but every vestige of it wasgone, save that there was the solid stair-way in the wall, andthere again the door-way, still open, through which the ancientGospeller used to make his appearance in the loft, to read theHoly Evangel for the day. ‘Poor fellow,’ thought I, ‘whendid he climb those steps, and issue from that door, for the lasttime? Was he indeed a Gospeller, grateful for a chance thereafterto read the Word of God, in the vulgar tongue; or was hesome Marian Monk, who had raked the coals about Latimer andRidley, in Oxford, and who trembled, while he sung his LatinMissal, lest the news of Elizabeth’s accession should prove tootrue?’ How strange it would seem to an American priest, to findhimself officiating, Sunday after Sunday, in a church whose verywalls are a monument, not only of the Reformation, but of“Hereford Use,” and “Salisbury Use,” or other usages now foreversuperseded, but which had a long existence, and have lefttheir mark, alike in stone and timber, and in the vernacularLiturgy of the Church of England!

We left the little village, and pursued our journey very pleasantlytill we met the Oxford coach coming down, in full drive,but stopping as we hailed it, in behalf of our friend of New InnHall. He was obliged to return, for sleeping a single night outof Oxford, during his term, would disqualify him for his degrees.So we reluctantly saw him climb to a lofty seat, among a motleycrew of passengers, and whirl away, as we waved him our adieu.We continued our journey to Witney, where again we paused, tosurvey its ancient cruciform Church—which would make a finecathedral in America—and to take our luncheon with the goodvicar, who received us very hospitably. I was surprised at thegreatness of the Church, and the beauty of many of its details, butI believe it was once an Abbey Church, and its architecturalmerits are such as to have furnished not a few favourite examplesto ecclesiological publications. The village itself is a decayedone, having formerly been of consequence as the seat of a famousblanket manufacture, which made “Witney” a household wordwith housewives, especially in cold weather. Our drive nextbrought us to Minster-Lovel, the scene of the “Old EnglishBaron;” and next to a “deserted village,” which looked as littlelike 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 speedilybecome as dead as Pompeii. It was now “for sale,” but no oneseemed 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 thatwhen 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, asproof of American feelings towards the mother country.

The country we were now traversing had once been scoured bythe troopers of the fiery Rupert, and my friend, whom I will callMr. V——, finding my enthusiasm rising at the mention of hisclarion and jack-boots, began to play upon me by suggesting thatsome mounds which we saw in the distance were the remains ofone of his encampments. This was a very fine idea, but, resolvedto hunt up the local traditions with respect to it, I asked a passingboor if he could tell me anything about the barrows. Oh, for apage of “the Antiquary,” to give my reader some conception ofthe effect produced by the reply! “Prætorian here—Prætorianthere,” said old Edie Ochiltree, “I mind the bigging o’t;” andwith equal bathos responded my boor—“Them there be some oldbrick-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 strongpersuasion that we were a pair of madmen, just broke loose fromthe deserted settlement aforesaid, of which, I should have mentioned,the neighbouring peasantry seemed to entertain a verywholesome fear.

Commend me to Burford, our next halting-place, as a villageof most exemplary independence of this nineteenth century.Some old houses, which struck me as I entered it, bore an inscriptionby which I learned that a good burgess built them for acharitable use in the time of Queen Elizabeth. I should think nohouse had been built in Burford since that date, so entirely unlikea modern town is its chief street, with all its lanes and by-ways.Here, now, was England—the England we read of! None ofyour Manchesters and Liverpools, but an innocent, sleepy old villagethat was of vast repute when those snobbish places wereunknown. Here met a Church Synod, A. D., 685, to settle thequestion about the British Easter usages, and here worthy PeterHeylin was born in 1600. The little river Windrush runs throughthe place, and on its banks stands the ancient Church of St. Johnthe Baptist, to which we repaired forthwith. Here we found anunexpected 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 entertainingand instructive study. Some old inscriptions remained, entreatingthe passer-by to pray for the departed soul of such and suchbenefactors. The interior enchanted me. Here was a “Silvesteraisle,” in which, for generation after generation, certainworthies of that name have been buried under costly monuments,most curious to behold. But what pleased me most was one ofthose huge monuments, like an ancient state-bed, with canopyand posts complete, on which lay, side by side, a worthy knightand his dame, persons of a famous repute under Queen Elizabeth,and the grand-parents of the stainless Falkland. “Sir LauncelotTanefield” was the name of the knight, and if I mistake not, hewas, at one time, Lord Chief Justice of England, and Burfordwas his native place. From this charming old Church I couldhardly tear myself away. I suspect few travellers have visited it,and I congratulated myself on having met with such a friend asV——, to draw me out of the beaten track, and show me somethingof England, that is England still.

Continuing our journey, we passed an old Manor house, picturesquelyseated in a valley, at which I could have lookedcontentedly for an hour, so entirely did it answer to my ideas ofmany a manorial residence, which had pleased my boyish fancy,in novels and romances. Next we passed Barrington Park, theseat of Lord Dynevor, and soon after, another beautiful park, theseat of Lord Sherborne. And now, our journey lay over one ofthe Cotswold hills, which reminded me somewhat of a drive overPokono, in Pennsylvania, so lonely and even wild did it seem, incomparison with the country we had just been traversing. Wecame to North Leach, where again we alighted to survey a Church,perched on a rising ground, above the houses of the village, whichare mostly very old, with curious gables, and built along narrowlanes, in very primitive style. This Church had suffered morefrom accidental causes, than that at Burford, but was scarcelyless interesting to me. Its curious gurgoyles particularly arrestedmy attention, and within, some good brasses, and other monuments.It has a fine porch, and its general architecture seems ofa period somewhat between the decorated and the perpendicular.We were now in Gloucestershire, and I shall never forget that itwas in passing over a hill near Stow-on-the-Wold, that I firstheard the nightingale. “There,” said V——, “there is Philomela!not mourning, but wooing; ’tis her love-note”—and I listenedwith a sense of enchantment. Perhaps I was in the mood to bedelighted, for certainly I had never spent a day in such charmingtravel before, and I was conscious of a pleasure, which I cannotdescribe, 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 browsof hillocks, or half buried in the vales; or farm-houses and cottagesnot less beautifully situated; or the seats of country squiresand other gentry, embosomed amid trees, or lifting their chimniesabove a few lordly elms. But the charm of all was yet reservedfor 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 havegazed all my life without weariness or satiety. ‘Stop—stop!my dear V——, where are you driving?’ said I, beseeching himto rein up, and let me look for a few minutes on as perfect a pictureof English scenery as ever Gainsborough portrayed, all spreadbefore us, without a blemish; its lights and shadows just as anartist would have them; and yet vivid with nature, beyond allthat an artist could create. The time, remember, was evening, inone of its sweetest effects of sky and atmosphere, cool and calm;the lighter landscape deeply green; the shadows brown and dyinginto night; the water shining here like burnished steel, and therelying in shade, as darkly liquid as a dark eye in female beauty.The view was a narrow dell, just below the road, in which stoodan old manor house, ivied to its chimney tops, and encircled by amoat. Smoke of the most delicate blue was floating thinly fromits 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 sombreyew tree, sat a group of farm-servants, shearing the largest sheepof the flock, the wool flaking off upon the green grass, like drivensnow. While we gazed on this living picture, with mute pleasure,the soft notes of a bird added sweet sounds to the enchantmentof 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 unsuggestiveobjects, fairly gave up at this point, and owned it was a sight tomake one in love with life. Even now I have lying before me aletter in which he refers to this view of “the sheep-shearing,” andconcludes by the pathetic announcement that the horse to whichwe were indebted for that day’s progress, has since been sold to acoach proprietor, and now runs leader from Evesham to Stratford.“Little thinks he,” continues the letter, “as the lash of the cruelJehu touches his flank, of the classic ground he travels; littlerecks he of Harry of Winchester, Simon de Montfort, or ourfriend Rupert—for Rupert had a desperate struggle thereabouts—oryet of Queen Bess, as he enters Bedford, in Warwickshire, oreven of the immortal Will, as he halts at Stratford.”

So winding down our road, amid firs and oaks, and enjoyingnew 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 Cotswoldhills gives dignity, and which abounds with minor charms onevery side. I was soon lodged at my friend V——’s, after dueintroduction to his family, including a visit to the nursery, wheresome lovely children were allowed to salute me with their innocentkisses, and thus to make me sure of a welcome to theirfather’s house.

Worcester—Malvern—Gloucester.

My first excursion with my friend V——, was to Worcesterand Malvern. In Worcester of course the great attraction is thecathedral, 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 responseof the singers, we had an opportunity of worship which Itrust was not only enjoyed, but reverently appropriated in devotion.Service ended, the verger, with his mace, issued from thedoors of the choir, preceding the singers in their surplices, andthe residentiary canons—far too feeble a force, however, for acathedral, in which “the spirit of a living creature” should alwaysbe “within the wheels,” giving motion and reality to theroutine of daily prayers, and fasts, and festivals. There is no excusefor the present condition of the English cathedrals. Theyrequire the most thorough reforms to make them felt as blessings.At Worcester I began to feel that such was the case, and thepainful conviction increased upon me, throughout my subsequenttour.

We now surveyed the venerable temple, and experienced theusual annoyance of the verger’s expositions. Here was the monumentof 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 ofthis see, and of Wolstan, another bishop who laid the foundationof the existing cathedral, in the eleventh century. The choir isimpressive, but the eastern window struck me as too predominantlygreen, and altogether as somewhat kaleidoscopic. Amongthe more modern monuments, a small bas-relief, by Bacon, struckme as very meritorious. A widow with her three childrengathered about her, and bending to the storm of sorrow, was thefitting memorial of a departed husband and father. Or was itthat the group reminded me of the treasures of my own far-offhome, and of the scene which an Atlantic storm might so easilycreate around the fireside that would be trimmed for my return!At any rate, it touched me, and reminded me that I was in ahouse of prayer, where ejacul*tions might be wafted from theheart, and answered three thousand miles away. Other associationsmade me pause before the tomb of Bishop Hough, thatbrave old president of Magdalen, to whose resistance of the PopishJames I have referred before. The sculpture is by Roubilliac,but is free from the usual affectations of that artist; and thescene in Magdalen College is represented on the base of themonument. We lingered about the exterior for some time, andwere particularly struck with the flying buttresses of the choir,as the most pleasing portion of the venerable structure. After avisit to one of the prebendal residences in the cloisters, we loiteredabout the town for an hour, and then took the top of the stage-coachfor Malvern.

Several coaches were starting at the same time for diversepoints of the compass, and here we had before us something ofthe moribund system of travel of the days of George the Fourth.The flaming red liveries of the whip and the guard, with the notesof the bugle as we whirled over the Severn, gave one a sense ofthe poetry of locomotion which suggested some foolish sighsover the achievements of invention, and the age of the rail.However, it was something to be thankful for, that there was asyet no tunnel under Malvern hills. Crack went the whip—andaway sprung the horses, and very soon the tower of the cathedralwas all we could see of Worcester. We passed the Teme, anddrove through Powick and Mather. The fields were fragrantwith the blossoms of the bean; the open road-side was garnishedwith flowering furze; and the cottages stood forth, neat andcomfortable, 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 asyour American cousins; not that we have not glorious scenery athome, 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 roadstretching along the face of the hills, and soon entered the smartand showy town of Great Malvern itself, which overhangs thecharming vale of Gloucester, and affords a view of the windingSevern, and many beautiful villages, churches, and seats. Thetowers of several abbeys, with those of the cathedrals of Gloucesterand Worcester, adorn the prospect, and the distant ridge of theCotswolds completes the picture. The Abbey Church of GreatMalvern proved, of itself, sufficient to reward our visit to theplace, but my friend V——, found at one of the hotels, a partyof his friends enjoying a brief sojourn in this delightful retreat,for the benefit of its air and springs—for “Ma’vern,” as everybodyknows, is a fashionable watering-place. Good reason haveI to remember the spot where I first met the amiable W——s,to whose subsequent attentions I owed so much pleasure on mynorthern tour; and I trust they too may be willing to rememberour holiday at Malvern. I was particularly gratified with theadventurous spirit of the ladies, who insisted on doing us thehonours of the place, considering us as their guests. Under theirkindly guidance we climbed the hills, and visited the Holy Well,and the well of St. Ann’s, and finally reached the summit of theMalverns, where we gained a magnificent sight into Herefordshire,and could see to the best advantage the nearer beauties of thevale of the Severn. We walked along the ridge, pausing to restawhile, and to enjoy the scenery, near the Worcestershire beacon,and so passing down on the Hereford side, and returning througha gap called the Wych, we parted with our fair guides at MalvernWells, and taking a post-chaise started on a delightful driveacross the valley.

It was a beautiful afternoon, and our route took us through agreat variety of country scenes. Now we skirted the base of theMalverns; and now reached the picturesque Church of LittleMalvern; and now descended, amid overhanging trees, into thevalley of the Severn, partly darkened by the stretching shadowof the hills, and partly glittering with reflections of the descendingsun. My friend V——, who seemed to have friends everywhere,was so well acquainted with the neighbouring gentry, thathe was quite at liberty to enliven our drive, by leaving the highroad and crossing the park of this or that beautiful residencewhich happened to lie in our way. Thus we gained fine viewsof several elegant mansions and their surrounding grounds. Atthe lodge of one of these parks, as we entered, I was struck witha curious tree, called the peaco*ck yew, from the showy pavonazettoof its foliage: but the oddities of nature, after all, are far less attractivethan her ordinary beauties. At last we re-crossed theSevern, and entered Tewksbury. It has been justly remarkedthat 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 contemporarywalls and roofs, instead of being an insulated lump ofMediævalism, in a mass of nineteenth century brick and plaster.I was wholly unprepared for so splendid a specimen of cathedralarchitecture as this abbey proved to be; and when I entered thesacred place, I was quite overwhelmed with its effect. It is ofgreat length, and the aisles are separated from the nave by aseries of immense Saxon pillars, which convey an idea of strengthand sombre dignity wholly different from the impressions producedby the light and springing shafts of the perpendicular anddecorated Gothic. Its great window is a solitary example ofsuch 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 thisstupendous interior, the rich shadows and faint illuminationsproduced by the close of day, greatly heightened the impressivenessof the architecture and the awful associations of this ancientsanctuary and cemetery. It was indeed sublime to reflect thatunder the shade of these walls was waged the last battle ofthe House of Lancaster, and that the noble ashes of its heroeswere everywhere under foot, as we paced its aisles. We surveyedone after another the tombs of Clarence, of Somerset, of Wenlock,and De Clifford, moralizing on the Providence which reduced theNorman blood of England just in the time and manner best suitedto give the Commons room to rise; and which laid these proudpatricians in the dust, that out of the dust might spring the freedomand the power which now invest the world with Anglo-Saxonglory. God only is wise—God only great! Issuing from asmall door in one of the aisles of the abbey, we entered a greenand peaceful meadow, to which the deepening twilight gave agrave and rich effect, heightened not a little by the shadows ofthe abbey towers, and by the croaking of rooks and daws amongthe buttresses and pinnacles. Here was the fatal field where thered-rose was smothered forever in red blood. “Lance to lance,and horse to horse”—here its fated champions struck the lastblow for Margaret and her son. Here the young prince himselfasserted, face to face with usurping York, the rights which hisfathers had not less usurped from the fallen Plantagenet; andhere, for his boldness and for his fatal royalty, he fell beneaththe rapier, the last blood of Lancastrian majesty spouting fromhis many wounds. Can it be, so green a field was ever so crimson?It was impossible to conjure up the scenes of a period solong gone by; and yet not less impossible to stand on such afield, without some communion with the spirit of departed ages.

With a worthy clergyman of Tewksbury, we finally quenchedour enthusiasm in a cup of tea, and buried the swelling thoughtsof Margaret’s wrongs, under the juicy morsels of a mutton-chop.As we sat at our repast, I observed that our reverend entertainerhad “a river at his garden’s-end.” “Yes,” was his reply—“theAvon!” I had supposed it the Severn, of course; but when hethus reminded us of its noble confluent, after our historical communionwith Shakspeare in the battle-field, all my enthusiasmreturned again, and, in spite of tea and mutton-chop, I felt athrill to find myself so near the river of the immortal Swan ofStratford. Here, indeed, it finds its fitting union with the largerwaters, and runs with Severn to the sea. But now, it seemed tome fragrant and vocal with a spirit caught from the banks ofStratford churchyard, and its murmurs continually repeated thelines—

During my visit at Cheltenham, we contrived to spend a Sundayin the country—and such a Sunday as should realize myideas of an English Sunday among a rural population. Early inthe morning we went to Bredon, and there surveyed its parishChurch, just opened for Divine service, and exhibiting a neatinterior, which, but for my growing familiarity with so manysuperior 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 handof the restorer, and had been much improved and beautified inthe spirit of what I suppose will be called the Victorian Restoration.Leaving this Church, we started over the field forKemerton. It was a beautiful morning—what I am wont tocall a George-Herbert-Sunday; and as I went through the fragrantmeads and harvest lands, or turned into a shady lane, amid thehawthorn hedges, I felt those quiet influences stealing over mewhich are the sweetest preparation for enjoyment in the houseof God. By and by we descried above the foliage the towerof Kemerton Church; and hard by was the parsonage, where thatestimable dignitary, the venerable Archdeacon Thorp, gave us amost cordial welcome. Before service, my friend V—— calledme aside into the churchyard, and pointed to a little grave beautifullydecorated with fresh flowers. I understood at once thatit was the grave of a beloved child he had lately lost, and whosetransient but lovely life had shed a charm around these scenesof its sweet and holy habitation, and endeared them to the heartsof all who knew him. For a moment I entered into the sorrowsof a bereaved parent, and wept with one that wept.

The service in Kemerton Church is performed in some respectsvery simply, in others, one might say, elaborately, for most of itis sung. There is no organ, and the singers are plain farmersand village-lads, yet they have places in the chancel, and wearsurplices, and sing with very agreeable effect. When MorningService was over, I proposed a quiet ramble through the fields,with my friend, for my heart was quite full of the solemnitiesof which the Holy Communion formed a part. As we wereabout to leave, we observed the bell-ringers taking their standunder the tower, which opened into the Church, with great reverenceand propriety in their behaviour. The Archdeacon informedus that they were all worthy parishioners, who understoodthe nature of the humblest office in the house of God, andwho rung the bells with a sense of serving the temple, and soundingforth the glory of the Lord. When we had gone about aquarter of a mile from the Church, we heard the bells ringing,accordingly, and sweet music did they discourse. They seemedindeed full of Sabbath blessing; full of peace and good will tomen. “This, dear V——,” said I, “This is enchanting, andmore, ’tis heavenly! Shall I ever forget this peaceful Sundaynoon in England?” As I looked around, all seemed, as the Gospelwould make the whole earth appear, if only sinful men wouldlet it; all blossomed as the rose. A church but a few rods inone direction—and another less than a mile before us—andmany others near us, all around! All churches too—not somany tokens of religious strife and schism, but each to its ownlittle nest of villagers, the centre of one faith, of one baptism,and the worship of one Lord. Ah—here is the true glory ofEngland! Mile after mile, in some counties, seems to be markedby church after church; each beautiful in its kind, the monumentof ancestral piety among its rural worshippers, and thetutelary of their rude forefathers’ graves, that cluster beneath itseaves. One wonders what a dissenter is made of, when he beholdsthese rural churches, and their happy influence over arustic 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. Myramble was completed before the Evening Service began, andcertainly never saw I Sunday so liveried before, to celebrate theholy 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; andthe 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. Thencame the Canticle, and the rest of the prayers. This arrangementfollows the original idea of Catechising at the Evening Prayer, andhas many advantages. I was privileged to be the preacher, andI spake with a sincere appreciation of the duty, as a privilegeindeed. It appeared strange to me, when service was over, toreflect that Kemerton Church is many hundred years old, and yetthat, 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. AlexanderWatson, now of Marychurch, Devon, so well known by hismany publications in defence of Church doctrine, and in aid ofpractical religion. It was in his company that I visited Gloucester,and added to my stock of travelling experiences anotherday of memorable enjoyment. After a pleasant breakfast party,at his hospitable table, we started in a private carriage, for asomewhat circuitous drive, to that “godly city;” passing Leckhampton,under lee of the tallest peaks of the Cotswolds, and soby Birdlip Wood, and Cooper’s Hill. Far away, on the otherside of the valley, a prominent headland was pointed out to me,as May’s Hill. It is a not less conspicuous landmark from theSevern, and once served to save from shipwreck a mariner,named May, just returning from the sea; in consequence ofwhich, he planted its summit with a clump of trees, and madeprovision for keeping them there perpetually. At a little distanceI descried a hamlet, and a Church, which my friend pointed outto me as Chozen, at the same time informing me that it was speltChurchdown. This is but one of many amusing specimens of thewide variance which often exists, between the spelling and pronouncingof English proper names. At Shurdington we paused to visitit* pretty Church, surrounded by a shady field, and found it undergoingentire restoration at the expense of the curate. Boththe restoration, and the munificence of its promoter, were therather interesting, as being no uncommon things. Such proofsof life and godliness are everywhere encountered, at the presentday, in England. I found myself more and more delighted, aswe drove on, with the scenery, and often with the road itself, sobeautifully hedged and shaded, and affording so many points ofinterest to an observing eye. Here was the tower of BadgworthChurch, and here was Brockworth. Churches everywhere—andeverywhere, upon the face of field and farm, the tokens of thatindustry and thrift, of that order and decency, with which theChurch alone can ennoble the aspect of civilization. The samecharm which I had observed in the features of society, and whichI had traced to harmony in religion, appeared to me, here andelsewhere, transferred in a great degree to the very soil, to itsculture, and to its embellishment. Nature itself seemed to haveborrowed a grace, and a glory, from the holy Faith, of whichsuch monuments were visible at every turn, in spires and towerspeering above the green trees, and gleaming amid the wide-spreadbounties of God, whose adorable name they seemed to display asthe giver of all. As we slowly ascended the slope of Cooper’sHill, walking behind our carriage, and surveying the scene toright and left, with reflections such as these, we heard a note fromthe deep foliage of Birdlip Wood, which arrested us, and broughtto my mind many scraps of poetry, such as Logan’s, or Wordsworth’s—

It was the cuckoo! I had never heard it before, except inwooden imitation from the perch of a German clock. I shall notsoon forget its effects, upon the still beauty of the hour and thescene, as I heard it for the first time, in nature’s own sweetmodulations 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 interestingmonuments and architectural objects, and had been freshlyrestored. The schools were lately built by a munificent lady ofrank, and the parsonage was apparently new; the whole furnishinganother 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 cathedraltower 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 ofhim, and where, perhaps, he ought to have been more thought ofby the Church, and so saved from the extravagances of his subsequentcareer. We went also to see St. Michael’s and St. Mary-de-Lode,(fresh restorations again) and finally visited the sceneof Bishop Hooper’s fiery martyrdom. The death of Hooper dignifiesthe otherwise inglorious memory of a prelate who did nota little to spoil his own work as a reformer, by tampering withGeneva. And it is curious how much of puritanism he seems tohave bequeathed to his see; Glos’ter having been the proverbialhaunt of the “godlie” in Cromwell’s time, and having bred thezealous evangelist, to whom I have already alluded as originallyilluminating with his enthusiasm, the cold interior of St. Mary-de-Crypt.Strange, that after beginning here as a deacon of theChurch, he should now lie buried under a puritan pulpit in NewEngland, having completely revolutionized the Calvinism of ourown country, and entailed upon it the Convulsionism of which itis now expiring. Had the zeal of Whitfield been according to hisknowledge, and had the dormant Hanoverian age, which producedhim, by the law of reaction, only known how to use him, he mighthave left behind him some less equivocal fruits of missionary enterprise.

Before speaking of the cathedral, I must allude to our visit toHighnam, on the other side of the Severn. Here we found aChurch, lately erected entire, at a cost of £30,000, by a singleindividual—nave, chancel, tower, and spire complete, and allaffording a model of ecclesiastical art, worthy of standing in theneighbourhood of some of its noblest originals. To see a VictorianChurch, and one thus erected by private munificence, comparingso favourably with some of the most admired specimens ofthe middle ages, not only in general construction, but in the mostelaborate details, was indeed refreshing to the eye and to theheart. The chancel and altar were especially noteworthy,adorned as they were with the most delicate sculpture, in Caenstone, 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 admirationof the whole. Two memorial windows were dedicated, eachto the remembrance of a departed child, and between them stood,in a niche, the marble bust of their departed mother. Blessedreligion of Jesus, which makes the dead in Christ so dear, andwhich so beautifies their memory: which so sanctifies the ties ofearth, and so triumphs over death, in its power to render themeternal! Here was a family nest, indeed, hung upon the altar ofthe Lord of Hosts! My eyes glistened as I read, beneath the lovelyeffigy of the Christian wife and mother, an inscription to “AnnaMaria Isabella G—— P——; in fulfilment of whose pious purposethis Church was erected to the glory of God, by her husband.”Then followed the texts—including an allusion to thechildren, as well as their mother—“And they shall be mine inthat day when I make up my jewels:”—“The Lord grant untothem that they may find mercy of the Lord in that day.” I canscarcely remember anything of the kind which ever more powerfullytouched the springs of Christian sympathy within me; thosesacred springs of the heart, which can never issue in their fullestflow, till they have been fed by the hallowed love of the husbandand the father.

Returning to the town, I devoted nearly the whole of the remainderof the afternoon to the cathedral; accompanied most ofthe time, by the friend to whom I had owed the pleasures of theday, and to whom I at last bade a reluctant farewell. I had beengreatly benefited, not only by his intelligent conversation on indifferenttopics, but by his earnestness in those particularly, whichChristian priests should discuss most freely in each other’s company.He left me to the kind attention of a worthy dignitaryof the cathedral, the Rev. Sir John S——, in the enjoyment ofwhose polite hospitalities I spent the evening of this charmingday.

The exterior of the cathedral, as seen from every point ofvantage, in neighbouring gardens, or from the solemn seclusion ofthe surrounding precincts, was not less striking, in its way, thanthat of any similar structure I had yet beheld; but the internalsurvey was more impressive, by far, than that of any other, exceptWestminster Abbey. It is one of the largest of its class ofbuildings, and in its different portions, presents an epitome ofpointed art, in its several stages of progress through a period offive hundred years. Here is the Anglo-Norman nave, withmassive 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 instanceof groining, in their square and solid ribs, entirely unadorned;while the cloisters, in the style of the fifteenth century, seem tohave exhausted the skill of the architect, in the exceeding richnessof their tracery, and pendant vaulting. The very defectsof the building seem to have contributed to its graces, for whenI had admired the aerial effect of a slender arch, springingathwart the transepts and attaching itself to the roof, as if itssolid 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 triedthe whispering-gallery, but had no time to amuse myself withsuch small experiments, amid so many incentives to a higher employmentof my opportunities. I am sorry that the marvellousbeauty of the Lady-Chapel still demands the hand of a restorer.The “godly” Cromwellians have left the traces of their hammerson all its carved work, and it is sadly despoiled. Would thatthe same skill and taste which reared the Church at Highnammight be permitted to make this holy place worthy of an Englishcathedral! That the English people still suffer these mother-churchesof the nation to remain as too many of them are, is oneof their greatest national disgraces. When they are restored asthey might be, and managed as they should be, then, and not tillthen, must they command the unmingled admiration and delightof every intelligent visitor.

After a thorough inspection of the cathedral, in the broadlight 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 intothe nave, he said to me, as I paused to observe the solemnperspective—“Whose bones, do you suppose, are now beneathyour feet?” I stepped aside, as he added, “You are standing onthe grave of Bishop Warburton.” So much wit and genius inthe dust! Yet in what nobler sepulchre could earth to earth bedelivered, to await the resurrection? Hard by, are the monumentsof two of the world’s benefactors; that of Jenner, whopoured water upon the flame of the noisome pestilence, and thatof Raikes, who first “gathered the children” into Sunday Schools.There is another modern monument, deserving of mention, asone of that purely Anglican type, which tends to divinify domesticlove, and the holy relations of the wife and mother. A femalefigure, with a babe, appear in the radiant marble, invitedby angels into Paradise, from the waves of the sea. It is fromthe pure chisel of Flaxman, and commemorates one who died inthe perils of childbirth, while encompassed by the perils of thegreat deep.

Less pleasing, yet even more impressive, was the quaint effigy,in old carved oak, of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamedCurthose. You touch it and it moves, and you involuntarilystart. It is, of course, very light, and lies upon the tomb so looselythat it is easily disturbed; and then, it seems as if the oldNorman were about to rise and confront you, as an audaciousintruder upon his repose. But how shall I describe the effect ofthe marble effigy of poor King Edward the Second, as I saw it,in the solemn twilight, and in the unbroken silence of the desertedcathedral? There was that outstretched figure, and that sadoutline of a face composed in death, and hands clasped in resignation;but its dread appearance was as if imploring God, againstthe cruel murderers who had done him such awful violence. Ithought of Gray’s sketchy but descriptive lyric, and muttered tomyself:—

The neighbouring peasant woke at the outcry of the torturedsufferer, and crossed himself; for he suspected what the devilwas doing in the castle. Here now lies the victim of that horridregicide, but there is something in the sculpture of his visage,that reminds the visitor, that “God shall bring to light the hiddenthings of darkness.” This powerful impression lingered with me,as I paced the cloisters, and revived, when at a late hour of thenight I was awakened by the chimes of the cathedral clockcharming the darkness with a solemn tune, and lifting thethoughts of the listener to communion with his God.

The Court of St. James.

Who knows not by heart the face of the Royal Palace ofSt. James? That such a house should have been a Palace in thedays of Wolsey, seems strange enough to one who has seen atOxford what even a college was, in Wolsey’s conception: butthat it should still be a Palace, when Pall Mall and St. James’s-streetare full of club-houses, that would scarcely take any partof it for a kitchen, with the condition of setting it on their ownground—this seems stranger still. Yet a Palace may it longcontinue; for not until the government of England shall be thatof some revolutionary parvenu, will it cease to be a speakingsymbol of the genuine dignity of the British Crown! TheQueen of England can afford to hold her Court in an old, worn-outmansion, and to let the opulence of her subjects erect themost striking contrast at its side. Build as they may—St. Jamesis not cast into the shade: it is historical and royal. There arefew illustrations to be found more à propos to the superiority ofa mental over a physical grandeur.

In returning to London from my Glo’stershire excursion, oneof my purposes was to be presented at Court; a gratificationwhich I had been advised to allow myself, and which the AmericanMinister had politely proffered me. An experienced courtiersupplied me with the necessary hints as to dress, and the etiquetteof the Court; and accordingly, on a levee day, I was duly presented,as preparatory to going to Court, on the more splendidoccasion of a drawing-room. The presentation of gentlemenalways takes place at a levee, and no one of the male sex canattend a drawing-room who has not been previously presented.Ladies do not attend levees at all, and consequently a levee is avery dull affair, when compared with the brilliant spectaclewhich they make of a drawing-room, not less by their beauty,than by the glitter of their diamonds, and the flaunting of theirtrains.

As a clergyman, I was freed from any great burden of expensein the matter of costume, canonicals being the proper dress forone of the priestly function, and my ordinary suit of robes beingin very good condition. A pair of enormous shoe-buckles wasalmost the only additional item to be thought of; and an Oxfordcap was pronounced by my kind adviser, Sir John S——, quiteas proper as the absurd little apology for a three-cornered hat,(tucked under the arm,) which is considered the more exquisitefinish to the clerical exterior, on such occasions. My next concernwas to furnish myself with a Brougham, (or chariotee,) andwith a driver wearing a sort of livery; hackney-coaches not beingsufferable within the precincts of the Palace. A couple ofcards, of unusual magnitude, one of which bore the name of mypresenter, 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 alightingat the doors of the Palace.

How different the scene in Hogarth’s day, when they went toCourt in sedan-chairs, and when the “Rake, arrested for debt,”(as portrayed in his dramatic colours,) was the very ideal of acourtier. Yet there stands the old Palace, precisely as it figuresin that graphic picture, and here are the successors of the characterswho 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, amidcrowds of gaping spectators, kept at respectful distance by theheels of the horses of the mounted guards, and by the vigorousexertions of the police. My further reflections were not of avery self-sufficient sort; for who could be very much elated atfinding himself cutting so little of a figure, and, in fact, makingan absolute blemish, in such a pageant? Yet, I had no occasionto be ashamed, as I felt that my hired brougham was asmuch the thing for my republican self-respect, as the gildedcoaches and gorgeous liveries before me and behind me were fortitled lords and ladies. In fact, if I could not be vain, I was notwithout a little Johnsonian pride, in the entire consistency andreality of my turn-out. Hired court-dresses, and swords, andbuckles, have been not unheard-of things for an appearance atCourt. I was at least habited in no borrowed plumes, and wasgoing 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 hiredbrougham, it was countenanced by so many of its own kind, thatit* humble appearance occasioned no surprise even among thestaring crowd, it being quite usual for professional gentlemen touse such an equipage. But the carriages of the nobility, ingeneral, are truly superb: that is to say—if they are not ridiculous.They look, for all the world, (with their gilding, emblazoningsand trappings, their powdered coachmen, and footmen holdingon behind, three in a row, with staves and co*cked hats,) likethe carriage of Cinderella in the nursery-book. And indeed, ona drawing-room day, the fair creatures within, in their ostrich-plumes,and lace, and diamonds, as revealed to vulgar eyesthrough the glass-windows, often seem to realize the fabulousbeauty of Cinderella herself with their dazzling complexions anddelicate airs. Not alone the vulgar, however, but many of thepersonal friends of the fair parties are viewing them, all the time,from the neighbouring balconies and shop-fronts. The levee attractsless of a crowd, and yet there was crowd enough, and verystupid was my approach to Pall-Mall. There—you wait tillcalled in your turn, and meanwhile have time to look at themounted trumpeters, pursuivants, and guards, in liveries of scarletand gold, drawn up before the gates. At last, setting forward,you enter the court-yard, with as much of a flourish as yourwhip can make for you, and alight at the door of the Palace,making your way, first along a corridor, and then slowly up agrand stair-case, to the suite of apartments opened for the occasion.As you enter these apartments, you throw your card intoa basket, and pass on amid files of yeomen of the guard, wearingthe Tudor livery, and holding their halberds, and looking like oldstatues of wood or stone, or rather like the wax figures in amuseum. When the time comes for you to enter the royal presence,you are met at the door of the throne-room by a gentlemanin waiting, to whom you deliver your second card, that youmay be properly announced. This card is handed to anotherofficial, and you are ushered through a file of ladies of honourtowards her Majesty, who stands beneath a canopy, with PrinceAlbert at her side, the centre of the brilliant circle, and (as I amglad to say) making a truly royal appearance. Here your nameis called out, and that of the party who presents you, and then—anAmerican simply advances and bows to the Queen, repeats thesalaam to her princely consort, and so retires backwards, notturning his heel upon the royal presence. A British subject goesthrough the more formidable ceremony of falling on one knee,and kissing the royal hand. Now it so happened that herMajesty—owing no doubt to my attire, which was the same asthat 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 herhand, and I was beginning to balance between the republicanismof my knee, and the courtesy of my heart, when the anxious officialpromptly 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 Ifinished my democratic homage with as much self-possession aswas in my power, repeated my obeisance to Prince Albert, andbowed myself backward through the gorgeously apparelled circleof 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, thanI had supposed him to appear. A lady would here interposewith the question as to her Majesty’s dress, and I must allow that,from my own observation, I could not speak with certainty onthat important subject, but the Times next morning asserted it tohave been—“a train of white watered silk, chenée with gold, andgreen and silver, trimmed with tulle and white satin ribands, andornamented with diamonds; and a petticoat of white satin andtulle, with satin ribands to correspond; and a head-dress ofemeralds and diamonds.” The duch*ess of Sutherland and LadyJocelyn were conspicuous among the ladies in attendance, andPrince Albert was attended by Lord George Lennox, with hisgroom and his equerry. It would have been a very magnificentspectacle, had not the small and stifled appearance of the throne-roomgiven a cramped look to the royal party, and detracted fromthe majesty which always requires “ample room and verge” forits 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 ceremonyof a presentation, merely depositing my card in the basket, fromwhich, I suppose, the Times reports of attendants at the Palace aremade up. In approaching St. James, everything was as before,save that the crowd was greater, and the carriages conveyingladies of rank more superb. On alighting, and entering the corridor,I was enchanted by the display of splendour and beautywhich filled it, and in which there was everything but order tomake it all that one could imagine of a courtly pageant. Brilliantindeed; but such a jam! The crowd was a perfumed anddazzling one; but not less a crowd than one in the streets. Herewere peers and peeresses of every rank, and the daughters ofpeers, and new brides, and many a young beauty coming for thefirst time, and trembling with excitement, yet bewildered withdelight. There is no denying the striking beauty of many ofthese high-born damsels; their complexions were lily-and-rose,and health was as generally characteristic of their appearance asbeauty. I observed the trepidation of some of them, as theirfinery was subjected to the pressure of the patrician throng, andas they gathered their trains over the ivory arm, evidently thinkinganxiously of the critical moment when they must allow it toflaunt gracefully, and catch it up not less so, in the presence oftheir Sovereign. No doubt all had been practised for weeksbeforehand, till each was an adept, in the eyes of waiting-maidsand mammas. Mingled with these gay creatures were gravejudges in their wigs, and fierce-looking officers in their uniforms,and wild-looking Highland chieftains, bare-legged, but plaidedand plumed, and making a showy figure in their clan-tartans.One of the yeomen-of-the-guard remarked, in my hearing, as Ipassed, that this was the greatest attendance at Court he hadever known. The Crystal Palace had filled the town, and therewere many foreigners. I saw some Persian and other Orientalcostumes in the throng; and, on the whole, the poorest figureswere those in the ordinary gentleman’s court suit, with theco*cked-hat, and hair-powder of the last century. This style ofdress seemed to be avoided as far as possible, military uniformspredominating. In mounting the great stair-case, if our progresswas slow, there was everything to relieve its tediousness. Theascending rows of glittering uniforms and fine female figures werea study in themselves. I observed the lovely Lady ——, whomI had met a few hours before, at a breakfast, and was amusedwith the entire change of her appearance which those few hourshad made. Lord Lyttleton, who had been at the same breakfastparty, now appeared in a military suit. Quite a number of theclergy were interspersed among the fair and brave; and as apolite young officer offered me precedence, and cautioned me tobeware of his spurs, he whispered—“Cedant arma togæ is aboutall the Latin I retain.” Gaining a landing on the stair-case, wewere next amused by observing the great personages descendingby a corresponding stair-case, from the royal presence. A servantcalled for the carriage of each party, as they successivelyappeared, and so one always knew who was coming. At lastcame a great man whom all knew without any help, as he tottereddown, dressed in his Field-Marshal’s uniform, of which the gaydecorations strangely contrasted with his white head and bowedshoulders. As I watched the old hero descending, step by step,I could not but think of the lower descent he must soon makeinto 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 wivesand daughters, came following each other in splendid succession,till at last I gained the ante-chamber, and had something else tolook at. Here I could move more freely, and renew my impressionsof the Palace. Several persons whom I had met elsewherewere so polite as to join me, and to enter into conversation, whichvery pleasantly beguiled the time. The exits and entrances werein themselves enough to amuse and fill up one’s time. Almostevery variety of official decoration and costume, known to heraldsand antiquarians, seemed to be worn by somebody, and amongstthe comers and goers were some distinguished individuals in artsand arms. In this room were one or two of Lely’s pictures, andamong them, if I remember rightly, that of Catharine of Braganza.Queen Anne also looked on us, from the walls, and herMajesty’s odious old great-great-grandfather, George the Second.As I fell into the line which moved toward the throne-room, Icame to a window looking over the park and private garden ofthe Palace. Oh! what tales of Caroline, and Hanoverian, gossipand scandal, the sight recalled. There was her Majesty’sstate carriage, awaiting the conclusion of the ceremonies, to conveyher back to Buckingham Palace. The squab of a driverwas sleeping on his box—a mere mortal in spite of his livery, hishair-powder, and the nosegay in his bosom. In my turn, I passedbefore her Majesty, much as before. I hardly saw, in full, theceremony of a female presentation, although there were severaljust before and after me, for the crowd was intolerable, and myescape from the presence of royalty into the freer apartments beyond,was truly refreshing. I passed into an armory, or roomornamented with such old weapons and defences as one sees atthe Tower. Finally, as before, I left the Palace through a longcorridor, ornamented with portraits of the Kings of England,down to Charles the First. This portrait reminded me of thelast night on earth of that sovereign, which he passed beneaththis roof: and of the last sacrament which he received, in thechapel of St. James. This is the most sacred association withthe Old Palace, and it is the only one that is enough sacred, tosink the ill memories of its Georgian traditions. The Englishunderestimate Charles the First, and do not seem to reflect thatmany of those elements of their Constitution, on which they aremost wont to value themselves, have been bequeathed to them bythe spirit in which he maintained the royalty, and suffered for theChurch. If the brutal Cromwell is remembered with commendation,because of some liberties which were the secondary resultsof his usurpation, why should not the failings of Charles be forgotten,in gratitude for the great conservative principles which hetaught the English people, by the signal ability with which hebaulked his adversaries in debate, and by his truly sublime behaviourin the last stages of his reign? Say what they will,thought I, as I looked at his portrait—had Charles the First beena Louis the Sixteenth, I should not, to-day, have seen a descendantof 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 Iwas 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 sotook my seat beside the Bishop of Oxford. He was going tospend the day at the same place, a fact of which I had not theleast idea beforehand, but which, of course, greatly heightened myanticipations of pleasure, on making the discovery. Arrived, theBishop was received by the Rev. Mr. ——, and I was kindlyinvited to accompany him to breakfast, after a brief survey ofthe attractions of the place. First, we went with our reverendhost to see a sort of training school, in which he was giving someyoung men of limited means all the substantial parts of a Universityeducation. We went into their chapel, and joined in thedevotions with which they began their day. We were then conductedthrough the establishment connected with which was aprinting press, worked by the pupils, and a chemical laboratory, inwhich they were producing stained glass for the chapel. In thegarden I saw a novelty in the horticultural art, which struck meas not unworthy of imitation. A small piece of ground had beeningeniously shaped into a miniature Switzerland. Here, forexample, was the Righi, with a corresponding depression for theLake of the Four Cantons. A bucket of water poured into such adepression, makes the little scene into an artificial reality, servingto convey a geographical idea much more forcibly than any mapcould possibly do. From this college we went to an “AgriculturalSchool,” where some plain farmer’s boys, in their workingattire, were gathered to prayers before engaging in the labour ofthe day. A certain amount of education is furnished to theselads, in return for their toil, and they pay some fees beside; theplan proposing to elevate this class of the peasantry, especially inmorals and religious knowledge. Thence, we went to the parish-schoolswhich were also opened by prayer; and then the childrenwere catechised, in the presence of the Bishop. After this weadjourned to breakfast, and then went to the Church; a very plain,but substantial and architectural one, lately substituted for itsdilapidated predecessor. The Bishop preached, entirely extemporaneously,having been pressed into the service against hisintentions. As he eloquently exhorted us to follow our ascendedLord, I could not but think how entirely different from the ordinaryAmerican notion of an English Bishop, in labors and inspirit, was this estimable prelate. The Holy Communion followed,and there was a large number of devout partakers, representingall 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 thislaborious pastor, a little boy ran up to us with oak-leaves, and abranch containing oak-apples. It was the 29th of May; and theBishop playfully asked the lad why he carried them. “Toremember King Charles,” said the little fellow—as he furtherenforced the sale of these memorials of the Restoration.

During the residue of the day, I shared the labours of thepastor, as he went about the parish, visiting here a sick person,and there a poor one; and, towards evening, returning to thegrounds of the training school, I joined in a game of cricket,which the young men were playing in high glee. Chasing theball as it bounded over the field, or hid itself in the hedge;scratching my hands with nettles, and joining in the shouts offrolic, with these happy youths; and finally sitting at my leisureto watch the beautiful evening sky, against which stood out thegraceful spire and foliage of Harrow-on-the-Hill, while the neighbouringbells of Stanmore pealed a sunset song, I could not butmurmur to myself, with Gray—

In rambling about, we had a good view of the former residenceof Queen Adelaide, in which she had lately died. She was muchbeloved and respected for her unaffected piety, and her manifoldgood works.

In the twilight we went to church again. The service wassung 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.” Thesermon was an allegory, of exceeding beauty, perfectly sustainedthroughout, and that, to all appearance, without effort. I shallnever forget it, nor the powerful impression it produced at thetime. I have, since, quoted it entire, in my own pulpit, (withfull credit to the source from which it was derived,) and washappy to observe the effect it was capable of producing, even atsecond hand. I left the scene of this pleasing day’s experiences,with a sweet elevation of feeling, inspired by the solemnities inwhich I had engaged, and by the sermons which I had been sofortunate as to hear. Oh! lovely Church of England, how littlethey know thee who revile thee! how unworthy of their baptismare they who have cast themselves from thy motherly bosom!

My next excursion was into Warwickshire. I went first toCoventry, a city of which one of my humble ancestry was Mayor,more than two centuries ago, and for which I entertained a sortof hereditary respect. It retains much of the aspect it must haveborne during that worthy’s incumbency; for a more mediæval-lookingtown I saw not in England. Still unmodernized are itsancient streets and alleys. The houses jut out, story above story,their gables fronting the way, and so close together, in the upperparts, that neighbours may light their pipes with each other acrossthe street, as they lean out of their windows. The famous threespires of Coventry belong to as many different churches, but seemto equalize the place in cathedral glories with Lichfield, its sistersee. 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 manywrangling creeds; and the major part of the steeples are but vulgarrivals, realizing the droll idea of Carlyle’s eel-pot, in whicheach individual eel is trying to get his head higher than his neighbour’s.The fact, however, is less droll than melancholy, when onethinks of the sickening results, upon a community, of so manyreligions, all claiming to be reputable types of Christ’s dear Gospel,although so widely differing among themselves that somemust necessarily be its pestilent antagonists. Dissocial habits;cold incivilities; open wars; disgraceful rivalries; bickering animosities;and a degraded moral sentiment—these are the thingssignified by your poly-steepled towns in our own land, and Godonly knows the irreligion and the contempt for truth, which arefestering within them, as the result of these acrid humours; but asyet, it is not generally so in England. The three spires of Coventryall point faithfully to the throne of the Triune God, and aresymbols of one Lord, one faith, and one baptism. Oh, that allwho 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 aboutit* venerable walls; but the interior was undergoing a costlyrestoration, and was so obstructed with scaffolding, that I couldcatch but little of the effect of its solemn length of nave andchancel, and of the intersecting arches of its aisles. I afterwardsvisited Trinity; and also the ancient St. Mary’s Hall, the sceneof the civic pomps of Coventry, and filled with antiquarian interestin itself and in its contents. It was not difficult to conjure upthe ancient shows of the adjoining church-yard when Holy Weekwas celebrated by dramatic mysteries. But what interested memore than all the rest, was the grotesque head of a mediævalclown, projecting from an old house, with a most striking expressionof vulgarly impertinent curiosity. The reader of Tennyson’sexquisite chef d’œuvre, will, of course, recognise “Peeping Tom” inthis description. Fabulous may be that beautiful legend of theLady Godiva, but the men of Coventry believe it still: and still,on every Friday in the week of Holy Trinity, its annual fair isopened with a commemorative procession, in which a fair boy,dressed in well-knit hosiery, but apparently naked, rides throughthe ancient streets, with long and golden hair flowing from headto foot, and covering his body, as the representative of the sweetbride of Earl Leofric, who made the burghers of Coventry toll-free,and “gained herself an everlasting name.” They weremaking great preparations for this pageant when I was there, buton the whole I preferred not “to march through Coventry withthem.”

From Coventry to Kenilworth, of course. It was late in theafternoon when I started the rooks in those old ruins, and satdown to watch their flight about its ivied towers. Here was,indeed, a place for thought, and for sentimentalism. How theromance of Scott, that once so bewitched me, (as I read it,stretched in boyish luxury upon the floor of the verandah of anAmerican villa, on the dear banks of the Hudson,) now rose aboutme in a strange dream of reality; and how tormenting theendeavour 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, standwithout a roof; and the ivy that climbs the solid walls, and twistsamong the shattered mullions and transoms, is rooted inside ofthe once hospitable hall, and beneath the very point in space,where once the haughty Queen Elizabeth sat in state, on a splendiddais, with Burleigh, and Leicester, and Raleigh around her,while these cold, damp walls lifted about them their magnificenttapestries, and gorgeous blazonries of heraldic honour. In thatbay window she once reclined, to look over the park, and to thinkthoughts too deep for utterance. The rich architectural work ofthese chambers betrays their former splendid uses; and onegrudges, to the great serpent-like convolutions of the ivy-vines,the sole proprietorship of their surviving graces. Yet there theyhang their melancholy leaves; and the beautiful desolation is possiblyrich enough in its moral effect on the heart of the visitor, tomake one contented on the whole, that the pile was once so greatin design, and so exquisite in detail, and that the ruin is now socomplete. Poor Amy Robsart!

Up and down I went, thinking only of her wrongs. Now theworn steps wound up to a turret, and now descended to a secretpostern. Here was the orchard, and there the lake, and therethe plaisance: now you look out of a prison-like window, andnow you stand in the deep recess of a lordly oriel. Going intothe ancient grounds, I scattered a hundred sheep, and away theywent, bounding over grass as green and velvety, as they werewhite and fleecy. These are the successors of those red deer, fallowdeer, 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 theplace like a spell, and as if it were haunted with its own history.Of all this noble castle, there remains only one outer part, whichcan shelter a human inhabitant. The barbican, beneath whichElizabeth 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 sucha picturesque abode devoted to so homely a use. How glad Ishould be to hire it, myself, for a summer lodge, provided I mighthave the range of the surrounding domains, without the annoyanceof everybody’s intrusion, and provided I had nothing betterto 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-pieceis a massive bit of antiquity, partly alabaster curiously wrought,and partly wood of rich and costly carving. The ragged-staff ofDudley is conspicuous, in the decorations; it betrays the relics ofits former gilding; the speaking initials R. L. tell the story ofits origin, and the motto Droit et Loyal shows itself, as if inmockery of historical justice, amid the arms and cognizances ofthe once proud possessor of the princely castle of Kenilworth.

The long twilight enabled me to visit Leamington Priors, andto get a very pleasing impression of its trim and fair abodes, andshowy modern streets. Then away, by night, to Warwick, whereI slept at the “Warwick Arms,” after such a comfortable supper,as one finds nowhere, at the close of a traveller’s day, exceptat an English Inn.

It proved a most beautiful morning, next day, and I was upvery early, resolved, before tasting breakfast, to taste all thesweets of the hour of prime, in one of the most beautiful ruraldistricts of England. I walked out some two or three miles, onthe Kenilworth road, to Guy’s Cliff, and to the scene, beyond it,of Piers Gaveson’s murder. The beauty of the day and of theScenery, the song of birds, and the blossoms of the hawthornalong the road, were singularly in keeping with the imagery bywhich the poet has pictured the early history of a reign, strikinglycoincident with that in which Gaveson’s fortune was madeand ruined:—

At length, leaping a slight fence, I made my way through aclovered field, and then through a pretty grove, to what wasonce Blacklow hill. Here is still a sort of cave, which I readilyfound among the hazels; and on the eminence above it, rises astrongly built and severe looking monument, surmounted by across of solid proportions, the whole singularly adapted to theplace and purpose. It is a work of late years, and the happythought of the proprietor of Guy’s Cliff. There was somethingstirring, too, in reading, in the loneliness of that morning hour,the following inscription on the face of the monument, viz:—“Inthe hollow of this rock was beheaded, July 1, 1312, by barons lawlessas himself, Piers Gaveson, Earl of Cornewall, the minion of a hatefulking, and in life and death a memorable instance of misrule.” Whata picture of the ferocious past was conjured up by that expression—“beheadedby barons as lawless as himself.” The sweetAvon was flowing through the meads below; there gleamed thefeudal towers of Warwick, in the glowing sunrise; and just so itwas, that July morning, five hundred years ago, when this rockrang with oaths and curses, the barkings of that fierce Guy deBeauchamp, whom Gaveson had called “the black hound ofArden.” That insult was here avenged in blood; but it onlyserved to fire the thirst of the regicide. Those features upturned toheaven, in the choir of Gloucester, and those imploring hands ofpoor King Edward, came back, in thought, once more.

Pictures have made my readers familiar with the scenery ofGuy’s Cliff. There it stands, on the Avon—in unpretendingbeauty, ivied up to its chimnies, here an oriel, and there a turret,the very ideal of a fair lady’s bower, and one of the goodliest of“the merry homes of England.” There is a mill over against it,where I stood and admired its quiet romance, in the glory of thatsummer morning, as the gilding of the sunlight lay on the coldgray of its towers. At the mill, the farmer-lads were washingsheep, and as they plunged in the fleecy ewes, and soused themover and over again, in the sparkling waters of the Avon, Ithought an artist would ask no fairer study, for his pencil, thanthe scene before me. I confess I could not safely look on it withoutrepeating the Tenth Commandment, and I quite deposed myproject of renting the Gate-house of Kenilworth, in thinking howmuch better I should like Guy’s Cliff for my habitation.

My walk into Warwick, again, was full of pleasure. I heardthe clock strike in the tower of St. Mary’s, which I saw overa forest of trees, gaily lighted by the sun; and then came a tunefrom its chime. I paused before old houses, and stared atthe curious ancient gateway, under which we had passed inthe night. After breakfast I visited the Church, and especiallythe Beauchamp Chapel, where the ancient lords of Warwicklie on their proud tombs, in sculptured mail, beside their daintydames, in more delicate attire. This chapel is, of its kind, thefinest in the kingdom; the superb tomb of Charles the Bold andMary of Burgundy, when I saw it at Bruges, reminded me of it,and seemed less imperial. I cannot now recall it in detail, as Iwish I could, for the sake of accurate criticism; but at the timeI was greatly struck with the state and splendour of such beauty—forashes! Fulke Greville’s monument is also memorable, ifonly for the striking tribute it pays to private friendship; for theinscription furnished by himself ekes out the fact of his being“Councillor to King James,” by that of his claim to write himself—“Thefriend of Sir Philip Sydney.”

I went over Warwick Castle, of course, and surveyed thegrounds from the porter’s lodge, where are shown the armour andthe porridge-pot of great Guy, and fair Phælice’s slippers, to thegarden-house, wherein is kept the gigantic vase from Tivoli.What eyes for natural beauty had those builders of old times!The Avon seems just here to be made for Warwick Castle, andWarwick Castle seems made for it. On the whole, I have seenno residence in Europe, save Windsor Castle, that seemed to memore princely than this. ’Tis not the creation of vulgar opulence,or of an Aladdin-like fortune—but it seems the growth of ages,and the natural concentration of architectural beauty and strength.From its windows such a view of the landscape—in the landscapesuch views of it! And then its relics and antiquities; its picturesand its portraits; its bed-rooms, and halls, and drawing-rooms;its boudoirs, and its bowers; its chapel, and its whole together—whocan but wonder at them, and who would want them?Mine is not so vast an ambition—such “an unbounded stomach.”On the whole I am so reasonable a man, that to gratify myutmost longings for a home—this side “the house not made withhands”—I would take Guy’s Cliff, and leave Warwick Castleuntroubled by any writ of ejectment from even a roving wish, orwild, ungoverned thought.

Stratford—Shakspeare.

Only nine miles to Stratford-upon-Avon! With what a flushof delighted expectation I climbed the coach, and left the WarwickArms, in the hope of beholding with my eyes, in less thantwo short hours, the home of Shakspeare, and that world-famouschurch to which he bequeathed his bones! And yet there wassomething like a misgiving at the heart. My imagination hadbeen familiar, for years, with a certain ideal of Stratford, thathad grown into my whole structure of thought concerningShakspeare and his times. It had been constructed from here aprint, and there a traveller’s tale, and had taken life and beautyfrom detached anecdotes, and little inklings of historic light, thathad come sweetly to me from my boyhood, in some inexplicablemanner. In part the product of enthusiastic study, when collegeoil, that should have been burned in honour of Euclid, and Napier,and Newton, was stealthily sacrificed at the shrine of the greatmaster of the human heart, I had possessed for years, a Stratfordof my own; a pet village of my soul, such as Shakspeare shouldhave lived in: and now—in a few hours, all this was to be deposedforever; dull realities were to eclipse the brilliant pictureof the fancy, and thenceforth I must know only the Stratfordof fact. Would the realization pay me for the downfall ofthe vision? Alas! what is life but a continual balance betweenloss and gain; what pleasure do we acquire, without the sacrificeof something almost as sweet? How long the boy looks at hisbright penny before he gives it for the toothsome sugar-plum;and how often the bright penny comes back to him, as the substantialwealth, of which the moment’s gratification has deprivedhim.

As the coach began to draw near Stratford, I found myselfgreatly excited; and every object began to assume a sort of consciousconnection with immortal genius. The very road,—butmuch more the trees,—and even more, those features of the landscapewhich might be supposed unchanged by the lapse of centuries,seemed instinct with their past communion with a greatcreative mind. His spell was on them. He had once beenfamiliar with these scenes. He had gathered many an image,many a thought, and, I doubt not, many a refreshing hope, fromintercourse with their spring and summer beauties; and they hadbeen not less instructive to him, perhaps, in the season of thesere-leaf, or in that of the wintry wind. Yonder was Charlecote—beyondthe Avon: its park still stretching thro’ the vale,and hiding the old historic hall. But the thought of that juveniledeer-stalking, gave speaking life to even the distant scene.There is some sensitive principle in our nature, to which suchassociations so powerfully appeal, that nothing is more real, for atime, than the communion we hold with departed greatness,through the medium of objects with which it was once conversant.This reality I never felt so strongly as now. At last we came insight of that “star-ypointing pyramid”—the spire of Stratford.The gentle tumult of feelings with which it ruffled my inmostnature, for a moment, and the calm enjoyment that succeeded,were enough to pay me for crossing the Atlantic.

I was duly set down at the Red Horse Inn, and ushered intothe trim little parlour, and even into the elbow-chair, of which Ihad read, aforetime, in the pages of Geoffrey Crayon. Minehost readily recognizes an American, and never fails to produce,on such an occasion, the “sceptre” of the said Geoffrey, wherewithhe once poked the coals, in the smoking grate of said parlour,and, for a tranquil moment, was “monarch of all he surveyed.”Indeed, if Shakspeare reigns in Stratford, it must beallowed that the Red Horse is, nevertheless, the principality ofCrayon, and that it is rapidly rising into a formidable rivalshipof New Place, and the Guildhall, on the strength of Crayon’sreputation, to say nothing of the landlord’s ale. In short, novisitor to Stratford has ever left there such a lasting impressionof his footsteps, as our own delightful Irving: and it was pleasant,indeed, thus, at the very threshold of my visit, to find, evenin the broad glare of Shakspeare’s glory, the star of our countrymanrevolving steadily in its own peculiar orbit, and shining asno mean satellite of that great central sun of Anglo-Saxonliterature.

I should be a bold man, indeed, to attempt to add anything toIrving’s description of Stratford-upon-Avon. I have only theadventures of my day to tell of, and they were few and simple.I followed in the beaten track to the old tumble-down cottage,which is called the birth-place of Shakspeare, and which wasdoubtless the scene of his infancy. I recognized at once, theoriginal of many a well-thumbed print, and of many a descriptivepage. Timber from the forest of Arden; clay from the bedof the Avon; sticks and mud at best compose the nest in whichthe Mighty Mother brought the immortal Swan to light. It wasonce a better nest than now. A butcher has degraded it to serveas shambles, and it has yet the appearance of a stall for meat,although it is no longer used, except as a relic, the show-womanbeing its only tenant. Here, in spite of its transmutations, youcannot but fancy the elder Shakspeare, “with spectacles onnose,” sitting in the spacious chimney, and teaching little Willhis alphabet, or telling him, beside the winter’s fire, of the“mysteries” he had seen played, near by, at Coventry, when hewas a boy. Through the door, you seem yet to see the marvellousurchin, with his satchel, creeping unwillingly to school: or,back he comes, with shining face, to tell that the Queen’s playershave just arrived from London, to play “Troy-town,” at theGuildhall! Here, at all events, day after day went over thatmysterious young head, filling it with impressions, not one ofwhich ever seems to have escaped it, and preparing its tenantgenius to be the great bridge between old and modern England,by means of which, feeling, as well as fact, runs on continuously,in the line of English History, and gives it a unity and a vitalitywhich the annals of other nations lack. Oh, strange, immortal,universal Will! How supernatural the interest that hangs aboutthine every step, from the cradle to the grave.

You ascend a few creaking stairs, and you are in the veryroom where the first of his Seven Ages was, no doubt, duly signalizedby himself, “mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.”How many lives have been the mere pendants of the life thathere flickered in its first lighting, and which a puff of air mighthave put out—the world none the sadder for its loss! Yet now,how supreme the dominion of that one soul, these scribbled wallsattest; where vulgar enthusiasm is not more legible, than that ofthe worldly great, of foreign scholars and sovereign princes, andof intellectual autocrats scarce less imperial than Shakspearehimself. How powerful the inspiration of the genius loci, is bestproved by the fact that among the scribblings one reads the autographof Walter Scott. Verily, there is no fame like Shakspeare’s!Subduing, as he does, the instincts of all classes alike,and entering as he does, into the sympathies of all nations, hemust be regarded less as a man of genius, than as a noble instrumentof God, for subordinating human passions and affections tosome superior purpose of His own, perhaps not yet conceived.The rise of a Christian literature, and that the purest which theworld has ever possessed, is dated from the age of which he wasthe bright peculiar star; and the whole Anglo-Saxon race mustever recognize in him the original master of many of its formsof thought, a rich contributor to its idiom and language, and theconstructor of some of its strongest sentiments of civilization, ofmorals, and of religion.

The site of the New Place is occupied by a solid mansion,which, devoid of interest in itself, commands a moment’s attention,as occupying the spot on which Shakspeare’s prosperousdays were passed, and which was emphatically his home. Allthat remains of him, in this place, and its immediate neighbourhood,is nevertheless soon seen and dismissed, as nothing but theenthusiasm of an idolator would detect anything specially attractivein a statue set up by Garrick at the Town Hall, and a fewother memorials, too minute, or too modern, to deserve much delayin their inspection. I reserved my raptures for the walk to Shottery.Striking into the fields, I pleased myself with the convictionthat air and earth are still very much the same in them,as when the boy Shakspeare played truant, and sported amongtheir sweets. The birds and the flowers are still as gay as whenhe preferred to learn their lessons, rather than the schoolmaster’s;and when I turned into a shady lane, all green and white withhawthorn, or plucked the peas’ blossom in the upland, or thebuttercup and daisy in the meadow, I felt sure that his foot hadfallen where they grew, and that they had given him pleasure,and taught him morals, which the world has willingly taken atsecond-hand, and will never “willingly let die.” Yes, the verylabouring oxen, and the pasturing cows, seemed to me of a superiorbreed. Short-horn, or Devonshire, or whatever they maybe to the farmer, they were, in my esteem, not less than Shakspereanbeef fed on the grass of Stratford, and feeding myimagination with images of the animated nature of the samescenery, as it was three hundred years ago. I came to severalpretty farm cottages, with shrubbery in their little door-yards,and at one of these I knocked, thinking it must be Anne Hathaway’s;but the damsel who opened the door seemed not muchflattered by the inquiry, for Anne, though she was Shakspeare’swife, was not an honest woman, by the parish register, and haslittle honour in her own village. However, the damsel pointedout my way, with milk-maid courtesy, and away I went withtraveller-like apologies. Here, then, at last, was the scene ofWill’s discreditable courtship; and here, if they deceived me not,descendants of the Hathaways live still. The house is in twoparts, like nave and chancel in ecclesiastical architecture; timberedand plastered, like the birth-place aforesaid, and thatchedin the picturesque style so dear to Crayon artists and sketchers;its little windows peeping out of the straw, like sharp eyes underthe shaggy brows of an old pensioner, sunning himself in front ofan ale-house. I am glad to say that roses, and other flowers,were duly set about the cottage, as one which I plucked, andbrought away, bears witness. They showed me some old Hathawayfurniture, and among others an enormous bedstead of Elizabethandate, on which, they would have me believe, that manyof the poet’s dreams had visited him. There was also an ancientoaken chair: and finally, some bed and table linen was taken outof an old chest. It was evidently homespun, and they believedit to be Anne’s work, as well as property. With this view of thematter, however, the initials E. H. did not entirely agree, and althoughI was inclined to yield this objection at the moment, whencredulity was allowable, I do not now flatter myself that I haveseen the bedstead or the bed-clothes of Shakspeare. It is somethingbetter that I have seen the Church in which he was christened,and where he now lies, under the chancel; and where hewas taught to pray; and where he often knelt, one would fainbelieve, in true contrition; and where he learned, from somelowly parson, unknown to fame, many of those sublime and gospelverities, which have given, even to his poorer themes, theirsavor of immortality.

The avenue of limes which leads to the church-porch, is ratherstiff than otherwise. The “way to Parish Church” was probablyunpaved, and perhaps unshaded, when Will tottered over it,to be catechised; or when, in maturer years, he sought the Houseof God with reverence, among the multitude that kept holyday. The Church itself is of Anglo-Norman date, and wasoriginally such in its architecture, but has frequently been alteredand repaired, at various periods. It is cruciform, and would benot unworthy of a visit for its own sake. The churchyard is fullof graves, and the Avon flows under its walls. I sat there, fornearly an hour, quite alone, trying to grasp the full idea of thespot. A lubberly scow came paddling along on the turbid river;and the rooks started up, and then lighted upon the old graytower; and some sheep came nibbling among the graves; andfinally, two or three children ran about me, and kept me company,for awhile; but oh! how unconscious seemed all these ofthe great reality of the place, and how still and solemnly thepoet slumbered on, in his sepulchre, unconscious of this prosynineteenth century, which thus wags on without him. I tookout my tablets in a sort of reverie; wrote down the date, andscribbled on at random, as follows: ‘Here, in the churchyard ofStratford, I am sitting on the stone-wall, which defends it fromthe Avon, and at the foot of which, its fringe of flags grows rank,amid the slime. The sun, through the half-misty atmosphere, isfalling tenderly on the limes; birds are singing; a rook cawing;nobody is near, but the breeze whispers, socially, through the elmsoverhead. How still the old spire points up to heaven! Howdearly the grass clings to the tower and belfry, growing there inevery “coigne of vantage!” And this quiet old chancel, too!Within these walls was Shakspeare made a member of Christ,and here he waits the Judgment. Oh, Will! how much for theeimports the Scripture, “by thy words thou shalt be justified, andby thy words thou shalt be condemned!”’

The old legendary sexton of Irving’s visit has passed away,and another reigns in his stead. Availing myself of his keys, Iexcused him from any further effort of his tongue, and surveyedthe solemn interior in peace. Here, too, the hand of restorationhas been freshly at work, and has set the holy house inorder. The Church which enfolds the tomb of Shakspeare isdedicated to the Holy Trinity—the God who made him, andwhom he adored. The meagre god of unbelief would never havefilled such a soul as his, or moved him to kneel down; but howoften that overwhelming Mystery of Faith must have thrilledhim here, as he repeated the creed, or chanted the Te Deum! Atlast I stood before the famous bust, and looked upon that sublimeforehead, and those composed features, and said to it silentlythose brotherly lines of Milton, which the sight brings naturallyto mind. Then I read the inscription, and spelled out, letter byletter, the words of that imprecatory verse, in which Shakspeare’sself is as legible as anything else. “Good friend, for Jesu’ssake,” etc.—Amen, was my response. It was a moment to remember,but not to describe.

I next tried to satisfy myself as to the sense of Mistriss Hall’sepitaph, which is ambiguous; and on which the inspection of theoriginal throws little additional light. It tells us first, that shewas “witty above her sexe,” and second, that she was “wise tosalvation,” and then adds:

Now, of course, this him must mean her Saviour, with whomshe is in Paradise; yet, it may mean, for all that, her fatherShakspeare; and the question is, was not the ambiguity a quaintconceit, and intended to be a doublet? If so, as it has oftenstruck me, whatever we may think of its taste, it is an importanttestimony to the maturer character of the poet; since its secondarymeaning would be, to give it in paraphrase—that her wit hadsomething in it of Shakspeare, but that her piety was whollylearned of her father, with whom she now reaps its reward. Nowif we exclude this idea, it would almost seem to force us into thesad reverse; for certainly, as it is first read, it seems to implythat she was not indebted to her father for any of her religion,though she was for her wit. Of course, it may be answered, thatwisdom unto salvation is so exclusively from Christ, as its meritoriouscause, that nothing else is to be taken into account, as its instrument;but is this the sole idea of the verse? Very likely;and yet after all, I wonder that its ambiguous character has neverattracted the attention of the many who have raked and scrapedthe very dust of Stratford for something rich and strange. Certainit is, that, like many readings of Shakspeare himself, it wantsbut a change of emphasis, from word to word, to give two orthree different senses, any one of which is tolerable, although itis an intolerably bad epitaph, after all.

I believe the droppings of this Church of Stratford bedew theworks of Shakspeare, from the first sonnet to the last play, andthat here he was schooled to that strict law of his dramas, whichruns through all, and by which he always “shows virtue her ownfeature, and scorn her own image,” instead of fitting the maskof propriety upon the front of shame. More than all, it washere that he learned that reverence for the name of Jesus, withwhich he so often embalms his pages, and which so often makesthem melodious to a believer’s ear and heart. How much, too,the first and second lesson out of “the Bishop’s Bible”—howmuch the Epistle and Gospel, and the Psalter, taught him, notonly of sonorous English, but of Christian doctrine and morals!I am sure these influences may be detected in his works; and asI looked at the very spot where his young idea was taught toshoot toward heaven, I felt that this was the sublimest associationof the place. Here once (my fancy suggested) he may haveheard in the lesson for the day—suffer chyldren to come unto Me,and then, a few verses afterwards, he must have been struck withthe contrast, when the parson read on—it is easier for a camell togo thorow a nedle’s eye, etc. He was now a prosperous man, andhad just purchased New-Place, and obtained a grant of Arms.His conscience therefore pricked him with the question—Was heone of the rich men for whom admission into heaven was to beso hard? The parson mounted the pulpit, and quoted muchlearned stuff out of Sir John Maundeville, to explain the orientalismof the lesson: and among other things, he threw out the ideathat the postern gate of an Eastern city was so small, that it wasimpossible for a beast of burthen to pass through it, and wasusually called “the needle’s eye,” and hence the force of the comparison.All this, Shakspeare, who was thinking his own thoughts,heard only incoherently, and he got a somewhat confused idea ofthe postern and needle; but being, just then, at work on his Richardthe Second, he goes home, and puts his Sunday reverie into themouth of his hero, thus:—

Such at least is the story, which this passage suggests to me as,very possibly, the way in which it came to him. I often trace toa similar source, that is, to the open Scriptures, and the vernacularservices of the Church of England, the innumerable Siloanstreams which freshen and even sanctify his verse. The greatthemes of redemption may be found richly illustrated in manypassages; and I think I could select from his works enough ofsacred poetry to fill a little volume, and one fit to be kept as acompanion to the Prayer-Book and the Christian Year. I cannotcredit the scandal that Shakspeare died of a debauch, nor doI believe he was less than an ordinary Christian. While thesecrets of his heart are with his God, we may at least, in Christiancharity, believe that the friend of publicans and sinners mayhave seen in him a practical dependence upon that Atonementwhich, by the mouth of Portia, he has preached so well:—

As I departed, I plucked a branch of ivy from the Churchwall, near the spot where his dust awaits the resurrection. Itwas brought home with me to America—the land in which hehas more readers than anywhere else in the whole world. Howlittle he foresaw this, when in compliment to James the First, herecorded (if the passage be his own) the prediction that Jamesshould “make new nations;” adding—what proves rather trueof himself—

A threatening rain prevented my walking to Charlecote, but Iwent away contented. I was inclined to indulge a little inJacques’ vein, and the melancholy clouds began to favour uswith congenial tears, as—reduced to sober prose—I made myway in the storm, on the top of a stage-coach, through what wasonce the Forest of Arden.

Haddon Hall—Chatsworth—Shrewsbury—Chester.

After renewing my acquaintance with the hospitable friendsat B——, with whom I had passed my Easter, I made an excursioninto Derbyshire, with an episodical trip to Nottingham.My chief attraction to this latter place was that of an invitationfrom sundry relatives of my B—— friends to visit them, thoughthe town is certainly well worthy of being visited for itself. Forthe sake of poor Kirke-White, one would wish to hunt up hislowly birth-place, and some would say that Newstead Abbeydeserves a traveller’s homage. In fact, the Park and Abbey arethe great charm of the neighbourhood, to most visitors; but I mustown that I could not bring myself to make a pilgrimage to thescene of those orgies for which it is chiefly distinguished. Onmaking some such remark to a worthy ex-magistrate of the borough,I was struck with the downright English common sense of hisreply,—“You are quite right”—said he—“no one thinks muchof Lord Byron, in these parts, where he was known; he cheatedthe tradesmen with whom he had dealings, and made himself soodious, that when his remains were brought through Nottingham,to be buried, we could not make up our minds to pay him any honours!”So much for romance and misanthropy! Genius, withouthonour and morality, is despicable indeed: and one even doubtsthe sentimental refinement of the man, of whom an intimatefriend and companion could say, with anything like epigrammatictruthfulness, that “he cried for the press, and wiped his eyeswith the public.”

A visit to the castle, and its caves, to which my reverendfriend from B—— conducted me, well repaid us for our walk tothe eminence on which it stands in ruins. It belonged to thelate Duke of Newcastle, and was burned, as I remember verywell, during the Reform riots, by an infuriate mob: but it is supposed,that the stiff old aristocrat whom they meant to injure,was very well pleased with the outrage. He did not inhabit it;he was well reimbursed for his loss; and was relieved from thetax of keeping up an unnecessary residence. The caves whichundermine the castle, are famous for their historical connectionwith the story of the “She-wolf of France:” for through themwas made the entrance into the fortress, which resulted in thearrest of Isabella and her paramour. They still point out a certaincave, as Mortimer’s; but the whole rock is riddled byfissures and loop-holes, and appears to be very soft and friable.From the summit one gets a beautiful view of Clifton-grove andthe Vale of Trent; and on another side of Belvoir Castle, (pronouncedBeaver,) the seat of the Duke of Rutland. The “Fieldof the Standard” is near the castle, and I surveyed, with deepfeeling, the spot where King Charles set up his ensign, to be torndown by the storm the same night, and to be even more unfortunate,in the issue, than the omen seemed to require. After avisit to a few of the churches and public buildings, and a singlenight under one of its roofs, I was off to Derbyshire.

With Derby itself I was not long detained, though I cannotbut remember, with pleasure, the acquaintance I formed therewith several very agreeable persons. Perhaps the most interestingthing about Derby is the historical reminiscence, that here theprogress of the Stuart standard was finally, and forever arrested.It is surprising that “Royal Charlie” ever succeeded in pushinghis invasion to this point: but thus much he effected, in the fatal’45, and the spot where he was lodged, in Derby, is still shownby the townsfolk, with interest, if not enthusiasm.

Even railway glimpses of Derbyshire give one many pleasurableemotions, abounding as it does in beautiful valleys and streams,and in abrupt rocky hills—jocosely described by Walton, asfrightful and savage, to such a degree that he affects surprise atthe sight of a church among them, and asks whether there beverily any Christians in such a country. When, at last, I foundmyself strolling along the Wye, and conversing with an angler,in the green mead, just within sight of the battlements of HaddonHall, all the delicious nature and good humour of old Izaak cameupon me, and observing that nothing near me seemed to be ofmodern fashion, I was almost transported back two centuries,and fancied myself for a moment at his side, learning, like Venator,to love angling, and so to weather the evil days of Cromwell—studyingto be quiet in that vocation, and to mind my own business,as the apostle doth enjoin. It had been my purpose tovisit Dove-dale, in honour of Walton, but this I found impracticable,and the nearest I could come to it was now realized.Blessings on his worthy memory! for though I be not an acceptedbrother of the angle, having never enjoyed great luck when Ihave gone a fishing, yet do I allow the art all honour, and doconsider it the becoming recreation for a Churchman; admittingits connection with the catechism, and saying Amen to diversother postulates of Walton, of like grave and self-evident character.

I must own that I found Haddon Hall of considerably lessdimensions than I had foreshadowed to my fancy. I had supposedits smallest chamber one of those gigantic apartments, inwhich candles and fire-light must strive in vain to throw theirillumination from the chimney-piece to the opposite wainscot;or in which a nocturnal guest might find the freest exercise ofimagination, in looking after noises, towards the dark distance,from the lamp at his bedside, of the waving hangings and creakingdoors. It is not altogether such a house as that; and yet ifthere be a better site for the residence of a ghost, or a troop ofthem, I have never seen it. Your nervous man should never tryto lodge there. It is stripped of nearly all its furniture, saveonly such as is requisite to give full effect to midnight soundsand mysterious moanings. Its history is lost in that of the dimand traditionary ages of the Plantagenets; the windows of itslonely chapel bear the date 1427; and the last touches of thebuilder were given to it at least three hundred years ago. Thereit stands—a relic of the domestic architecture of feudal England.Here are turreted and embattled gate-ways, and quadrangularcourts, enclosed as if to stand a siege. The kitchen is designedfor the largest hospitality; spits, dressers and chopping block,all speaking of the bountiful housekeeping of the olden time—tosay nothing of the vast chimneys, which seem made to roar withChristmas fires perpetually. You ascend a great stair-case, onwhich it seems almost profane to set a modern foot, so entirelydoes it bespeak its ancient right to be trodden by the doughtyand dainty steps of lords and dames, in the attire of by-gonecenturies. You enter a room hung with antique tapestry, nowready to drop into tatters. You push-to the old squeaking doors,and drop these hangings, and it no longer appears how you gotin, or how you may get out. You understand at once the allusionsof many an old play, and almost expect to find some thievishfigure lurking behind the arras. Hangings they truly are, forhooks are built into the wall, and to these the arras are attached.But the “Long Gallery” is the place in which a ghost wouldnaturally air himself. It is wainscoated and floored with oak,and ornamented with various carved devices and emblems, suchas the rose, and the thistle, and the boar’s head; and then it hasdeep recessed window-seats and oriels; and some of them lookout on the sunny terraces of the garden, and suggest vague ideasof romance, and create phantom ladies of olden time, to fill upthe scene, and rich illustrative stories to make them interesting.No doubt real hearts have throbbed here with high and tenderemotions: and events which we know only as the dry details ofhistory, have filled these silent chambers with notes of joy orsorrow, with the wail of the widow or the forlorn maiden, orwith the voice of the bridegroom and the bride. The statelyElizabeth is said to have once figured in this gallery, at a ball.

The architecture of the great hall is severely antique, andsuggests a rude and uncivil age, in spite of its air of dignity andhospitality. The men who dined here evidently wore swords,and the loving-cup and health-drinking were no mere ceremonies;the party who drank, as he lifted his arm, looking narrowly atthe friend who stood up to guard him. A hand-cuff which isfastened to the wood-work seems to hint that guests were sometimestroublesome after taking plenty of sack. I could think ofnothing but Twelfth-night revels in this curious old place, adornedas it is with the antlers of stags that were hunted long ago, andwhose venison once smoked on the board.

The terraced gardens, with their shades, and balusters, andsteps, and walks, and portals, are in keeping with all the rest,and the tale of the Lady Dorothea Vernon, and of her mysteriouselopement, is enough to fill them with the charm of romance.From one of the towers you look down upon the whole range ofroofs and courts, and then gaze far away over a beautiful viewof the vale of Haddon. Before you depart you are shown someancient utensils belonging to the place, such as jack-boots, andmatch-locks, and doublets. These are kept in the apartment ofmy reverend brother, the domestic chaplain, whoever he mayhave been; but whether he had any use for such things I cannotbear testimony. The adjoining chapel in which he officiated isvery small, and quite plain. The ancient piscina, beside thealtar, tells its simple story of the rites which, according to themediæval liturgy of England, hallowed it of yore. It conjuredup before my fancy the midnight mass of Christmas, as describedby Scott—

It was, at any rate, no Tridentine Eucharist, though it was amutilated one; and sad as were the scenes of debauchery withwhich those solemnities are associated, I could not but trust that,even here, Christ crucified had been truly worshipped, of old, onthe solemn feast of his Nativity, and on many other occasions ofChristian joy or penitence. Who would not cling to such communionwith ancient piety? And yet this natural sympathy,when morbidly developed, has done more than all things elsetogether, to bewitch the imaginative with Romanism, and to makethem slavish captives to a Church which has retained nothingmediæval except that newfangled creed, to which the departedspirit of Mediæevalism has bequeathed none of its poetry, andwhich only exists as the inanimate slough of its superstition.

Compared with Haddon Hall, the superb modern residence ofChatsworth struck me as tame and spiritless. The mansion hasindeed a pleasant seat: and the deer, bounding over the velvetturf of its park, or the peaco*ck, strutting amid its balusters andfountains, give it indeed a lordly look of opulent show, withoutmuch ease. Yet what is it, at best, but the dull round of “mylord’s apartments,” without one association beyond that of mylord’s great wealth and luxury? I should be ashamed to confess,indeed, that I was not pleased with the pictures, and more thanpleased with the exquisite carvings and magnificent sculpture,viewed merely as works of art; but I was fatigued with the vastworldliness of such a house, and felt that it would better havesuited a Hadrian, than it does a Christian nobleman of England.Such a residence as Warwick Castle comes to its possessor historically,and a nobleman may well keep it up; but Chatsworthseems built for display, and must be altogether too much forcomfort. I am glad if its possessor enjoys it—but I should ratherdwell in the humblest parsonage in England. Nature itself, asseen from the windows of Chatsworth, has a combed and dressylook. Its vast conservatory—the original of the Crystal Palace—iswell worth a visit, and its gardens are curious enough, butthe water-works are elaborately frivolous. I was promised afine artificial cataract—but lo! in the side of a beautiful hill Isaw a stone stair-case, and by-and-by the water came sluggishlydown stairs, like a little girl, in white dress, afraid to let go of thehand rail, as she leaps timidly from step to step. “Good morning,Miss Cataract,” said I, “that will do!”

The same clipped and artificial beauty belongs to the neighbouringvillage of Edensor, and the whole seems the more unrealas contrasting violently with the natural features of thiswild and ruggedly beautiful country. I am glad to have seenChatsworth, but I should not care to see it again, though thedesolate Haddon Hall never recurs in my memory, withoutawakening fresh longings to be once more in Derbyshire, and tosaunter again along its rushing Wye.

With my visit to Matlock Bath, I was much better satisfied.Here indeed is Derbyshire, in spite of spruce inns and fashionableboarding-houses. I scampered over the hills, (having first climbedthem with more pleasure than fatigue,) and went from view toview with increasing transports. This region is all cliff and ravine,and precipice and chasm; yet in every direction the eye is refreshedand delighted, and the mind takes pleasure alike in thinkingthat it is scarcely English scenery, and that it is yet strikinglyunlike anything but England after all! These sharp outlines,and bold walls of rock, for example, you say are somewhat Swiss;but as you look over them, towards the horizon, you see thattheir foliage and their verdure are English, absolutely; and then,looking down the chasm, at your feet, you see a trim and neatlittle village, and houses set in gardens, and peeping out fromshrubbery, and especially a church, altogether such as no oneever sees save in England only! I entered the Speedwell mine,and went through the usual experiments with lights amid thespar, but, on the whole, the subterranean part of Matlock waswhat I liked least about it. I felt lonely, however, in enjoyingmy ramble about so beautiful a place, and the company of certainloved ones in America was longed for over and over again tomake it all that I desired. From this delightful place I mademy way to Shrewsbury.

Beautiful is Shrewsbury, without and within! Its spires andits towers give you far-off promise of a place worthy of thetraveller’s halt, and when you enter its old-fashioned streets, youare not disappointed. I found the market-place, with its hall andsurrounding mansions, quite as unmodernized as those of townsin the north of France. The projecting gable of many an oldtimbered house confronts you as you go hither and thitherthrough the borough, and very often the woodwork of suchhouses is fancifully arranged and ornamented, in a manner highlyeffective and picturesque. Their modern tenants paint the timberswith grave, but appropriate colours, and whitewash theplastered walls which intervene, thus bringing out the full designof the ancient architect in a neat and striking manner. I saw,in one of the streets, a chair carried by bearers, precisely as inHogarth’s prints, and which seemed to have been in use eversince Hogarth’s day. Its occupant was a portly female, whomight have graced the Court of Queen Anne, so far as herappearance was concerned, and what with such an apparition, ina place altogether so antique, I found myself for a moment quitein doubt whether the nineteenth century were actually in existence,with its many inventions.

I went through the beautiful and finely-wooded field called theQuarry, and the walk called St. Chad’s, and crossed one of thebridges over the Severn to the Abbey Church. Here I foundsome interesting monuments and architectural curiosities; and theneighbourhood seemed to abound in similar relics of what mustonce have been a very large conventual establishment. At St.Mary’s, there was a Jesse-window and some tombs, which affordedme a gratifying occupation for awhile; then the ruins of an oldcastle, such as they are, attracted me; and, though last, not least,the fragments of a very ancient church, being merely its chancel,dedicated to St. Chad. The school in which Sir Philip Sydneywas reared, and where Fulke Grevil became his friend, stillswarms with the ingenuous youth of England, and I encounteredthem at every turn, in the highways and by-ways of the town.What an element of education it must be of itself for a lad to besent to a school that has such a history! Such thoughts mademe faint of heart for a moment, when I felt the irreparablepoverty of my own country in historical associations. The inestimabledowry of a glorious antiquity can never mingle itsennobling qualities with our national character. We may, andwe do, enjoy immense compensations; but what reflective Americandoes not give way at times to a melancholy sense that he hasindeed “no past at his back,” and that God has isolated him involuntarily,by this great fact, from the fellowship of nations!“But here comes a Shrewsbury boy,” said I, amid such thoughts,“what cares he for Sydney, more than an ordinary American ladat school?” Sure enough! Why then be sentimental? It is, afterall, only a certain class of minds, that receives powerful impressionsfrom anything past or future: and I believe an Americanyouth can enjoy such impressions effectively, by means of ahealthful imagination, while an English youth may often find ithard to divest the realities with which he is daily conversant, ofthe degrading effects of familiarity. Such is my calmer judgment.

I tasted the famous “Shrewsbury cakes” at the station-house,and having spent several hours “by Shrewsbury clock,” in thispleasing survey of the old borough, I left it with regret, purposingto return, and to make excursions from it to a neighbouringseat to which I had been kindly invited, and also to Hodnet,which I greatly desired to see, in honour of the gentle and belovedHeber. In these plans, however, I was disappointed. Asyou leave Shrewsbury for the north, you gain a most agreeableview of the town, which stands on a fair peninsula in the brightembrace of the Severn. It is a place full of poetry. On oneside are the Welsh Mountains; on the other, amid Salopian fields,you descry the columnar monument of Lord Hill; but the tallspires and the Abbey Tower tell more eloquently of Hotspur.

At Chirk station a Welsh family entered the train, gabblingtheir consonants most unintelligibly; but I soon discovered fromtheir adieus, and their tears and sighs, that they were emigrantsgoing to Liverpool to ship for America. This stirred up a warmhome-feeling: I found that one of them could talk English, andI was not long in finding a way to their hearts. They were goingto Wisconsin, and were very willing to be advised on ordinarymatters. I tried, also, to impress them with my own ideas of theprivileges they might enjoy under the care of the Nashotah Missionaries;but I fear they were dissenters, as the Welsh peasantrytoo often are, and that my endeavours to add to the burthens ofmy esteemed brethren of that diocese were quite unavailing. Islept that night at Chester.

But I despair of describing Chester. Elsewhere in Englandyou meet with ancient houses and picturesque streets; but Chesteris all antiquity. What you would go miles to see, when insearch of the quaintly beautiful, is here multiplied before you inalmost every house. In the first place it is a walled town. Imade the circuit of the walls in the morning, with constant emotionsof astonishment; for they are in good repair, and seem evenyet to have their use, whereas, I had imagined them to be mererelics of the past. I came to the Tower upon the wall, from thesummit of which Charles the First beheld the total rout of hisarmy. It is a mere watch-tower; but as the memorial of a greatevent, it would be hard to imagine a monument more striking.There is much more to interest the passenger as he goes on, lookingnow into houses built into the wall like swallows’ nests, andnow into church-yards, and now into a race-course, and again intoa river: but a thoughtful tourist, and especially one from America,will find it hard to think of anything but that Tower, and themighty issues which were once deciding before it, in view of anaugust and awfully interested spectator. Poor King! as hedescended from it, what must have been his emotions?

The streets of Chester are said still to preserve the outlines ofthe Roman camp, from which the town derives its name. Theyare a great curiosity in themselves, and seem to have been cutdown into the rock, while the houses were reared on the banks,above the level thus obtained. And such houses! Gable aftergable, timbered, pargetted, enriched with carving, and juttingover the street—each one “a picture for painters to study!”And where are the trottoirs, or side-walks? Lo! the houses allrun down to the carriage-way; but what should be their frontrooms, above the basem*nt floor, are mere verandahs, through thewhole line of which freely walks the public, always under cover,and always at home! These “rows” (even more than the walls)are the feature of Chester which most strikes the stranger; especiallyas the opposite houses, which he beholds in passingthrough them, are full of curious objects for any one whose eyedelights in the antique. On one, for example, are rich emblematicor fanciful decorations and carvings; on another, a scenefrom Scripture history is cut in uncouth style; while anotherbears the legend: God’s providence is mine inheritance, 1652. Agood inheritance always, but especially in Cromwell’s time. Theguide-book says, that in the great plague of the year thus designated,this house was the only one which the destroying angel didnot visit. Hence the pious inscription.

But there is no doing justice to old Chester, on a tourist’s page.Its cathedral is a poor one, and so crumbling are its walls andbuttresses, that every shower washes down a plentiful soil, fromthe decomposing stone. I lingered without weariness, however,in its aisles and cloisters, and must say that its service was sungdelightfully, although the singers were few, and the clergy fewerstill. The same disgraceful poverty and lifelessness, which I hadremarked elsewhere, characterized the visible force of the establishment;and I could not but say to myself, if this feeble performanceis, nevertheless, so edifying and effective, what mightnot be the blessed result of a vitalized cathedral body, servingGod night and day in His Temple, as God should be alwaysserved, in this rich and ancient Church of an empire which professesto be Christian, and which God has so unspeakably exaltedamong the nations of the earth.

The other ecclesiastical objects of the town were duly visited,and then I took a boat on the Dee, and was rowed toward EatonHall, which I finally reached on foot, after a walk through thesurrounding park. This was, till very lately, regarded as thefinest possible specimen of modern Gothic, in the domestic line,and a vast amount of co*ckney admiration has been wasted on it.I found it undergoing repairs, which must greatly improve it; but,after all, it is a meagre thing, when one has seen the Gothic of thecathedrals, or of such a castle as Kenilworth. I did not seemuch of the interior, as visitors were necessarily excluded, infavour of the workmen; and so after visiting the conservatories,and various outlying dependencies of this great house, I left it,not greatly overwhelmed with what I had seen. I was betterpleased with my return voyage, on the Dee, and with the river-viewof Chester.

A Trip into Wales.

From the walls of Chester, one has a very tempting prospectbefore him in the mountains of Wales. To Wales I now took myway, and first of all alighted at Holywell station, to visit thewondrous shrine and fountain of St. Winifred. A Welsh ladyhad advised me, by all means, to pay this homage to her nativeplace, and had sportively prepared me to see something verystrange, indeed, in the legendary well of its tutelar. The storywhich she told me was this, in short: that the well had sprungfrom the earth, in the olden time, just where the head of theHoly Winifred, fair and lovely as it was, touched the earth,when her barbarous lover, Caradoc, smote it off, to revenge hisdisappointed passion. Be this as it may, I found, in Holywell, avery remarkable pool and fountain, by which lay a great numberof impotent folk, as formerly they did at Bethesda, in Jewry,waiting for the moving of the waters. But no—these watersalways move. The fountain gushes up with violence, and runswith a full tide. Whether it cures or not, I cannot say. It issupposed to do so; and is used for healing purposes by hundreds.The crutches of many of those who have been healed, are reverentlyhung up over the well; and several inscriptions have beencut, deep in the stone walls and pillars of the Church whichrises above it, expressive of gratitude for cure. Here James theSecond came to worship, in his dotage, in 1686. The IrishRomanists, and modern converts, consider it a sort of duty touphold the miraculous reputation of the well, and are very zealousin such tributes to the legend and the saint. One may certainlybelieve that it is a healing spring, without swallowing the wholestory about St. Winifred; and for one, I am far from unwillingto see such springs resorted to, and used, in a religious spirit, asthe gift of God. Nay, if we might but have the truth, and not a“superstitious vanity,” I should rejoice to see them connectedwith the memory of God’s saints; and, as I washed in thecrystal waters, I allowed myself to believe that the spot hadindeed been famous for some holy martyrdom, which perverseingenuity has distorted into the fable aforesaid—of which Ihave only given the least ridiculous part. A fine and fragrantmoss, which grows about the well, and some red spots inthe stone, have furnished additional material to the fabulists,which tradition has not failed to preserve; but the light andgraceful temple which rises over it, with a figure of the saint,and which is ascribed to Margaret, the mother of Henry theSeventh, is its most substantial monument. It is now a chapelof the adjoining parish church, and I found it filled withplain benches, and used for a Sunday-school room, and for servicein the English tongue.

But I was en route for the vale of Clwyd, (pronounced Clooyd,)and so landing at Rhyl, I took a Welsh jaunting-car to St.Asaph. At the very entrance of the vale stands an old historiccastle, in utter ruins, but overhung with ivy, and nobly bastioned,and presenting a very venerable appearance. It was builtbefore the Norman invasion, and stands near the scene of thatancient battle, still commemorated in the national air—MorvaRhuddlan—which is full of traditional melancholy and plaintivesweetness. Near Rhuddlan Castle a bridge spans the Clwyd,adding a very picturesque feature to the scene; and just asyou descend to the bridge, you observe, on the projectingwall of a mean cottage, the following inscription: “Thisfragment is the remains of the building in which King Edward theFirst held his Parliament, A. D. 1283.” Oh! what a romanticland is Wales. England is fine prose; but Wales is all poetry.Even here I fell in love with it; for Rhuddlan is a trulyhistoric pile. Almost its meanest memory is that of theprogress of the second Richard, who tarried here on his wayto Flint, to be deposed by Bolingbroke. Its latest memory,however, is that of the national Bardic Festival, called anEisteddfod, which was celebrated here in 1850, with sad if notfatal results. A staging gave way, during the performance, andseveral of the fair and noble received severe contusions.

I enjoyed a pleasant ride to St. Asaph, which finally disclosedto my view a cathedral of very unpretending dimensions, on apretty hill, with a few houses grouped under its shadow,and a sightly bridge of stone. This the City of St. Asaph!Even so—for it is an ancient Episcopal See, and therefore it is acity, while Liverpool is but a town. Therefore do I loveSt. Asaph, because, of all cities I ever saw, it looks most like avillage. Indeed, as a village it would be much to my liking,as still and quiet above most villages, and sweetly embosomedamong trees, over which the solid tower of the ancient churchpresides with a motherly air, and ticks a sleepy time from itssolemn clock. It was Saturday night when I reached theMostyn Arms, and ordered my supper, and my bed-room.‘Here then,’ said I, ‘I will spend a Sunday in supremestloneliness; here I know nobody and am known of none; Iwill be a mystery to mine host of the inn, who seems tohave no other guest, dropping nothing of mine errand in theseparts, but going my way on Monday morning, with an air ofdignified secrecy, and leaving him to imagine, as he may, whatcould have brought me to St. Asaph.’

A quiet breakfast at the inn was served with such noiselessneatness and despatch, at the appointed hour, that I grewsad with my bachelor comfort, feeling first, that I ought not toenjoy so much, except at home, and then longing to be there. Itwas not my hostess’s unimpeachable fare; bread all crispwithout, and all snowy sponge within; butter golden andfragrant; prawns, gathered freshly from the clean sands ofRhyl; eggs, that were never cold, and that now were hot to thevery second of culinary time; and divers varieties and fruitsthat feasted the imagination even more than they gratified thetaste; it was not this substantial and meritorious breakfastthat made the Mostyn Arms a delightful resting-place; but itwas that entire order and decency that invested all, and thatforbade the idea of a hotel, and seemed to remind me that itwas Sunday; it was this that first charmed me, and thenmade me lonely, and then positively sad. There is often adomestic character about such an inn, in England and Wales,that is positively religious. I remember one, in which the innkeeperalways invited his guests to family prayers.

The cathedral is the very plainest of its kind, but the choir isnot without effective dignity and beauty. I attended themorning service, which was that of Pentecost, with exceedingpleasure; and yet I observed with pain, that except the childrenof the Sunday-school, there were few present, who were not,unmistakeably, of the higher classes, or at least of those whichare considered very respectable. Where were the poor? Theliveried servants of the neighbouring gentry, in their powder andplush, were perhaps of the humblest class represented; but, ofcourse, they are not the people. I was pleased, however, to seeseveral of them kneeling with their masters’ families at theHoly Communion.

After service, I was lingering among the tombs, in the churchyard,and had particularly observed that of the excellent BishopBarrow, when one of the clergy approached me, and said,“You are a clergyman, I’m sure; I beg you’ll come home with meto dinner!” Never was I so much surprised, in my life, by sucha salutation. Welsh hospitality was proving more than a Highlandwelcome! I expressed my scruples to accept an invitationwhich was probably based on the idea that I was an Englishman,and a clergyman of the National Church; but only so much themore did my new acquaintance press me to dine with him,offering to take me, after dinner, to a little Welsh parish, inthe mountains, where he promised that I should hear theservice in Welsh, and also a Welsh sermon, from himself.So very attractive a bill it was impossible to resist, and presentingmy card, I promised to be at the appointed place, at theproper hour. But I little knew how great a pleasure was instore for me.

I easily found my way to the house, which stood back fromthe road; a modest mansion, encircled with trees and shrubs.My friend himself opened the door, uttering a Welsh salutation,which he interpreted to me by a warm grasp of the hand,while he pointed me to a Welsh inscription on the wall—thattext of the beloved disciple, which enjoins him who loves God tolove his brother also. I was yet in the first flush of gratefulexcitement, when I was ushered into a small drawing-room,where a lady advanced and gave me a cordial greeting. Theclergyman introduced me to his wife, and to another lady whowas with her, and pointing to a portrait on the wall, which Iimmediately recognized, said, “you will perhaps be glad toknow that you are in a poet’s house, that this is the poet’slikeness, and that my wife is the poet’s sister.” I startedand said—“Can it be that this is Rhyllon?” I saw, in aninstant, that I was so happy as to have found my way, inthis manner, to the residence of the late Mrs. Hemans, and to anacquaintance with that sister, of twin genius, whose music is aswidely known as some of the most popular of Mrs. Hemans’delightful lyrics.

I was made to feel at home, without further preface, andthe dinner-hour passed delightfully, in conversation suited tothe day and the services of the morning, with many recognitionsof the power of our holy religion to obliterate differences ofnationality and of education, and to bind entire strangers inpractical brotherhood. The hour came to repair to the mountainsanctuary, which proved to be several miles distant, andthe whole party of us went together, in a Welsh vehicle ofpeculiar shape, but well suited to the road. As we began toascend into the hills, a fine view of the vale of Clwyd presenteditself. From the great mountain ranges, on the north and west,to the crowned crag on which rises the Castle of Denbigh, theeye took a majestic sweep, over one of the loveliest valleys inGreat Britain, and one full of romance and poetry. At last wecame to the Church, a most primitive little structure, of ancientdate, with a mere bell-gable, instead of a tower and spire, but ofa most ecclesiastical pattern in every respect. The villagers ofTremeirchion were crowding the doorway, and on entering, Ifound a large assembly of the Welsh peasantry, neatly attired,and exceedingly intelligent in their appearance. A WelshPrayer-book was put into my hand, which, being a stricttranslation of the English, I was enabled to use very profitably,in following the service. The whole was novel and attractive.I observed some old tombs and monuments, and was particularlypleased to find the altar, the candlesticks, and other parts of theChurch, garnished with Pentecostal flowers—alike fragrant andsuggestive of festive emotions, in harmony with the blessed dayof the Holy Comforter. But the sweet and simple worship ofthe villagers absolutely enraptured me. Their responses weregiven in earnest, and their chants were particularly touching.I was especially pleased with the Gloria Patri, which, asperpetually recurring, I soon caught up, and was able to singwith them, in a language of which, in the morning, I had notknown a word. Even now it lingers in my ear, with all thecharms of that plaintive intonation which seemed to me characteristicof the Welsh tongue, and which singularly comports withits prestige, as the language of an ancient and romantic people,whose nationality has been never subdued, notwithstanding theages of its absorption into that of a stronger race.

The sermon was delivered with emotion, apparently extemporaneously,and was heard with fixed attention throughout.From the text, which I picked out in a Welsh Testament, I wasable to gather some of its drift, and frequently to detect ascriptural quotation. It was evidently a Whitsuntide sermon,and the Holy Ghost, his gifts and consolations, were the blessedtheme. A sweet hymn concluded the service; and then, in thechurchyard, this excellent pastor presented me to several ofhis worthy parishioners. How was I surprised when one ofthem asked me, in English, if I had ever been at Nashotah! Afriend and relative of his had emigrated to Wisconsin, and hadthere been taken up by the brethren of that Mission, concerningwhich he had sent home many interesting accounts. I canscarcely do justice, with my pen, to the thrill of feeling inspiredby finding that the blessed influences of Nashotah were felt,by brethren of a diverse tongue, far away over sea and land,in that lonely nook of the Welsh mountains.

Deep in the wall of Tremeirchion Church is set the ancienttomb of an old priest of Llanerch, who was once its pastor. Hewas the wonder of his age for wisdom, and especially for thelore with which, like Solomon, he spake of trees and of plants.It was he who first translated the Te Deum into Welsh, andsuch was his sanctity that Satan could gain no advantage overhim, except through his love of science. So then, as the storygoes, Satan promised to reveal to him some mighty secret ofnature, on condition that, after death, he might claim him; andthat, whether buried in the Church, or without, there should beno release from the bond. The wily clerk accepted the bargain,and became so wise that all the land confessed his astonishingattainments, as beyond comparison, in their day; but Satan,for once, was outwitted. The sage took good care that his bodyshould be buried neither without nor within the Church; andaccordingly it is shown to this day, as part of the wall itself, andjurists are agreed that Satan must be nonsuited whenever heventures to set up a claim against the holy clerk of Llanerch.

When I ventured to contrast, in conversation with my friend,the delightful fervour of this service, with the coldness of thatwhich I had attended in the morning, at the cathedral, heanswered, with feeling:—“We Welshmen love our own language;we talk English in traffic and in business, but Welsh is thelanguage of our hearts. The Church has too generally neglectedor even outraged this principle. Our Bishops have been seldomable to address us in the speech of our affections; the dissentershave earned many captive, merely by employing the tongue ofthe people, in their exciting harangues. Where the Welshare served in their own tongue by their hereditary Church, theyseldom forsake her, and my little parish is but a small example ofwhat might be universal, if the Welsh were but considered worthyof being conciliated, by a tribute to their hereditary feelings,and their unconquerable nationality.” These appeared to methe counsels of truth and soberness. The Welsh are trulya people, in spite of their ancient subjugation, and deserve tobe treated as such, all the more for their loyalty to the BritishCrown, and for the remarkable partiality which they seem toentertain towards the Prince of Wales, whose dignity I discoveredto be something more, after all, than a mere fiction ofheraldry.

Our drive home was full of beautiful views, and after descendinginto the valley, we pursued our way through Llanerchpark, a fine estate, with which I was much pleased, althoughthe agreeable company into which I had fallen might havemade me satisfied with a scene far less lovely in itself. I spenta long evening at Rhyllon, restrained from departing by theirkind importunities, and not unwilling to prolong a personalinterview which must necessarily be the last, as well as thefirst, of what I could not but recognize as an enduring friendship.Conversation very naturally turned upon the departedglories of Rhyllon, as the nest of that tuneful nightingale, whofilled up a most brilliant era of British poesy, by the gracefuladdition of a genuine female genius. I had always admiredMrs. Hemans, chiefly because of her truly feminine muse;because, in other words, her poetry is such as man can neverproduce. Unlike others of her sisterhood, she seems to havebeen unambitious of masculine effort, content to be her ownfair self, and to give utterance to the delicious sentiments,the gushing affections, and the rapt enthusiasm which belongto the heart of woman. Delightful songstress! it was happiness,indeed, to linger for a moment in her charming abode,and to gather from the conversation of those who had knownand loved her, such hints of her life and character as a delicatefondness for her memory was not unwilling to drop in conversation,for the benefit of a sincere admirer. It was allthe more valuable, too, as mingling with many personalrecollections of Bishop Heber, whose connections with St.Asaph made him very frequently a guest at Rhyllon. It maybe imagined that I was loth to say farewell; but at last Itore myself away with those pains of parting, which are thepenalty of a traveller’s friendships. The clock of the oldcathedral tolled eleven as I passed under its aged tower on myreturn to the inn.

In the morning I rose early, and took a walk down the vale,some two or three miles, to a secluded spot, where ancient pietyhad erected a chapel over a fountain, and where it now standsin one of the most picturesque piles of ruin I ever beheld. Thiswas a favorite haunt of Mrs. Hemans, and one to which she hasdevoted some sweet verses. It goes, among the English, by thetitle of “St. Mary’s Well,” but the Welsh call it Pfynonver Capél,a very musical and pleasing name, as they pronounce it. Thereit stands in a green mead, under the shade of a tufted hill,enwound with ivy and covered with venerable moss; you enterthe door, and in the sacred floor you behold a pool of lucidwater, encompassed with an ancient kerb of stone, which preservesall the grace of outline of the base of a massive column ina Gothic cathedral. The old architect has shown, in thispeculiarity of his pool, a truly inventive genius. I am surethe legends of the sacred spot must have been many and mostromantic.

A hurried walk back to St. Asaph, concluded my sojourn inthe vale of Clwyd. Verily, “it is not in man that walketh todirect his steps;” my plans in visiting this retired spot had allbeen frustrated; but so happy a disappointment has seldom fallento my lot. The very slender enjoyment of puzzling mine host,with surmises as to my mysterious errand, had been lost in oneof the richest pleasures of my life, and I went my way from aplace which I had sought a few hours before as containingnobody to whom I could make myself known, feeling thatit would be dear to me till death, as the home of belovedfriends.

I continued my journey by railway towards the Menai Straits,catching pleasant views by sea and land, especially those ofAbergele and Gwyrch Castle. At Conway I stopped for an hourto survey the interesting ruins of its castle, into which the railroadhas made its way, piercing the ancient walls, after spanning theriver with a tubular bridge, and thus adding the utilitarian wondersof modern architecture to the decaying splendours of themediæval builder. The castle is a mass of ruin within, butretains all its external form and comeliness of tower and battlement.It was built by Edward I., and was the scene of manyof the gayest revelries of his court, during the period in which heforged the chains of the Principality. I found the descriptionsof my guide-book so literally correct, with respect to its presentcondition, that I need only transcribe them. “The walls on allsides are covered with a green drapery of luxuriant ivy, and ameadow of grass lies in the open area of its courts. The warden’sduty is supplied by a whole tribe of crows, whose solemn parleyis heard the instant that a stranger’s foot approaches, and thetowers are all alive with blackbirds, and birds of all colours, whosenotes resound the livelong day, throughout the deserted domain.”From the summit of one of the towers I had a fine view of theConway, and of its widening entrance to the sea. A fisherman’sboat, left on the sands by the receding tide, added to the spirit ofthe scene, which in every respect was worthy of an artist’s study.

Welsh Scenery and Antiquities.

The railway between Conway and Bangor runs along the sea-shore,close under the lee of the bold and rocky promontories,that defy the waves, on this imperial coast. Often indeed wefound ourselves plunged into the black night of the tunnels whichbecome necessary, in many places, from the precipitous nature ofthese cliffs, but, in general, I found even the distasteful confusionof a railway train incompetent to detract much from the emotionsof sublimity inspired by the passage along such a shore.On one side, the sea was foaming under us, and on the otherPenmaenmawr lifted its gigantic bulk to the clouds. Occasionally,as at Aber, we passed a beautiful glen, descrying waterfallsand other picturesque scenery; and by keeping a good look-out,I had a full view of the cavern called Ogo, which opens to thesea, high up in a calcareous cliff, with a mouth, singularly likethe arched entrance of a gothic minster. It is said to haveafforded a retreat, in ancient times, to the invading army of England.At last, we descried the baronial towers of PenrhynCastle, beautifully situated, on the foundations of an old Welshpalace, the fame of whose bold chiefs has, for ages, been thetheme of bardic eulogy in Wales; and soon after, we were setdown, at Bangor. It is a city in a vale, enclosed by an amphitheatreof hills, and opening to the sea, with a fine view of theMenai Straits, and of the very striking water-front of Beaumaris,on the opposite shore of Anglesea.

I found the cathedral, though an important feature in a viewof the town, a very humble specimen of its class; and the servicewhich I attended, during a pouring rain, was indifferentlyperformed. I retreated to the finely-situated hotel on the straits,and near the Menai Bridge, where, in the company of manyother disappointed tourists, I was forced to grumble away anafternoon, from which I had expected no little pleasure. Anangry wind was chafing the surface of the Menai water, and thelittle steamers, and other vessels, that went furiously by, werethe only objects to animate the otherwise gloomy spectacle, onwhich I gazed listlessly, from the windows of the George Hotel.

The next morning, though with an unsettled sky, gave us betterweather, and I went forth to view the scenery, and to crossthe Menai Suspension-Bridge, which, though now eclipsed by itsneighbour, the far-famed Tubular, is to me much the more interestingof the two, as really a beautiful specimen of art, and notunworthy of the surrounding scenery. Crossing this bridge, andfinding on the other shore of Anglesea a little steamer, with aload of Whitsuntide excursionists, going down to Caernarvon, Ilost no time in getting on board, and soon had the satisfaction ofpassing under both the chain-bridge and the tube, and of realizing,from that position, the immense height at which they overhangthe tides of the Menai. As creations of genius, they areindeed sublime; and when a coach is seen creeping over the one, inbigness as it were a fly; or when a railway train thunders throughthe other, and yet seems in comparison with it a mere toy, as itemerges and smokes along its way, one gets an idea of the immensityof each conception, which invests mechanic art with something likethe attractive splendours of the painting and the poem. In theevening, as the sun was near its setting, I surveyed the great tubeat my leisure, and walked over its roof, while a train was passingunder me. It was surprising to observe its untrembling strength,and its security at so great a height, and with a span so vast: butI was even more delighted with the views it afforded me, of theglorious scenery, mountain and marine, with which it is encompassed.They are singularly enriched with the charms of art andnature. The shipping, the suspension-bridge, with its arches andfestoons; the towns of Beaumaris and Bangor; the tall columnof the Marquis of Anglesea, and many pleasant villages and seats,as you look towards Caernarvon, afford a pleasing addition to therichly wooded shores, the flowing waters, the indented line ofcoast, the swelling hills, and last, but not least, the glorious successionof peaks that stretch along the eastern background fromSnowdon, to the Great Orme’s Head, which rises like a wall fromthe sea.

But I must not forget my excursion to Caernarvon, throughthese straits, which resemble so much the picturesque rivers ofmy own land. Many objects of interest enlivened the trip; butwhen, at last, the old walls of Caernarvon Castle rose before mysight, in all their feudal grandeur and historic dignity, I felt likeone inspired with rapture, though not the less impressed with asense of something awful and august. The character of Edwardas a tyrant and a conqueror, seemed to stand before me in monumentalgloom and massive solemnity—and when I thought ofthe feeble cries of the first Prince of Wales, as he came to lightin this stronghold of feudal tyranny, and coupled them with thosemidnight shrieks, at Berkeley, on the Severn, in which his ingloriouslife was extinguished, I realized afresh all those creepingchills of terror, with which the wildest imagery of romanceaffects the sensitive imagination of childhood. There it stood,magnificently irregular in outline, frowning over the little townbeneath, like a coarse bully domineering over a timid boy. Itstowers are really stupendous, and the aspiring parapets and embattledturrets, that bristle up from their grim summit, make astrangely confused, but self-consistent figure, against the mountainback-ground, or the clear blue sky overhead. With such afortress in full sight, it was most thrilling to give its history amental review. Piled there by a cruel conqueror, to overawethe Welsh people, six hundred years ago, it seems less terriblewith regard to them, than with reference to the story of hisQueen, and his child. Such a nest for a new-made mother, andher babe! In the depth of winter, the stern husband sent QueenEleanor here, to give birth to her child. In one of its mostgloomy recesses the royal infant was born; and thus the insultingvictor was enabled to continue the sovereignty of Wales, in hisown family, while literally fulfilling his pledge, to give the Welsha prince—born in their own country, who could speak no English,and whose character was without fault! Such a sovereignthey had promised to accept, and to obey; and hence the titleof the eldest son of British sovereigns ever since. Thus, whatis morally a mean and knavish fraud, is clothed, in historic narrative,with the glory of a warlike stratagem, and survives in imperialheraldry as if there were no truth in the saying of thepoet, that the herald’s art can never “blazon evil deeds, or consecratea crime.”

I was not altogether fortunate in my holiday, for the weatherwas alternating, continually, between shower and sunshine, andwhen I was fairly on the top of a stage-coach, for Llanberis, Ifound, to my sorrow, that shower was about to predominate for atime. However, to Llanberis I went, reserving a close inspectionof the castle to my return. At intervals, I could get some ideaof the loveliness of that charming lake, and of the wild gloriesof its surrounding scenery; but ill-luck prevailed, and Snowdonwore his cap of clouds, nearly all the time, and I was forced toretire at last, somewhat surly with disappointment. I visited,however, the ruins of Dolbardan Castle, the central fortress of achain of similar muniments, by which the ancient clans of Walesendeavoured to secure these mountain passes against the invaders.It stands, in picturesque dignity, upon the peninsula, which dividesthe waters of Llanberis into twin lakes, and is apparentlythe guardian of both. Here some Welsh lads, with a donkey,were sheltering themselves from the rain, and, by dint of muchentreaty, and a very tempting appliance of money, I gained fromthem a Welsh song, which growing somewhat animated as theyproceeded, cheered up the sombre scene, and gave to those antiquatedruins a moment’s restoration of the echoes of minstrelsy,and of the musical tongue with which they resounded of yore, inpeace and war, when the figures of bards and heroes were thefamiliar tenants of the spot. As I returned to Caernarvon, therain began to abate, and gradually the clouds withdrew, to mygreat satisfaction. The castle again rose before me, reviving theimpressions with which I had first beheld it, but less stern, perhaps,from the land side, than when beheld from the sea. I wassoon beneath its walls, which I first surveyed, in circuit, with increasedastonishment and pleasure. The materials for this vaststructure are said to have been furnished, in part, by the ruins ofSegontium, the neighbouring station of the ancient Roman army;but the feudal character now impressed on the old stones is, tome, far more interesting than their primitive history. The eagle-tower,in which the young Prince is said to have been born, isitself a fortress of massive solidity, and presents to the waters afront of bold defiance; while on the other side, now blocked upand forlorn of aspect, beneath a lofty arch, is the gate, by whichthe expectant mother entered the gloomy hold, and which stillgoes by her name. The remains of a moat and drawbridge arevisible, and so are the grooves in which the iron-toothed portcullisonce rose and fell. I entered by a gate which looks toward thetown, and over which is sculptured a rude effigy of the royalbuilder, deeply scarred by time. Within, the huge walls appearas an empty shell; they rise, like those of the great Romanamphitheatre, around an area of desolation. Here and there, indeed,are the remains of state apartments, and of royal chambers,still marked by delicate architectural tracery and handsome enrichment;but you tread on hillocks and grassy verdure, whichswell above their buried splendours, and everywhere the ruinappears absolute and complete. By time-worn and dangerousstairways of stone, you wind up to the summits of the towers,and your guide constantly cautions you to beware of slipping, orof setting foot upon treacherous places. To me, the greatest interestwas presented by the narrow corridors, which run betweenthe inner and outer walls of the entire circuit, lighted only bythe loop-holes, through which the signal horn was once sounded,and the arrow shot forth, and which open into embrasures thatwere filled of yore with armed men. Here is the projectingbattlement, by which they protected the gateway below, itsfloor is perforated for the discharge of missiles, and to enable thedefenders of the castle to pour down scalding water, and meltedlead, upon the heads of its assailants. In perambulating thesegloomy recesses, I gained distinct ideas of mediæval life and warfare,from which my knowledge of history, such as it is, receiveda vast augmentation of freshness and reality.

Dismissing my guide, I sat down on the summit of the eagle-towerand lost myself in revery. The daws, chattering amid thebattlements, alone interrupted the solemn stillness of the moment.Before me was Snowdon, now disrobed of the clouds he had wornthrough the day, and lifting a bald crown of snow to the skies.The serried outline of his dependant mountains beautifully variedthe scenes toward which they stretched away on every side. Iturned, and there was the broad glare of the descending sun uponthe sea: I was looking towards my own dear home. In themidst of meditative pleasures, I longed for the companionship ofmany, between whom and me there rolled a thousand leagues ofocean; and, for awhile I forgot, in the melancholy of that reflection,the romantic impressions which are peculiar to the spot.When I recovered my thoughts, it was only to feel more forciblythe solemnity of the short life, in which we stand between sodread a past, and so momentous a future; and before I descendedfrom that lofty station, I knelt and worshipped Him who, alone,is Everlasting.

The weather increased in serenity as the day declined. I heardthe clatter of hoofs, and a coach-horn sounding in the streets,and hastily took my seat, for a drive to Bangor, relinquishing aprojected tour through Beddgelert and Tremadoc, which I hadfound impracticable, with reference to other plans. My drive inreturn was not less agreeable than my sail in coming. Everywherethe scene was beautiful, and I was amused with the chatterof a couple of Welsh peasant women, in short petticoats andmen’s hats, who had mounted the coach-top and sat by my side.

We had bright moonlight that evening, on the waters of theMenai, and a band amused us, with music, in the grounds of thehotel. I was agreeably surprised to hear, in close connection withthe national air of England, the sprightly strain of “Hail Columbia,”which, however inferior as a musical composition, had astrong power over me, as I heard it then, and I breathed a warmaspiration to God for a blessing on my native land.

We were favoured with a glorious morning, and I took stage-coach,soon after breakfast, for a drive through North Wales.After whirling through the suburbs of Bangor, and traversingthe “Bethesda slate-quarries,” we entered the terrific pass ofNant Ffrancon. On a reduced scale, the scenery here is quiteSwiss. The rains had swelled the mountain torrents, and everywherethey were leaping down the steeps, in beautiful threads ofsilver, which terminated in fine cascades. The road wound alongthe side of a mountain, with a deep descent beneath; and therewas spread out a broad green valley, level as a floor, with a riverwinding through, and the figure of an angler stalking along itsbank. On the further side of the vale rose another mountain,abruptly, to the skies. I was reminded of Nant Ffrancon afterwards,in the Swiss Oberland, after crossing the Brunig into theVale of Meyringen, as I was making my way towards Interlachen.These Welsh Alps are indeed destitute of snowy tops anddescending glaciers. Yet they are full of sublime features; andthe flocks which climb their sides, with fleeces of milky whiteness,give a pastoral air to the solitude, which subdues the otherwiserepulsive aspect of some of their features.

It is vain for me to attempt a minute description of the pleasuresof this day’s drive. The scenery was richly varied, andafter seeing the finest scenery of Savoy, and of the Swiss Cantons,I still recall it with satisfaction, and long to go through itonce more. Our way lay along the skirts of the dreary LakeOgwen, and then over its desolate heath; from which our emerginginto the enchanting Yale of Capel Curig, was like turningfrom a page of Dante’s Inferno to a passage in his description ofParadise. Here majesty and loveliness indeed combine, in thesweet diversity of woods and waters, and vales and mountains, tofurnish an ideal of natural beauty, which might satisfy a poet ora painter. Amid all, rises the glorious summit of old Snowdon,of which I obtained my finest impressions from this spot. Thescenery of the river Swallow, by which our way continued, ismarvellously picturesque, and its waterfall is admirable, even tothe eye of an American. Near Bettws-y-coed, the panoramaassumed a more pastoral character, and gave us a glimpse intothe Vale of Llanrwst; and then, for a long time, every turnopened new scenes of beauty and delight. At Cerrig-y-Druddion,if the scenery was distasteful again, not so were the trout fromthe mountain streams, on which I made a delicious repast. Itwas from this place, to which the poor prince had made good hisretreat, that the primitive Caradoc, with his family, were carriedprisoners to Rome, where he made that famous speech, which isthe memorial of his name. Through various scenes of interest,which I might be more willing to enumerate, were only their namespronounceable, I reached Corwen, where was the hold of Glendower,and where, in the ancient Church, I visited the tombinscribed Jorwerth, Vicarius de Corvaen Ora pro eo. At the innsat an old blind Welshman, playing the Welsh harp, and solicitingcharity, which, for Homer’s sake, no one could refuse.Thenceforward the scenery again increased in interest.

The Vale of Edeyrnion opened into our view as we continuedour journey along the windings of the beautiful outlet of theBala Lake, and from hence to Llangollen, beauty, rather thangrandeur, was characteristic of the scenery. But no every-daysort of beauty is to be imagined when I speak of this charming region,at which it was a feast to look, even for a moment. Theswells and slopes of the land; the variety of the foliage; thegraceful curves of the river-banks; and the outlines of themountainous distance, with the hues which various tillage, andcrops, gave to the meadows and the upland, were continualsources of delight, in which there was no monotony, and no surfeit.Nothing was wanting, but only the kindling eye of someenraptured friend to meet my own, and a voice to say with mine,“This indeed is a paradise!” Such would be the exclamationof any admirer of natural scenery, at the point where the ruinouspile of the Abbey of Valle Crucis lifts into view the archand tracery of its great East window, amid the harmoniousboughs and verdure of gigantic trees. It is a favourite viewwith painters, and has become familiar from the efforts of bothpencil and burin. Scarcely less so is the conical hill, whichoverhangs Llangollen, and on the summit of which some remnantsof wall that serve to give a very picturesque completeness to itsoutline, retain the name of Castell Dinas Bran, with the reputationof a primeval British work. At Llangollen, a handsomebridge, which spans the river Dee, blends with the prospect ofthe town in pleasing proportion. I climbed a little eminence,and broke through a sort of copse, into the pleasant grounds ofPlas Newydd, the famous retreat of two eccentric ladies, who,not quite a hundred years ago, while Llangollen was yet unsungand unknown, became recluses of the Vale, and lived here inphilosophical contempt of the world, and in ardent communionwith nature. They both rest in the parish churchyard, whereone stone records their several dates, and those of an humble girl,who was long their faithful servant. As they were persons whohad figured in the gay world, their story has become a sort oflocal tradition, which is always repeated with respect; and portraitsof Miss Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler, in full Welshcostume, are sold in the shops, and hung up at the inn. I couldnot greatly admire their cottage; but it was, no doubt, quite snug,and pretty enough for two old ladies that were of a mind to bephilosophers.

The Wye and the Severn—Bristol and Wells.

The next day found me again ascending the Malvern hills, ona coach-top, the guard playing the merriest notes, upon his horn,as we rapidly trotted through the town. After another view ofthe vale of Gloucester, we turned into Herefordshire, and descendedinto the valley that spreads from the western slope ofthe Malverns. We had fine views of Edensor, the estate ofLord Somers, and of a monumental column, upon the crown of ahill. I was glad, too, to see on the roadside, marking someparochial boundary, a stone cross, such as is frequent on the Continent,and might, without any evil, be a familiar object in anyChristian country. As we approached Ledbury, we met a bandof gipsies in their proverbial rags and wretchedness, skulkingalong the road, and exhibiting very few of those bewitchingpeculiarities of appearance with which painters and romancersare fond of investing them. I had never met them before, andwas sorry not to be able to stop and talk with them. An impressionof awe haunted me for some time as I meditated upontheir mysterious barbarism, and tried to recall the glimpse oftheir weird features, which I had caught as they passed by. Inever saw any of their kind, on any other occasion afterwards,and think they must be growing scarce, even in England.

At Ledbury I was particularly struck with an outside view ofthe parish Church, which is but one of a thousand churches inEngland which of themselves are enough to reward a traveller forjourneying through it. Sir Walter Scott has justly awarded tothem the credit of being the most beautiful temples in the world,and the most becoming for their holy purposes. Our next stagebrought us to Ross so famous for the memory of John Kyrle and hisbeneficent deeds. Its “heaven-directed spire” surmounts the hill,on which the town is built; and every where, in Ross, the tracesof his good works, as well as many of the works themselves,survive to consecrate his name. The house in which he dwelt isadorned with a medallion portrait of “the man of Ross,” sunk inthe wall, and visible to every passenger. He was indeed allthat the poet has made him in descriptive verse; and he wassomething more, for he was a zealous Churchman, and a faithfulattendant upon the daily service. I made my way to the Church,and was pleased to find its churchyard cross entire, and a crossupon its gable. The interior, though very old fashioned, wasadorned with flowers, in honour of Pentecost, and its monumentsare many and curious. Among them was one of those altar-tombs,on which lie at full length a knight and his sweet dame,the latter with her delicate hand held in his rough grasp, as if theirunion were inseparable by death itself. I was deeply touchedby such a memorial of love, which we must believe to have beensincere, and to which fancy attributes all that is constant on thepart of the lady, and all that is chivalrous on the part of herlord. But where is the monument of Kyrle? There is a bustand an inscription, but his monument, like Christopher Wren’s, isthe Church itself; for he built its spire, and something morebeside. There is a story, too, that when the bells were cast, hewas present, and threw into the melting metal a silver tankard,from which he and the workmen had just drunk to the king’shealth. As I was passing round, the sexton said to me, “youshall now see something that you never saw before,” and hepointed out a couple of elm trees, growing in the Church, andreaching to the roof. What is the more remarkable, they aregrowing in the pew where the Man of Ross was accustomed toworship, as if to testify the fidelity of God to the promise—“Heshall be like a tree, planted by the water-side, his leaf also shallnot wither.” One would almost believe that they must havebeen planted on purpose, but the truth is rather the reverse.They are in fact the fruit of Kyrle’s own planting; for he set arow of elms in the churchyard, which were cut down by a churlishvicar, but from which these shoots have sprung up in thehouse of God, as it were in silent remonstrance. It is hard notto see something providential in the coincidence, by which, whatwould be a curiosity anywhere, is thus connected with the blessedexample of one of the most benevolent and virtuous of mankind.The trees screen one of the windows, and appear to thrive in theclimate of the sanctuary, their leaves putting forth earlier, andfalling later than those of the trees in the churchyard.

A fair was going on in the town, and the streets were filledwith the peasantry. Everywhere pedlars were setting forth themerits of their wares, and among them was a fellow bawling—“Here’sthe last dying speech and confession, &c.”—as he exhibitedthe doleful print of a gallows and its dangling victim.Such incidents are not rarely met in the narratives of a certainclass of novelists, and I have certainly read, somewhere, of justsuch a market-day as I encountered at Ross. I walked slowlydown the hill into the valley of the Wye, turning constantly toobserve the fine situation of the town, till the coach overtookme. The country here is rich but simply pretty, and as yet itrevealed none of the glories for which the Wye is celebrated.Goodrich Court, a modern mansion, is a fine object, however,and the remains of Goodrich Castle are an imposing feature inthe scene; and all the more so for its association with thecavaliers, from whom it was finally taken by Cromwell, andreduced to ruins. As you enter Monmouthshire, a gloriousview begins to open, and from about this point the scenery of theriver increases in wildness and grandeur. I was, at first, at aloss to know why Wordsworth should have called the Wye sylvan,for such was far from being its character, in Herefordshire; butnow the entire appropriateness of the epithet was disclosed, andyet I am well aware that I lost many of the finest features ofthe stream by not descending it in a boat. With Monmouthitself, I was somewhat disappointed, its Church having sufferedmany things of many churchwardens, and the remains of thepriory, where Henry the Fifth was born, having become incorporatedwith the modern walls of a boarding-school. I leftMonmouth with gratitude to Fluellyn for his idea of its wondrousresemblance to Macedon, which I should not have imagined, hadhe not helped the world to it. The glories of the scenery roundSt. Briavel’s and near the tiny little Church at Llandogo, shouldhave had the further benefit of his minute and luminous descriptivepowers, as I can liken it to nothing else in the world butit*elf, for its combination of simply rural features, with thosewhich are highly picturesque. An American is struck with thecharm imparted to such scenery, by a pretty church or a neatand secluded hamlet, quite as much as he is impressed by thescenery itself; and I was often led to think what the valley of theMohawk might be, had it the advantage of that still retirement,and of those Arcadian groves, which impart a peculiar effect tothe sterner beauties of the Wye. At Tintern Parva we wereshown the ancestral habitation of Fielding, and passed a newchurch which was well worthy of note. But the neighbourhoodof Tintern Abbey eclipsed every other thought, and I strainedmy sight for the earliest possible glimpse of the delightful vision.A storm which had been threatening, broke upon us, unfortunately,at the critical point, and I first beheld that magnificent ruin incirc*mstances which increased its desolation. In spite of therain, however, I embraced an opportunity of entering its wallsand surveying it for a few moments, amid the wild confusion ofthe elements. The rain dashing through its rich but brokentracery, and the wind tossing the gorgeous drapery of its mantlingivy, with the melancholy sighs it gave amid the columns, andalong the aisles, deepened the solemn impression of the spot, andgave a heightened interest to the thoughts of its former sacred uses,when it resounded with the chant of priests and the swells ofmusic from the organ. As I purposed a more leisurely visit infairer weather, I was willing to have seen it thus amid storm andtempest. I resumed my journey to Chepstow; and as the stormsoon abated, and was succeeded by sunshine, I had many fineviews of the windings of the river, some of which are very bold,sweeping, amid precipitous banks, crowned with the richestfoliage and verdure. Chepstow itself has many beauties, as seenfrom the Wye, and after slightly surveying the town and castle,I crossed the iron bridge, and drove to Tidenham, where a kindwelcome awaited me at the vicarage, from one with whom I hadcorresponded long before I left America. I was sorry, however,to find myself a source of disappointment to the childrenof my kind entertainers, who had been unable to divest themselves,notwithstanding the benevolent dissuasions of their parents,of the romantic idea that the American visitor would presenthimself in aboriginal costume, and contribute to their amusem*ntby exhibiting his red visage, and lending them his bow and arrows.Their father is now a Missionary Bishop, in Africa.

This vicarage is of modern erection, but in very good ecclesiasticalstyle, and has a pretty garden, in which I saw my amiablefriend the vicar taking the air, when I rose in the morning. Iwas glad that so pleasant an abode had fallen to the lot of so gooda man. After breakfast, while he visited his poor and sick, Iwent on a little pony, with a servant at my side, to co*ckshootHill, which looks down upon the Wye nearly opposite the Windcliff.Tidenham itself stands on a narrow peninsula, with theWye on one side, and the broad Severn on the other, and justbelow co*ckshoot Hill this peninsula forces the river Wye tomake an extraordinary bend beneath its precipitous banks, onwhich stands the pretty hamlet of Llancaut. The view, at thispoint, is therefore peculiarly fine, and affords, in one spot called“Double-view,” the unusual spectacle of both rivers—the Wye,with its sylvan charms on one hand, and the expanse of theSevern, with its ships and steamers, on the other. I was bestpleased with the Wye, the Windcliff, the projecting rocks calledthe Twelve Apostles, and the entire scene on that side, as far asthe eye could stretch, above and below. The farms and fruit-treesof the peninsula were also pleasing in their way, and the moreso, because it was now the season of blossoms, and every breezewas fragrant. My return was enlivened by views of the Severn,which were often much heightened in effect by the turns of theroad, and the openings amid thick trees, through which I descriedthem; and I was gratified to be joined by a labouring man, whoinsisted on walking with us, and pointing out favourite prospects,apparently not so much in hopes of a fee, as to testify his regardfor a guest of the vicar, of whom he spoke in unbounded termsof respect, as the blessing of the country round. I found theChurch opened, and service going on: and when it was over, wasinformed by the vicar himself of the various merits of the sacredplace as an architectural specimen. The font was an ancientNorman one, of lead, and is regarded as curious. So are thewindows, which exhibit a semi-flamboyant tracery, by no meanscommon. A gradual restoration is going on, at the expense ofthe vicar and his personal friends; but I was amused by thewhite-washed tower, which remains thus disfigured, while the restof the Church has been reduced to its natural color. It seemsthat this white tower has long been a landmark of the Severn,and serves a useful purpose, in the piloting of vessels. With aninterference which would strike us Americans as very arbitrary,the Government, therefore, forbade that the tower of TidenhamChurch should be made to look any less like a whited sepulchre;and so it stands, as a pillar of salt, to this day.

The rest of the day was devoted to an excursion to Tintern,to which the ladies contributed their agreeable society. Theparty proved a very cheerful one, and we encountered scarcelyany fatigue of which our fairer associates did not bear their fullshare. In surveying the remains of Chepstow castle, only, werewe without their company. I found it a noble ruin, even aftermy visit to Caernarvon. It was reduced to ruin by Cromwell,after a desperate fight, but one of its towers was long afterwards—fortwenty years—the prison of Henry Marten, the regicide.It must once have been a splendid hold of feudalism,and its halls and windows still retain many traces of the Saxonand Norman richness of its original beauty.

We climbed the Windcliff, and thence surveyed the combinedglories of land, and sea, and of inland stream, which are its peculiarcharm. Where else can be seen such a prospect: such inlandriver scenery, blended with the view of a broad arm of ocean,side by side, and apparently not united? It would be vain forme to attempt description, but I found it all I could ask; and onthat breezy height recalled to mind those incomparable lines ofWordsworth, composed upon the spot or near it, in which heexhorts the lover of Nature to store up such scenes in memory,and thus make “the mind a mansion for all lovely forms.”There are caves below, through which one of my female friendsled me like a Sybil; and then I went under her kind escortthrough a wild American-like wood, to rejoin our carriage. Twomiles more of delightful scenery, and I stood again in TinternAbbey, and wandered through its holy aisles, and climbed to itsvenerable summit. Here, over the lofty arches of the transept, Iwalked, as in a path through a wood, the shrubbery growingwildly on both sides, as on the brow of a natural cliff. Whiteroses flourish there in abundance; and it is only at intervals thatyou can get a glimpse of the Abbey-floor beneath. Around youis a beautiful prospect of the river, and of an amphitheatre ofhills; and when you stand in the aisles below, and view thesesame hills through the broken windows, you feel that they shouldnever have been glazed, except with transparent glass. On thewhole, when the beauty of its situation is fully taken into consideration,in addition to the original graces of its architecture,—itsgraceful pillars, its aerial arches, its gorgeous windows,—andwhen we observe the fond effect with which nature has clothedthe pile in verdure, as if resuming her power with tenderness,and striving to repair the decays of art, with her own triumphantcreations; when all these, and other attractions which cannot beenumerated in description, are united in the estimate, I cannotbut give to Tintern Abbey the credit of being the fairest sight, ofits kind, which ever filled my vision. I have since seen manysimilar objects, combining architectural beauties with those ofnature, but were I allowed to choose one more glimpse of such apicture, among all, I think I should say to the enchanter—“letme have another look at Tintern.”

Crossing the broad mouth of the Severn, in a little steamer,we entered the Avon, of a fine afternoon, just as a fleet of similarsteamers, taking the tide at flood, were hurrying out to sea. Itwas a most animating sight, as one after another chased by—thisfor London, that for Dublin, another for Glasgow, and so on; allflaunting the red cross of St. George, and displaying a full companyon deck. I was agreeably surprised by the beauty of thisriver, which is varied by woods and cliffs, and many strikingobjects, among which a little ruinous chapel, upon a verdantpeninsula, particularly struck me, and the more so, as havingbeen formerly used by fishermen, before going upon their voyagesin the channel, as a place of prayer for protection and success.But this river has an historical claim upon the affectionate regardof America, as having sent forth two expeditions to our shores,of the greatest consequence to our whole continent. Upon thesewaters crept forth to sea, in 1497, the little “Matthew,” onwhose deck stood Sebastian Cabot, “uncovering his fine Venetianhead” to take a last farewell of his native city, as he boldlystood out to the ocean in search of the New World. Upon thatexpedition depended the discovery of the mainland of America,and the occupation of the northern half by the Anglo-Saxon race.To this glorious reminiscence has been added the fine contrastpresented by the “Great Western,” as she launched forth, in thissame river, only a few years ago, in her majestic strength, toinaugurate a new era in the art of navigation, and to unite theOld World and the New by bonds of intercommunication, whichimagination itself had never ventured to portray in their presentstage of wonderful development. “Upon no waters,” says apopular writer, “save those of the winding Avon, have two suchsplendid adventures as these been enterprized.”

Passing under the heights of Clifton, and landing in Cumberlandbasin, I climbed the steep, took my lodgings at Clifton, andthen went on foot into Bristol, over Brandon-hill, enjoying themagnificent panorama which unfolds on every side, and comprehendsthe finest features of town and country, of water and ofland. My first thought was the famous Church of St. MaryRedcliffe, and thither I took my way. The poetry of Chattertonwas the delight of my boyhood, and this Church I had long desiredto see. I found it undergoing restoration, but not the lessopen to inspection. It is indeed a masterpiece of architecture; itsclustered pillars, and the fan-like spread of its vaulting, with itsfourfold aisles, and rich quatrefoil windows, affording the keenestsatisfaction to the artist, and affecting every man of taste withoverwhelming emotions of religion, which may well be madesalutary to the soul. Here are some pictures by Hogarth, of acharacter superior to his general efforts; one of which, representing“the Ascension of our Lord,” shows him to have possessedfine sensibilities, and a delicate appreciation of the more poeticalprovinces of his art. The monument of “Master Canynge,” theMayor, who figures so richly in the “Bristowe tragedy,” attractedmy profound attention, as did also several others less mentionable,though very interesting. Of Chatterton himself, no monumentis to be seen, save the old muniment-room, and the chests,from which he fished his bold idea. The monument, which waserected a few years since to his memory, has for some reason beenremoved, and now lies dishonoured in the crypt. It is impossibleto think of that marvellous boy without pity, in spite of his moraldelinquencies; and I can scarcely read the ballad of CharlesBawdin without tears, excited as much by the fate of its author,as of its hero. His moral perceptions must have been of a finecast, or he never could have conceived that poem; and whowould not choose to believe that had he encountered mercy andloving-kindness from those who ought to have befriended him, hissplendid genius might have been made a rich blessing to himselfand to the world?

As the solemn twilight was coming on, I visited the cathedral.I had not promised myself much from such a visit, for ’tis a mutilatedpile, of which the entire nave is lacking. Yet, whetherit was the effect of the dim and dying daylight, or whether thearchitecture and the sepulchral charms of the holy place overpoweredme, I left it with the profoundest impressions of aweand tender emotion. The old Norman Chapter-house is an architecturalgem, with its intersecting arcades, its rich diapering,and nail-head ornaments, its twisted mouldings, and spiralcolumns, and the zig-zag groinings of its roof. In the vestry Iwas shown a curious Saxon carving of Christ saving a soul. Myattention was also directed, by the sub-sacrist who attended me,to the ruins of the Bishop’s palace, which fell under the violenceof the mob, in 1831, when good Bishop Gray so beautifullydistinguished himself and his Order, by exhibiting an apostolicharmony of meekness and resolution. But it was in walking theaisles of the cathedral itself, under the deepening shadows of theevening, that I experienced the full effects which such a placeshould inspire. From the old and decaying monuments of knightsand their dames, I passed with elevated feeling to the modernachievements of Bacon and of Chantry. A kneeling femalefigure, reflecting the faint light from its pale features and whitedrapery, and standing out of the darkness, like a pure soul emergingfrom the valley of the shadow of death, gave me a sensationof unspeakable reverence. Hard by, a chequered day-beamplayed on the fine outline of a bust of Robert Southey, and thisapparition also affected me; but when I came to the little tabletwhich marks the grave of Mrs. Mason, and spelt out, word byword, the incomparable tribute of conjugal love which it bears,I was overwhelmed; and as I read (I am not ashamed to own it)my tears dropped upon the marble floor. There was barely daylightenough for the effort, but I had known the poem from myearliest childhood, and possibly to this fact I must attribute itsoverpowering effect upon my feelings. It is to be condemnedperhaps as an epitaph; but who can think of criticism whenborne along on such a tide of heavenly affection and triumphantfaith? I trembled to think I was standing upon the relics of somuch loveliness and purity.

She must have been an angel, to have inspired so much feelingas agony has compressed into that one line! and then, what animage of more than mortal beauty rises before us as we read—

And did ever love paint such a portrait, in a few touches ofpassionate apostrophe, as in those in which the heart of her husbandspeaks on?

Never was the glory of true female character so enshrined inlanguage before; but this is not all! The ideal of the Christianwoman is brought out in its completeness in what follows:—

Here is the tender form, and timid step, with all the heroism ofthe female saint, descending into the dark valley: and at thesame time here is the transcendent tribute—

And now comes triumphant faith:—

I am probably failing in my desire to carry my reader along withme in my own conception of the exceeding merit of these verses,as embodying some of the sublimest, and some of the tenderestaffections of the regenerate heart, with the smallest possible sacrificeof that eloquence which is generally mute, in proportionto its expressiveness: but I cannot deny myself the pleasure ofrecording the fact, that their power over my own feelings, as Iread them on the spot, and in the circ*mstances which I havehinted, was such as beggars description.

A moonlight ramble on the heights of Clifton, and another inthe early morning, next day, concluded my rapid visit to thisregion; and I took the top of the coach soon after to the city ofWells. This little journey over the Mendip hills, which gave mefrequent opportunities for walking, was enlivened by the conversationof a sharp-featured little dissenting minister, who volunteeredhis opinions upon all subjects, and who seemed peculiarly anxiousto give me his own opinions of the clergy of the Church. “Thereare,” said he, with an oracular look, and the keen expression ofa desire to know how the fact might strike me, “there are 18,000Church clergymen in England: of these, there may possibly be4,000 who are in different degrees evangelical; 4,000 are viciousand idle; and 10,000, including all the young clergy, are Puseyites,who neither know how to teach the Gospel, nor what the Gospelis!” He thought there was no prospect of any disruption betweenChurch and State; and, at last, whispered in my ear, thathe had serious thoughts of emigrating to America. I was amazedat this little man’s utterly unconscious lack of Christiancharity. Of the 10,000 clergy whom he thus denounced inthe gross, as evil-minded men, I had myself been for weeks closelyassociated with many, in whom I had seen exemplified everyChristian grace, and from whom I had gathered lessons of practicalpiety, for which I had reason to bless God. For patience intribulation, and for pastoral fidelity; for lives devoted to the goodof men, and fervent with zeal for the glory of God, I had neverseen their equals; and now, to hear them stigmatized in a mannerso cool and professional, by one who soon betrayed his personalanimosity by adding—“and us, dissenting preachers, they treat asa race of upstart tinkers”—made me lament for poor humannature and its deceitful workings even in good men’s hearts! Iconsoled my friend by hinting that, in America, the Presbyterianand Congregational pastors had long professed a somewhat similarcontempt for the clergy of the Church, having for nearly twocenturies been the religious chieftains of our country; but I venturedto intimate that we did not on that account feel the lessrespect for ourselves, or think it right to deny them the credit ofmany estimable qualities, and the right of being judged by Himwho alone searcheth the heart. I believe it was after this, thatthe worthy man proposed adding himself to our population; ascheme in which I could not discourage him, convinced, as I was,that a taste of our religious condition might perhaps change hisviews as to the comparative evils of the English Church, andthose of the Saturnalia of unbelief which are fast developing underthe influences of our illimitable sectarianism.

Glastonbury—Wells—The Jubilee.

I found in the ruins of the abbey at Glastonbury a full rewardfor my efforts to pay them a visit. The architecture ofthese ruins is of a character widely different from that of Tintern;and the surrounding scenery, though marked by one bold eminencecalled the Tor, is that of a fat agricultural region, whollyunlike the romantic valley of the Wye. Yet the old wattledchurch of the early Britons which once stood here; the traditionthat Joseph of Arimathea proclaimed the gospel on this spot; thelegendary interest that attaches to the memory of St. Dunstan,and the superb remains of what was once the richest monasteryin the kingdom, invest the now silent precincts of the Abbeywith peculiar charms. The chapel called St. Joseph’s is still anexquisite specimen of art, and in its crypt is a spring reputed toderive extraordinary virtues from some association with his visit.A huge stone coffin, lying empty and dishonoured in the aisle ofthe Abbey Church, was shown to me as having once containedthe corpse of King Arthur. Here again was the figure of an oldabbot; and as I strode over the clovered floor of the holy place,amid broken corbels and shattered columns, I found an artistseated among them, at his task, sketching the beautiful remnantof an old turret, which rises amid the surrounding wreck,almost the only uninjured memorial of the former glory of thepile. At a distance, which gives one an idea of the great extentof the old establishment, stands the kitchen of the monasterystill entire. It is an octagon, of vast circumference, and containsseveral curious relics of the Abbey. I next visited St. Benedict’sChurch, which disputes with several others the claim of being theoldest in the kingdom; and so, taking a post-chaise, drove backto Wells, after a due reverence to the celebrated thorn which issaid to be the lineal successor of St. Joseph’s walking-stick, andwhich blooms every year, at Christmas as well as in the earlysummer. Of its blossoming at Christmas, or Epiphany, I supposethere can be no doubt. I was assured, on the spot, thatsuch was the case. King Charles used to make merry with thepapists by calling their attention to the fact that it refused toobserve the Gregorian Calendar; and when, in 1752, New Stylewas introduced into England, some two thousand of the neighbouringpeasantry assembled to watch this thorn on Christmas-eve,who, when they found it stubbornly postponing its homage,but punctually putting forth blossoms at Old Christmas, asusual, refused to recognize the novelty, and kept their holidaysaccordingly. It must be supposed, therefore, that Twelfth dayis the real festival which it honours with its strange efflorescence.

The cathedral of Wells struck me as surpassing all that I hadyet seen, in its way. The exterior view is fine, and the front isenriched with the most lavish display of sculpture, kings, queens,and saints, each in an embellished niche, and all together conveyinga most gorgeous impression to the beholder. But the interiorwas far more impressive. Its nave was fitted with a pulpit andbenches, and had the appearance of being used and frequented.But the choir and Lady-chapel were in process of restoration, ona magnificent scale, and appeared, indeed, quite new. Here wasa modern work, not inferior to the old: and when I observed therich effect of the creamy Caen stone, contrasted with the darkand polished pillars of Purbeck marble, and marked the effectiveintroduction of colours and gilding, amid the delicate foliationsand tracery of stalls and tombs, then, first, I understood whatmust have been the magnificence of these cathedrals, when newand entire! It was pleasing to see such proof that the Churchis still instinct with all the spirit of mediæval taste, under theinfluences of restored purity of religion; and that all the cunningof Bezaleel can be still employed by our reformed ritual,though the craft of Demetrius, in making shrines for idolatrousservices, is no longer required.

I will not weary my reader with the numerous details of thisglorious pile, nor with those of the Bishop’s palace, its moat anddrawbridge; nor yet with memories of the blessed Bishop Ken,which still linger in fragrance about these holy places: but Imust observe, that the present Bishop has done a good work inrestoring to his cathedral the important feature of a theologicalschool. In his palace is their chapel, a most appropriate one;and as I went through the cathedral, it was pleasant to see severalstudents in their gowns, lingering here and there in the aisles,and vanishing and re-appearing amid the columns.

A romantic drive from Wells, full of interesting views, broughtme to Bath. Here, too, was much to see; but its Abbey is apoor object after Wells, and the town of Beau Nash need notlong detain an ecclesiastic. I left, in the night, for Berkshire;and next day, which was Sunday, was present at an Ordination,held at Bradfield Church, by the Bishop of Oxford. The Church,and neighbouring College, at which I was a guest, are wellworthy of description; but I have only space to add, that theceremonial of Ordination differed from our own only in the minuteparticulars of the oath of supremacy, and in the Bishop’ssitting in his chair while administering the imposition of hands.Thirteen priests, and a larger number of deacons, were admittedto Orders. The preacher was the estimable Sir George Prevost;and at Evening Prayer, I had the great satisfaction of addressingthe newly ordained clergy, by appointment of the Bishop, andafterwards of dining with him, and them, at the College, whereI am happy to testify that all things were done unto edifying,until the close of the day. I was charmed with the Bishop’smanner in private intercourse with his younger clergy; and notless gratified to learn that the Ordination had been preceded byhis personal conference with each individual, in which the awfulresponsibilities of the ministry had been freely enforced, and fullyrecognized. Those whom I had seen ordained, had come to thatsolemnity, therefore, with the fullest sense of its unspeakable consequencesto their souls; and, so far as could be ascertained, withholy resolutions to be faithful unto death.

The solemnities of the Jubilee of the Venerable S. P. G., nowcalled me back to London, and to a renewal of its social pleasures.On the morning of the 16th of June, I attended, atWestminster Abbey, with a large number of the clergy, the openingservices. It was a memorable occasion; the choir of theAbbey being filled with a dense crowd of worshippers, amongwhom, to judge by their looks and complexions, were men “outof every nation under heaven.” The Bishop of London was thepreacher, and gave us an appropriate sermon, characterized bythe finish for which his performances are noted, and not deficientin feeling or fervour. It contained gratifying allusions to theAmerican Church, one of whose prelates, Bishop Otey, was present,in the sanctuary, and assisting in the services. A largenumber of communicants knelt at the altar; and while severalof my English friends made an effort to receive at the hands ofthe Bishop of Tennessee, in gratifying their feelings of Catholic intercommunion,I found an equal satisfaction in receiving theHoly Sacrament from the Archbishop of Canterbury. Duringthe whole solemnity, which filled up several hours, my mind waspowerfully impressed with the historical spirit of the place; andwhile I listened to the sermon, glancing occasionally upward tothe vaulted roof, or allowing my eye to wander away among thecolumns of the nave or choir, it was impossible to divest myselfof associations the most sublime, that seemed to swarm aroundme, like “a cloud of witnesses,” blending the interminable pastwith the momentary present. Here we were, in our turn, uponthe stage, the great actors of past centuries lying all around us!Through yonder gate, beneath the great rose-window, pomp andprocession have entered this holy place, age after age; and here,one after another, each as real in its time as that which occupiesus now, have the great solemnities of the nation been celebrated.These arches and aisles looked just as they look this minute onthe day when Laud ushered in King Charles to receive his crown,and when, just here, he was presented, to the Lords and Commonsassisting at that pregnant moment, as their anointedSovereign. The thought of all that has since passed on the samespot, seemed to compress into the mere drama of an hour, themighty history of which such was the opening scene. Then thethought of the entire ignorance of futurity, by which such apageant was made real in its time! Imagination places us backamong the men of a by-gone age; but we cannot strip our individualityof its historic knowledge, and we behold their doings withthe eyes of a seer. I seemed to be listening to the shout of“Long live King Charles”—and at the same moment foreseeingthe scaffold at Whitehall. I seemed to wonder that others couldbe ignorant of what was coming: and to feel compelled to forewarnthe King of the dreadful future. Just so the jubilant coronationof Charles the Second, and the melancholy inaugurationof his successor, flitted before me, with the events of years condensedinto a moment: and then again I found myself goingback to the days of Elizabeth and her hateful sire; and somounting to the Plantagenets and Normans. It is said that wecannot think of two things at once: but certainly, while I wasabsorbed in the sermon, I was yet occupied with such thoughtsas these, and, in fact, was giving the preacher the full benefit ofall this as a background, while I looked on him as the prominentfigure of the picture. The psalms for the day had been exceedinglysuggestive and appropriate; they were the Deus venerunt,the Qui regis Israel, and the Exultate Deo; and all the while I wasmentally contrasting 1851 with 1651, and saying, “What hathGod wrought!” That day, two hundred years ago, the Puritanswere in the Abbey, making havoc of its holy things, and exultingover the annihilation of the Church of England. They supposedher exterminated, “root and branch:” it was a felony to read oneof her ancient Collects in the poorest cottage of the land. Andnow! I was surrounded by representatives of her communion,who had come up to keep her one hundred and fiftieth missionaryfestival from the uttermost parts of the earth. Beside the Primateof all England, stood before me the Bishops of Argyle, ofJamaica, and of Tennessee. Around me were kneeling Africans,Asiatics, and Americans, with the islanders of the South Seas,all partakers of her holy fellowship: and passing from such apast to such a present—what a leap my spirit took into thefuture. Another jubilee—and another! Who shall set a limitto the ingathering of nations; to the latter-day triumphs of theGospel!

When the services were over, it took some time to emancipatemyself from the spell of the place, and I wandered to and fro inthe Abbey. A dear friend, a fellow of Oriel College, caught meby the hand, and pointed to the slab beneath my feet. It coveredSamuel Johnson. “Surely old Samuel’s bones must have beenstirred to-day by the Church’s Jubilee,” said I, “but don’t thinkyou have shown me his grave for the first time; I already knowall the choice spots in this floor, and have knelt on that veryslab, and given God thanks for his servant Samuel.”

I dined that day with a party of zealous Churchmen, and supportersof the S. P. G.; and, in the evening, went to an ecclesiasticalconversazione at Willis’ Rooms. We drove, in a privatecarriage, through Hyde Park and St. James’s, and were set downat “Almack’s” as superbly as if we had come on as gay anerrand as is the more usual one of its visitors. But those brilliantrooms were now thronged with a graver company, theobject of the festivity being to do honour to foreign ecclesiasticsand pastors, who might be in London on occasion of the Jubileeand the Crystal Palace. I was presented to the Primate, whoconversed with a simplicity of manner the most impressive, andinvited me to Lambeth with a sort of cordiality, the very reverseof that stateliness and etiquette which it was not unnatural toexpect in the address of one so exalted in station. I was muchpleased with his venerable appearance, and accepted the kindappointment of an hour, which he named, for my visit to theArchiepiscopal palace, with peculiar pleasure. His Grace wassurrounded by his brother Bishops, among whom I saw, for thefirst time, the Archbishop of Dublin; a prelate of acknowledgedtalent, but whose gifts would have better fitted the Academy thanthe throne of a Primate. An Oriental Archimandrite completedthe group in this quarter; and other parts of the rooms swarmedwith solemn looking men, talking German and French with theirEnglish entertainers, or vainly essaying civilities in Low Dutchand Danish. One of these personages, who looked as if hemight have figured, with credit to himself, at the Synod of Dort,attacked me in the dialect of the Flemings, to my utter consternation.I could only stammer out a little gibberish, as a reply,and precipitately sounded a retreat, in utter distrust of my abilityto sustain a further conversation with my unknown colloquist tomutual satisfaction. I soon afterward made the acquaintance ofthe Chevalier Bunsen, with whom, as one of the curiosities ofthe age, I was not sorry to have this opportunity of exchanginga few words. The Chevalier is at home on every subject, and Ifound him communicative on the favourite topic which I venturedto start, by referring to a common friend, whom he had knownvery well in Rome. One after another I encountered, during theevening, many eminent and agreeable personages, among whomwere officers of the army, dignitaries of the Church, severalBishops, and the Earl of Harrowby. The company was altogethera brilliant one, in spite of the polemical figures who constitutedso important a part of it; and the stars and decorationsof the nobility, and of foreign officials, were quite conspicuous,among the white neckerchiefs and black broadcloth of the ecclesiasticsand pastors.

I breakfasted, next morning, with the Rector of St. Martin’sin the Fields, and then accompanied him, on a visiting tour, abouthis parish. First, I went to the parish-school, which had latelybeen rebuilt, and was deemed a model. Prince Albert, whointerests himself in such things, was to visit it that very day, andI was kindly asked by the Rector to be of the company, but wasotherwise engaged. One of the peculiarities of this building wasits ingenious contrivance of a play-ground—if that may be socalled, which was some fifty or sixty feet above the earth. Landbeing costly in the parish of St. Martin’s, the building was plannedwith a double roof, the lower one being flat, and surroundedwith a high fence, affording a safe and ample space for the recreationof the children; while the roof above them served as anawning against the sun, or as a shelter from the rain. A fineview, and as pure an atmosphere as London can afford, were additionaladvantages of the arrangement. Next, we visited theparochial baths and wash-houses, in which the poor have the bestopportunity for washing and drying clothes, and also of keepingtheir persons in a neat and wholesome condition, at the cost of afew pennies. The benevolence and utility of the establishmentmust be obvious. Next the Rector took me to see Coleman, oneof his parishioners, who was then in his 102d year, and a fineand healthy-looking man at that. What is better, he is unfeignedlypious, and joined devoutly in the prayers which were offeredby his pastor, responding with fervour, and saying, in reply toone of his questions—“I know that my Redeemer liveth.” Thisaged Christian owes his serene and consoling faith, under God, tohis early training in the charity school, established in this parishby Archbishop Tennison. He was a pupil in that school whenGeorge the Second died, and remembers the tolling of the greatbell of St. Paul’s, to announce the event. He also remembersthe Coronation of George the Third, and the procession, whichhe saw as it went to the Abbey, on that occasion. Think of hisliving to see, as he did, the procession of Victoria to the CrystalPalace, with the same pair of eyes! It was gratifying to hearhis testimony to the vast improvement in manners which hasbeen going on in London since he was a boy. He remembers thenights and days which Hogarth has so frightfully depicted; andhe says, too truly, that to be a gentleman, was to be a rake, almostuniversally, when he was a boy. “It was as much as one’slife was worth,” he says, “to walk the streets, at night, in thosedays.” The same day, I heard Mr. Sydney Herbert remark, inhis speech at St. Martin’s Hall, that this age is reputed betterthan its antecessors, chiefly because, while it cares not what a manmay be at heart, it compels him to be decent.

This meeting at St. Martin’s Hall, by the way, must not beforgotten. It was part of the Jubilee. Prince Albert presided,and did so, I must allow, in a very princely style, so far as hispersonal bearing was concerned. As he entered, which he didwith great dignity, the whole assembly rose, and sang God Savethe Queen. This struck me as exceedingly handsome and appropriate:but I was not so well pleased with the fulsome adulationwith which some of the speakers, afterwards, seemed to think itnecessary to bedaub him. He was himself guilty of a flagrantbreach of propriety, as it struck me, in alluding to William ofOrange, who happened to be on the throne when the Charter ofthe S. P. G. was signed and sealed, as “the greatest sovereign whoever reigned in Great Britain.” To this ill-judged compliment toone of the foreign adventurers who have succeeded in plantingthemselves in British palaces, a few gaping mouths in the auditoryejacul*ted the response, “hear, hear”—for which the sentencewas evidently a studied catch: but I am glad to say that thegreater part of the assembly was not such as to be so entrapped.It was a failure, absolutely, though the Times reported “greatapplause,” as a matter of course. When a prince condescends toset up for a critic upon royalty, he deserves no better success:and the ill taste of this particular attempt, on such an occasion,seemed to me offensive in the extreme. It is plain that theprince has learned his historical alphabet from Macaulay, and hasstudied no further: but I considered this straw as indicative of acoming wind, with which the founder of the House of Coburg shouldnot have threatened the Church so soon. He may yet reap the whirlwindhimself, or bequeath it to his children: for it is evident, to me,that amiable and estimable as he is, in many respects, and belovedas he is by a loyal people as the consort of their Queen, he is analien to true British feeling, and an enemy to the Anglican Church.He would Germanize the nation if possible; above all, he longsto Bunsenize the national religion.

On the whole, I found myself too much of an AmericanChurchman to relish this meeting. It was humiliating to see thevenerable Archbishop paying such deference to one who, thoughso nearly allied to the throne, is in no wise entitled to especialhomage from so august a personage as the Primate of all England:and I considered it insufferable that such official personagesas Lord John Russell, and Earl Grey, should be chief speakers,merely because of their position, although flagrant enemies of theChurch’s holiest principles. A more turgid piece of bombastthan the former delivered, I have never chanced to hear, and hiswhole appearance was, to me, ludicrously revolting. It mustnot be supposed, however, that the meeting went off without effect.It was nobly redeemed by admirable speeches from SydneyHerbert, the Duke of Newcastle, Sir Robert Inglis, and the Earlof Harrowby, as well as from the Bishops of Oxford and London.Lord Harrowby, in particular, reflecting on the Walpolesand the Graftons of former ministerial epochs with just severity,gave Lord John some wise counsels, while apparently congratulatinghim on his widely different policy, in patronizing Missions!Mr. Sydney Herbert was truly eloquent, and threw out severalsparkling abstractions, which greatly raised my estimate of hismental power; but the natural orator, among them all, was theBishop of Oxford, whose delightful voice, pleading for the creationof a staff of native Missionaries in Africa, India, and China, infuseda thrill of feeling through every heart, as he wound up withthe scriptural example of those whose first transports, in receivingthe Gospel, found vent in the expression—“We do hear themspeak, in our tongues, the wonderful works of God.”

As duly appointed, I waited on the Archbishop at Lambeth,and was received with very little ceremony, into his study,—aspacious apartment, plainly furnished, and overlooking the gardenof the Palace. His manner was, as before, extremely simple andaffable; and he conversed upon divers ecclesiastical subjects withan appearance of zeal, and with a general tone of elevatedchurchmanship, for which he is certainly not celebrated as a Primate.It was with the profoundest reverence that I listened tothe successor of Augustine and of Cranmer; and not withoutdeference did I venture to express myself, in his presence, evenon American subjects. As I rose to depart, he followed me tothe door of the room, with something exceedingly winning andpaternal in his farewell; and kindly invited me to dine with him,on a day which he named, as the only one when he expected tobe at home for some time. This pleasure I was forced to denymyself, owing to a previous engagement; and I accordingly concludedmy visit to Lambeth, at this time, by going the usualrounds in company with an official, to whom His Grace committedme. My readers may well imagine my emotions in surveyingthe Lollard’s Tower, the gallery of historic portraits, the library,and other apartments, of this most interesting pile; but perhapsthey might not wholly appreciate the feelings with which I kneltin the chapel, and returned thanks for our American Episcopacy,on the spot where it was imparted to the saintly White. I lingered,for a long time, in the gardens, thinking of Laud, of Juxon,and of Sancroft; and dwelling, with peculiar gratification in myimagination, upon the scenes between Laud and “Mr. Hyde,” ofwhich these gardens were the witness, as mentioned in the picturedpages of Clarendon.

The solemn octave of the Jubilee included Sunday the 22d ofJune, on which day special sermons were preached in many pulpits,in London, and collections made in behalf of the Society. Ireceived an appointment to preach at Bow Church, and accordinglydid so, taking as a text Genesis ix. 27, and endeavouring toshow that the existence of our own Church, in the WesternWorld, is a fulfilment of the prophecy, “God shall enlargeJaphet, and he shall dwell in the tents of Shem.” But a greaterprivilege awaited me in the evening of the same day, when it wasmy happy lot to perform a similar duty, in the Temple Church,standing in Hooker’s pulpit, and preaching to a congregation ofthe highest intelligence and character, upon the spread of theChurch in America. It was a fine afternoon, and that gloriousChurch was filled with such an assembly as I had never beforeseen gathered together on an occasion of ordinary worship. Besidesthe Bishops of Winchester and Edinburgh, who happenedto be present, with the Master of the Temple, and other clergy,the benchers were numerously represented, and the finest legaltalent of the empire was undoubtedly there collected. Tojudge by the large attendance of ladies, (some of them of thehighest rank,) the Templars were also accompanied by their families:to whom, I suppose, the music furnishes a powerful attraction,as it is justly celebrated; and the organ, though selectedtwo hundred years ago, by the critical ear of the bloody JudgeJeffreys, is of a tone proverbially sweet. The attendance ofstrangers, drawn together by the same attraction, was also verylarge, the round church as well as the choir, being apparentlyfilled. I was much moved by the anthem—“Tell it out amongthe heathen that the Lord is King”—and when it was time forme to ascend the pulpit, and to preach to such an Areopagus, itmay be imagined that it was not without feelings of emotion,such as I had never before experienced in the performance of myofficial duties. That old historic spot, where Hooker had struggledto preserve the falling Church of a single kingdom, was nowoccupied by my pilgrim feet; and coming from a new world, Iwas to attest, before such an assembly, and in the presence ofGod, the blessings which that noble struggle had secured, not toEngland only, but through her to the wilds of America, and tothe unborn generations of a new and mighty people in anotherhemisphere. The text was the prophecy of David, (Psalm xlv.17,) “Instead of thy fathers thou shalt have children, whom thoumayest make princes in all lands:” and it was my effort, (as Itrust I may say, without too free a personal confession) to improveso interesting an opportunity, in commending my countryto the respect of those who heard me, while confessing the justclaims upon her gratitude, of the Mother land, from which she isproud to derive the blessings of the Gospel, and the institutionsof enlightened freedom, guarded by the supremacy of law. Afterservice, the Master of the Temple, taking me into his adjoiningresidence, showed me a table which once belonged to his greatpredecessor, Hooker, and allowed me to sit down in Hooker’schair. He also showed me some memorials of Bishop Heber,whose missionary labours in India he had assisted, as his chaplain.The evening was passed under the domestic roof of Dr. Warren,the eminent bencher, whose remarkable production, “Ten thousanda-year,” has added to his other distinctions, that of reformingthe romance literature of the age, and of introducing a toneof high Christian morality, in place of that fashionable depravitywhich Bulwer had caught from Byron, and substituted for thedecent propriety of Scott. To his polite hospitalities I was indebtedfor some of my happiest hours in London: and the conclusionof this Holy Day was rendered memorable by manywarm expressions of regard for my country and her Church, inspiredby his conversation, in the genial society of his family andfriends.

Lord Mayor’s Banquet—Eton College—Hampton.

The Jubilee festival at Westminster Abbey was not allowedto supersede the annual sermon at St. Paul’s; and accordingly,on the 18th of June, I attended the service in the cathedral, andheard the Bishop of St. Asaph. The service was performed withthe aid of “all the choicest music of the kingdom,” for the choirsof the royal palaces of Windsor and St. James’s were added, onthis occasion, to the ordinary musical force of the cathedral,with very great effect. The clergy, with the Bishops, enteredin procession through the nave, and the Lord Mayor in robes,and with the civic sword borne before him, figured in the pageant,and occupied his stall. The sermon was scarcely audible whereI sat, within the rails of the sanctuary, but it seemed to be earnestlydelivered. Then came the Hallelujah Chorus—which Icertainly never before heard so impressively performed. “AndHe shall reign for ever and ever—King of kings, and Lord oflords!” The reverberations of the dome, and the long resoundingechoes of those noble aisles prolonged the strain, and made itlike the voice of many waters in the new Jerusalem.

It was Waterloo-day; and, while the Duke was supposed tobe feasting his friends at Apsley House, the Lord Mayor, at theMansion-house, gave a city feast to the Clergy of London, withothers, among whom I had the honour of being numbered. Itwas, in fact, a dinner given to the S. P. G., in honour of itsJubilee; and I owed my invitation to the kind offices of theBishop of Oxford. The Mansion-house is the official residenceof the Lord Mayor, and it is a conspicuous object in Lombard-street,near the Bank of England. On arriving, we were showninto an ante-room, where the Lord Mayor received us, and wewere presented to the Lady Mayoress. The room was filled withcompany, and here I met several distinguished personages whomI had not seen before. I was particularly pleased with beingintroduced, by Dean Milman, to Dr. Croly, for whose geniusand productions I have a high regard. The dinner was served inthe Egyptian Hall, so called from its original resemblance to ahall described by Vitruvius. It is a spacious banquet-room, andlooks very well when lighted, although destitute of such specimensof art as would best furnish its nudity of wall, and its many“coignes of vantage.” The chief table crossed the hall at oneend, and at right angles with this, four long tables stretchedthrough the apartment. The Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoresssat in state at the head, the former wearing his glittering collarand jewel, as well as his robes, with the city mace, sword, andother splendid insignia displayed before him. The Archbishop,with the Bishops, were seated on his right and left, dressed intheir silk gowns and cassocks, in which costume all the clergy presentwere attired. The ladies made a very superb appearance, andI should suppose the whole company numbered about two hundredpersons. The display of plate, and the general show of splendour,was sumptuous, in all respects, answering to one’s ideas of a LordMayor’s feast. An old-fashioned civic custom, moreover, wasobserved with a certain degree of punctilio, which, while highly becoming,was yet to me highly amusing, and made me feel, all thetime, as if I were dining with the great Whittington himself,especially when his Lordship sent me a glass, and invited me tothe high honour of drinking with him. The mayor of such ametropolis is, indeed, for the time, a right worshipful personage,and in the then incumbent I saw before me a most pleasing representativeof the magistracy of the greatest capital of Christendom.He is attended with a degree of state quite worthy of asovereign. It was odd, I must own, to see his chaplain comeforward, in the style described by the cynical Macaulay, and,after saying grace, retire. So, too, the presence of his post-boy,in flaming jacket and short-clothes, and glittering cap, with manyother servants, in showy and old-fashioned liveries, gave an antiqueappearance to the magnificence of the scene. The dinnerwas served with like attention to ancient ceremonies, soup,venison, comfits and all. Before the dessert, instead of finger-glasses,golden ewers were borne about, filled with rose-water,and thus every body performed his abstersion most fragrantly.At the head of each table was then set an enormous goldenchalice, with a cover curiously wrought, the Lord Mayor havinga still more magnificent one placed before him. What next?The toast-master appeared behind his lordship’s chair, and began—“MyLord Archbishop of Canterbury, my Lord Bishop ofLondon”—and so on through the roll of Bishops—“my Lords,Ladies and gentlemen! the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoressgreet you in a loving cup, and give you a hearty welcome.”The Mayor and Mayoress then rose, and taking the loving cupin hand, she uncovered it for him, with a graceful courtesy, towhich he returned a bow, and then drank, wiped the chalicewith his napkin, allowed it to be covered, and then sat down,while the lady, turning to the Archbishop, who rose accordingly,repeated the ceremony, save that he uncovered the cup, and itwas her turn to taste the draught. Thus the cup went round.It was my duty to begin the rite at the table at which I sat,and happily I received the kindest instructions beforehand frommy partner, so that I did my duty well enough for a novice: buta more beautiful ceremony, as the pairs successively rose and sat,along the splendid room, I never beheld. I thought of Vortigernand Rowena: but the origin of the custom is said to have beeneven before the days—

and when, as one lifted his arm to drink, it was deemed a necessaryprecaution that one should stand up to guard him from afifth-rib. With less ceremony, the custom still obtains in thehalls of Oxford; but where the ladies take a part in it, it is certainlya most graceful embellishment of feasting.

Instead of the usual grace after meat, a party of male and femalesingers appeared at the foot of the hall, and reverently sanga little hymn, all the company rising. His Lordship then informedthe company that “on occasion of receiving his friendsat the Mansion-house, it was his privilege to dispense with allrules save those which governed the ancient entertainments ofthe city of London, one of which enabled him to request theladies to remain at the table, and to hope for the continuedhonour of their company during the evening.” After this velvetypreface, he pronounced the first toast, with a similar softness,and then the toast-master shouted—“My lords, ladies and gentlemen,the Lord Mayor has given the Queen.” All rose, anddrank loyally, and then came “God save the Queen,” which washeartily sung. “Please to charge your glasses for the nexttoast,” was the perpetual cry of the toast-master for the nexthour, and always the toast was announced with like formality,the speeches and the music, that followed, being all that couldbe desired. The venerable Archbishop, whose wig gave him areverend air of the last century, was peculiarly happy in replyingto the usual compliments to their right reverend lordships, whoall stood while he spoke in their name. The Bishop of Winchester,his younger brother, who wore his jewel as prelate of theorder of the Garter, made a very fine appearance. The Bishop ofOxford also wore his decoration as chancellor of that order; and Iobserved that, on such occasions, he always wore it with therosette face displayed, while, in divine service, over his Episcopalcostume, the other face was exhibited; and very appropriately,as it consists of a pearl ground, with a simple cross, as in anarmorial shield. A trifling fact! and yet where one is closelyobserving the peculiarities of a Church, thus intimately workingin with all the civil and social institutions of a mighty empire, theman is a fool who would not be willing to note it. It is with aview to a just delineation of these workings, as they are, that Ioften refer to incidents, of little account in themselves. Thisdinner at the Mansion-house was especially noteworthy, as contrastedwith the spirit of a civic banquet in our own great towns;and I must own, that if it be desirable that the genius of Christianityshould interpenetrate, and transfuse all the forms of civilizedlife, the contrast is not in our favour.

The entertainment concluded at a comparatively early hour;and then I drove to another, at the residence of the estimable MissBurdett Coutts, in Piccadilly. Here, among other celebrated men,in the most brilliant party I ever saw, I first met Lord Nelson;and yet again next morning, I met him, before breakfast, attendingthe daily service at Curzon chapel. The week passed delightfully,in frequent social festivities; and I cannot but particularizea pleasant breakfast party at Mr. Beresford Hope’s—andone of those admirably contrived ones, at Sir Robert Inglis’,in which everybody is so sure to meet with everybody and everything that is agreeable. On another occasion, at his table, Isat next to Lord Glenelg, and ventured to engage him in conversationon the subject of the hymns of his brother, the late SirRobert Grant, which are so prominent in our Church Collection,alike for their scholarly and refined taste, and their devotionalfervor. He seemed pleased to learn of the value set upon themin America; and soon after, on returning to my lodgings, I foundupon my table, as a present from his lordship, a beautiful copyof his brother’s poems, which I shall always highly value.

During the week, I went up to Eton—the place of places,which I had longed to see, and where I was now invited to visitan enthusiastic Etonian. This excursion involved, of course, avisit to Windsor, whose imperial towers so magnificently over-shadowthe nest of the choicest progeny of England. Never didI receive such ideas of the moral grandeur of the British Constitution,as comprehending Church, State and Society, as, when,from the fields of Eton College, I surveyed the unparalleledabode of the British sovereign; and then, from the terrace ofthe castle, looked back upon that nursery of British youth; itsstudious halls, its venerable chapel, its ample fields for sport, andthe crystal waters of the Thames, flowing between; fit emblemof joyous youth, passing on to the burthen of the world and theocean of eternity.

When Gray looked from that terrace, over the same scene,and conceived his incomparable Ode, he said all that one oughtto say, and I will attempt no more. One question, however,which he could only ask, it is reserved for us to answer.

Among the boys whom he then saw running and swimming, anddriving hoop and playing cricket, in the old familiar scene, washe who afterwards conquered Napoleon. I saw the name ofWellesley, with those of Fox and others as celebrated, carvedin the college oak. There, too, were the busts of Hammond andPearson, and of Gray himself. The famous men of Eton seemedto be around me in legions. Who could not catch manlinessand might amid such associations? All day I loitered about thosemeads, and towards evening went upon the Thames with a merryparty, to see a juvenile boat race, in the Oxford fashion. Oh,the sport of those happy boys! One boat swamped, but the littlefellows swam lustily to shore, and ran home laughing. It was thefragrant hay-time. Every prospect—every breeze was pleasing. Asthe boats hurried by, and those patrician lads pulled away at theiroars, like day-labourers, I saw how the mind and muscles arealike developed at Eton. How can the body be feeble, that isreared with such lusty exercise: how can the mind but conceivehigh thoughts, that pursues its very sports with “those antiquetowers” on one hand, and that stupendous castle, lifting itsgigantic bulk, and stretching its majestic walls, upon the other?The boys look upon the right, and there sages, patriots, heroes,priests and princes have been bred: they turn to the left, andthere their Sovereign lives in august retirement; her imperialbanner waves above the keep; and beneath that solemn chapelsleeps the Royal Martyr, and the dust of mighty kings, whosenames are the material of history.

I made the usual circuit of the castle; but with the detailswhich every guide-book furnishes, I would not fatigue myreaders. For the mere show of royal furniture, my mind couldfind little room; and mere State-apartments, as such, were evena distasteful sight. But the noble architecture, and unrivalledsite of the castle; its histories, and the charm which associationgives to every tower and window, and to the whole scene withwhich it fills the eye—these are the sublime elements with whichWindsor inspires the soul, and impregns the imagination. Hoc fecitWykeham—is the inscription one catches, deep cut in the wallof one of the towers: an equivoque which the ambitious architectis said to have interpreted, as implying that the work was the makingof him, when asked by his royal patron how he dared toclaim the castle as a creation, and turn it into a memorial ofhimself. But who can appropriate Windsor? The humble poet,by a single song, has taken its terrace to himself; and everystone, and every timber, might bear some appropriate and speakinglegend. I thought chiefly of Charles the First. How heloved this castle! How he would have adorned it, and what ahome of worth and genius he would have made it, had he notfallen on evil times! That truly English heart beat warmlyhere, a few weeks before it ceased to beat forever; and along thisesplanade was borne his bleeding body, (on which fell the symbolicsnow of a passing cloud,) to its last sublime repose. “Sowent the white king to his rest,” says a quaint historian: andwhen, at Evening Prayer in St. George’s chapel, I reflected thathis solemn relics were underneath, I felt a reviving affection forhis memory, almost like that of personal love. The dying sunbeamsgilded the carvings of the sanctuary and the banners ofthe knights; I sat in one of the stalls near the altar, and observednear me the motto—cœlum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.When at length the anthem swelled through the gorgeouschapel—Awake up my glory—I could not but respond, inwardly,that it was meet that the glory of God should be thus perpetuallyuplifted in the palace of a Sovereign, whom he has so magnifiedin the earth. And to which of her Sovereigns does Englandowe it, that she is not now either a cracked Commonwealth,without God and without government, or else an iron despotism,in the grasp of successful usurper? He who sleeps under thatchapel said that he died “a martyr for the people:” and so he did.On the principle by which Macaulay attributes the liberties ofEngland to her Cromwells, we might attribute salvation to Judasand Pontius Pilate.

In the twilight I returned to Eton, and went and mused inthe chapel, after searching out the slab that covers Sir HenryWotton. Then to one of the Dames’ houses, (a tasteful abode,)where several oppidans were domiciled, with whom I attendedfamily prayers. These oppidans are the day-scholars of Eton:having no rooms in the college, and sharing none of its funds.They are the greater part of the Etonians, the sons of gentlemenand of the nobility, who, of course, do not require the scholarships.After a sweet sleep, interrupted by hearing the clock strikeand the chimes playing at Windsor, I rose to another delightfulday, and soon after breakfast attended the service in the chapel.Five hundred and fifty boys were here gathered as worshippers.The service was an hour long, it being the Anniversary of theQueen’s Accession. Yet, for the whole time, did those youthsmaintain the decorum of gentlemen, and worship with the fervorof Christians. This reverence in worship is said to have greatlyincreased during late years among the Eton boys, many of whomare communicants. It speaks well for their homes, as well asfor their college. What promise for the future of the Empire!

In short, the boys of Eton seem to study well, to play well, tofare well, to sleep well, to pray well. It was a holiday, and Iwent into the grounds to see the cricket match: I visited thelibrary, the boys’ rooms, and the halls. It is a literal fact, thatthey still revere their “Henry’s holy shade;” for pictures of“the meek usurper,” are to be found in almost every chamber.Last of all, I went to the river with an Etonian friend, stripped,and plunged in. I could not leave that spot without a swim;and accordingly, after a struggle with father Thames, I emerged,and soon after left Eton in a glow of genial warmth and livelyenthusiasm. If “manners maketh man,” Eton cannot fail to bethe nursery of great men, so long as it is true to itself and to theChurch of God.

My next visit was to Hampton Court, for which I found aday quite insufficient, when reduced to the actual hours whichone is permitted to devote to the survey of such a wildernessof natural and artificial charms, and to the enjoyment of theirhistorical interest. In the grounds of the palace, and in BushyPark, I found a formal grandeur, so entirely becoming a pastage, and so unusual in this, that it impressed me with feelings ofmelancholy the most profound. Those avenues of chestnuts andthorns, those massive colonnades and dreamy vistas, wear adesolate and dreary aspect of by-gone glory, in view of whichmy spirits could not rise. They seemed only a fit haunt for airyechoes, repeating an eternal Where? Nothing later than thedays of Queen Anne seems to belong to the spot. You passfrom scenes in which you cannot but imagine Pope conceiving,for the first time, his “Rape of the Lock,” into a more trimand formal spot, where William of Orange seems likely to appearbefore you, with Bishop Burnet buzzing about him, and a Dutchguard following in the rear. Then again, James the Second,with the Pope’s nuncio at his elbow, and a coarse mistress flauntingat his side, might seem to promise an immediate apparition;when once more the scene changes, and the brutal Cromwellis the only character who can be imagined in the forlorn area,with a file of musketeers in the back-ground, descried througha shadowy archway. Here is a lordly chamber where the meditativeCharles may be conceived as startled by the echo of theirtread; and here another, where he embraces, for the last time,his beloved children. There, at last, is Wolsey’s Hall, and hereone seems to behold old Blue-beard leading forth Anne Boleynto a dance. It still retains its ancient appearance, and is hungwith mouldering tapestry and faded banners, although its gildingand colors have been lately renewed. The ancient devicesof the Tudors are seen here and there, in windows and tracery,and the cardinal’s hat of the proud churchman, who projectedthe splendors of the place, still survives, in glass, whose brittlebeauty has thus proved less perishable than his worldly glory.

Yet let no one suppose the magnificence of Hampton Courtto consist in its architecture. One half is the mere copy of St.James’s, and the other is the stupid novelty of Dutch William.The whole together, with its parks, and with its history, is whatone feels and admires. I am not sure but Royal Jamie, withhis Bishops and his Puritans on either side was as oftenbefore me, when traversing the pile, as anything else: and forhim and his Conference the place seems fit enough, havingsomething of Holyrood about it, and something Scholastic, orcollegiate, also. Queen Victoria should give it to the Church,as a college for the poor, and so add dignity to her benevolence,which has already turned it into a show for the darling “lowerclasses.” I honour the Queen for this condescension to the people;and yet, as I followed troops of John Gilpins through theold apartments, and observed their inanimate stare, and boobyadmiration, it did strike me that a nobler and a larger benefitmight be conferred upon them, in a less incongruous way.Perhaps the happiest thought would be to make it for the clergyjust what Chelsea is to the army, and Greenwich to the navalservice.

Among the interminable pictures of these apartments, somemost precious, and some execrable, the original Cartoons of Rafaelleof course arrest the most serious and reverent attention.There hang those bits of paper, slightly colored, but distinctlycrayoned and chalked, on which his immortal genius exhaustedits finest inspiration! Who knows not, by heart, the Lame Manat the Beautiful Gate, St. Paul Preaching at Athens, the Sacrificeat Lystra, and Elymas struck blind? These are the autographsof those sublime works; and the Vatican itself may envytheir possession to Hampton Court. But, beyond their antiquarianinterest, I must own they have not for me the attractivenessof a beautiful copy: it would be a fine thing to own Shakspeare’sautograph of Hamlet, but who would not rather read and studythe play in the clear type and paper of a modern edition? Nextto the Cartoons, I found most interesting the old historic canvasof Holbein, with its paste-board figures; and after that, the intenselysignificant series, which may be picked out, from room toroom, as displaying the spirit of English reigns. Look at thatglorious Van Dyck! How the rich romance of the Cavaliersinvests its mellow lights and melancholy shades! There thevoluptuous age of the Restoration swims before the eye in thedreamy coloring of Lely. See how old Kneller hardens everytint, and stiffens every line, as he essays to paint for William ofOrange! Then comes Reynolds, throwing a hectic brilliancyover the starched figures and unyielding features of the Georgianage; and last of all West, with his brick-dust Hanoverians, surrenderingart itself a prisoner to the intolerable prose and incurablebeer-drinking of his times! Here and there I found a Lawrence,instinct with the spirit of a happy revival, and giving promiseof better things to come. The collections are also rich inspecimens of Flemish and Italian art; and warmed me with adesire hardly felt before in England, to be off on a contemplatedtour of the Continent.

On my way to Winchester, I was led to stop for an hour atBasing-stoke, by an idle curiosity to behold a place in whichsome of my forefathers once resided. It gave me an opportunityof visiting the tomb of the elder Warton, close by the altar ofthe parish Church. From Winchester I went by post, in thetwilight, over downs, and through dingles and dales, to Hursley,where I entered the Church, and found Mr. Keble and his curatecelebrating Evening Prayers. I had brought with me, fromHampton Court, a feeling of overpowering depression, and havingseen the admired poet in circ*mstances so fitting to his characteras a Christian priest, I was about to turn away, and driveback to Winchester, when another impulse suddenly prevailed,and I ventured to present myself. I had a preconception of hispiety and unworldliness, that affected me with awe, and embarrassedme, in approaching him; nor did anything in his cordialitydivest him of something that restrained me in his presence.Nothing could be more simple and unaffected than his manner;and yet, in a word, it was as if George Herbert had risen fromhis grave, and were talking with me, in a familiar way. Hewould not hear of my departure, but instantly made me his guest;and thenceforth I was in a dream, from the time that I first sawhim till I bade him farewell. Nothing could be more kind thanhis hospitality; nothing more delightful than the vision on whichI opened my eyes, in the morning, and looked out on his Church,and the little hamlet contiguous. Hursley is a true poet’s home.It is as secluded as can well be imagined. England might ringwith alarms, and Hursley would not hear it: and it seems all themore lonely, when one learns that Richard Cromwell retiredhither, from a throne, and after waxing old in a quiet contentment,died here in peace, and now sleeps beneath the tower ofthe Church, just under the vicar’s windows, with all the cousinryof the Cromwells around him. A wise fool was Richard! Butto think of a Cromwell lying still, in such a Church as Mr. Keblehas made this of Hursley! It has been lately rebuilt, from thefoundation, all but the tower, and its symbolism and decoration arevery rich, though far from being overdone. The taste that has enshrineditself in “the Christian Year,” has here taken shape instones. One of the windows, the gift of friends, is an epitome of thatdelightful work, and displays the chief festivals, beginning withthe Circumcision. In the minute adornment of the corbels, myattention was called to a beautiful idea, which runs through thewhole series, and which is said to furnish the hint for interpretingthe ornaments of older churches. Entering the south porch,you observe the sculptured heads of the reigning sovereign andthe present bishop of the See; and then, at the door, those ofSt. Helena, and St. Augustine of Canterbury. At the chancelarch are St. Peter and St. Paul; and over the altar, beneath thearch of the East window, are the figures of our Lord, and of HisVirgin Mother. Thus, from the present, the mind is carried onto the past; and from pastors and rulers, through doctors andapostles, up to Christ. The north porch exhibits the heads ofKen and Andrewes, of Wykeham and Fox; while the corbels ofthe exterior arch of the east window, bear those of Ambrose andAthanasius. The tower of the Church is finished by a gracefulspire, and the gilded co*ck surmounts the pile—

A grateful feeling comes over me at every remembrance of myvisit to Hursley, for I felt all the time like an intruder, receivingprivileges beyond my power to repay, while my kind entertainerseemed as one who desires no such tribute to his genius as meretourists are wont to afford. An inferior character might be flatteredto find himself sought out, of every traveller; but all theheartfelt kindness of the vicar of Hursley was no disguise, tome, of a spirit that loves the Paradise of a blessed seclusion fromthe world, and which nothing but benevolence can prompt towelcome the stranger, that desires to see him face to face, and tothank him for the soothing influences and inspiring harmonies ofhis perennial songs.

At Winchester, there are three great sights, besides several ofminor interest: the hospital of St. Cross, the college of Wykeham,and the cathedral. Let me first speak of the school, a sortof Eton, but less aristocratic, and certainly far less attractive inits site and circ*mstances. It glories, nevertheless, in its founder,and in his fellow-architect, Waynflete, and in many eminentnames in Church and State. Enough that it bred Bishop Ken;and that his initials may be found, cut with his boyish hand, inthe stone of the cloisters. In the chapel, what chiefly arrests theeye, is the gorgeous window, with its genealogy of the Saviour,displayed in the richest colours and designs. The library, withinthe area of the cloisters, was an ancient chantry, designed formasses for the dead in the surrounding graves: and, I confess, Iwish it were still a chapel, in which prayers might be offered, andthe dead in Christ commemorated, although not as aforetime.Without particularly describing the hall, or refectory, I must notomit to mention the time-honoured Hircocervus, or picture of “theTrusty-servant,” which hangs near the kitchen, and which emblematicallysets forth those virtues in domestics, of which weAmericans know nothing. It is a figure, part man, part porker,part deer, and part donkey; with a padlock on his mouth, andvarious other symbols in his hands and about his person, thewhole signifying a most valuable character. This for the collegemenials; but the boys also are made to remember by it, that, fora time, “they differ nothing from a servant, though they be lordsof all.” In the lofty school-room, they are further taught, insymbols, the Medo-Persian character of the laws of the school.A mitre and crosier are displayed as the rewards of scholarshipand fidelity; an ink-horn and a sword intimate that a blotting-outand cutting-off await the incorrigible; while a scourge suggeststhe only remedy, known to the school, short of the finalpenalty. Under these salutary emblems, the Wykeham boys ofmany generations have read and pondered the legends, whichexplain them severally, thus—Aut disce—aut discede—manet sorstertia cædi! Tables of the college laws are set up with like publicity,after the manner of the Decemvirs. It is evident that theWykehamists are in no danger of forgetting that “manners makethmen.”

Through a pleasant meadow, and by a clear stream, I mademy way to the hospital of St. Cross, founded by Bishop De Bloisseven hundred years ago: yet, in conformity with the will of thatprelate, when I knocked at the porter’s lodge, I was duly presentedwith a slice of bread and a horn of wholesome beer, whichI was just then quite thankful to receive, and to despatch inhonour of his memory. To such a dole is everybody entitledwho applies in the same manner: and a larger charity is, at statedtimes, distributed at the same place, to the neighbouring poor.The establishment to which I was admitted, after such an introduction,is one of the most interesting objects I ever saw. Itsold courts and halls reminded me not a little of Haddon; a pairof leathern pitchers were shown me, as vessels which once heldale for Cardinal Beaufort: but its chapel is indeed a relic of surpassinginterest. It is built in cathedral form, and combines bothSaxon and Norman details, with the first formal step towards thepointed arch. From the intersection of two of its circulararches, according to some, sprang Salisbury cathedral—the wholeidea, from crypt to the vanishing point of its spire. And fromthis last remnant of conventual life, why should not the trueidea of such establishments be in a similar manner revivedthroughout Christendom? Here live some dozen poor and agedmen, who else would have no home on this side heaven. Eachwears a flowing garment of black, with a silver cross shining onits cape: they call one another brother; they study to be quiet;prayer is their only business; and order and neatness reignthroughout the holy place. No one can visit St. Cross withoutpraying that the Church of England may be blessed with hundredsmore of just such homes for aged poverty, and that whereverwealth abounds in her communion, it may be devoted toerecting them.

Winchester Cathedral—Relics—Netley Abbey.

In Winchester Cathedral I attended Morning Service, on thefeast of St. John Baptist. I am sorry to say that here, too, theservice is ill-performed; not that there is nothing to enjoy init, even now: but that when one reflects what ought to be thedaily worship of such a cathedral, and what it might be, if thelaws of the cathedral were enforced, and if a holy zeal were morecharacteristic of its dignitaries: there is nothing to say but—shameon things as they are. When will the conscience of Englandclamour against such disgraceful poverty of cathedral worship;and when will the brain of England wake up to a sense ofwhat these churches might do for the nation, if rightly servedand administered? The feature of this cathedral which mostimpresses the stranger, is its far-sweeping length of nave andchoir, with the light or shadowy vistas, through columns andarches, which seem to multiply its interminable effect. In its detailsit is also very rich, and several of its monuments are of unequalledmagnificence. Here lies, in his superb chantry, Williamof Wykeham, whose mitred and crosiered effigy, stretched at fulllength upon his sepulchre, seems sublimely conscious of repose,after a life of vast achievement, in rearing schools for youth, andcolleges for the learned, and palaces for princes, and hospitals forthe poor, and temples for God. Bishop Wayneflete is not lesssuperbly sepulchred in a small chapel, or chantry, of elegant design,beautifully enriched, and gilded, and kept in completerepair by the Fellows of his College, at Oxford. His effigy bears,in clasped hands, a heart, which he thus uplifts to heaven, as itwere, in fervent response to the Sursum Corda of the Liturgy.Over against this chantry rises, in twin magnificence, that of CardinalBeaufort: but in spite of its placid air, beneath thosesolemn tabernacles one looks upon his figure with painful remembrancesof the death-scene which Shakspeare has so powerfullydepicted. “He dies and makes no sign,” is the awful thoughtthat haunts the mind, as one lingers about this perpetual death-bed;and yet it is not difficult to conclude the inspection with themore charitable ejacul*tion of King Henry—

But Bishop Fox’s monument and chapel are even more affectingthan any of these, from its peculiar combination of ingenioussepulchral devices, with elaborate graces of architecture. It isoverpowering, after examining the splendours of its canopy andfretwork, to descend to the little grated recess beneath, where thesubject of all this monumental glory is represented in the humiliationof death and the grave. It seems like looking into Hades.One sees a ghastly figure of emaciation and decay; the eyes lyingdeep in their sockets, in a frightful stage of decomposition, andthe whole frame exhibiting the power of death over the flesh ofthe Saints, but suggesting that, while patiently submitting to theworst that worms can do, it rests in hope and speaks out of thevery grave—“I know that my Redeemer liveth.” In a correspondingchapel, but of low architectural character, on the otherside of the choir, lies the cruel Stephen Gardiner, the unfortunateson of an adulterous Bishop, and the fitting purveyor of fireand fa*ggot to the Bloody Mary. The nuptials of this sulphuroussovereign with Philip of Spain, were celebrated, by-the-way, inthe Lady-Chapel of this cathedral. Strange that the sameChurch which entombs her favourite Gardiner, should also containthe sepulchre of that bloated Hanoverian, the notoriousHoadly, surrounded with such emblems as the cap of liberty, andthe Magna Charta, in close juxta-position with the crosier andthe Holy Bible! The character of the Bishop would have beenbetter symbolized by some ingenious device illustrative of thetruth, that—“the ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master’scrib.”

One cannot but hope that the superb altar-screen of this cathedralwill be more fully restored than at present, and that a properaltar, or Holy Table, will be added, such as may illustratethe true spirit of the Anglican Liturgy, and the richness of itsOrthodoxy. A poverty-stricken altar is surely no recommendationof reformed religion; and were I only an ecclesiologist, itwould delight me to show that such a Holy Table as even theCourt of Arches could not presume to desecrate, might be erected,in strict conformity with the Anglican ritual, and in perfect keepingwith such a choir, that should put to shame the tawdryBabylonianism of the Romish altars on the Continent.

While speaking of the choir, let me not forget the little chestswhich surmount the screens of the sanctuary. Who can look atthem without emotion, when informed that they contain all thatremains of princes and priests, and of mighty kings, and fairladies, their queens. There are the remains of Canute and ofRufus, of “Queen Emma and the Bishops Wina and Alwyn.”On one may be read the inscription—“King Edmund, whom thischest contains, oh, Christ receive.” Another, marking the eraof the Rebellion, with a striking trophy of its infamy, bears thelegend—“In this chest, in the year 1661, were deposited theconfused relics of princes and prelates, which had been scatteredby sacrilegious barbarism, in the year 1642.” The havoc madeby the Puritans in this holy place is everywhere painfully visible.The beautiful chapel, in the rear of the choir, is filled with fragmentsof carved work and mutilated sculpture, which bear silentwitness against the “axes and hammers” of the Puritans: whilemany a corresponding “stone out of the wall” seems to cryshame, and “many a beam out of the timber, to answer it.” Thenoble figure of a knight, in bronze, upon an altar tomb, bearsthe marks of their indiscriminate violence, in deep cuts or hacksmade by a sword, apparently in a spirit of wanton brutality. Itwas refreshing to turn from such Vandal tokens, to the simplememorial of one who lived in the age that produced them, butwhose character furnishes altogether as striking a contrast to theturbulent spirit of his times, as the still waters and green pasturesof his native land afford to the elements of the Lapland storm.In Prior Silkstede’s chapel, I paid a parting reverence to the slabthat covers the honourable remains of Izaak Walton. Verily,he served God in his generation: for when they knew not howto sport at all, he spake of fishes, and when again they sportedlike fools, he spake of men.

After a walk through sweet meads, and by a clear stream, Iclimbed St. Katherine’s hill, and took a full view of the city andits suburbs; and soon after left for Salisbury. It was, indeed, afeast day, that day of St. John the Baptist, on which I saw twosuch cathedrals as Winchester and Salisbury: the former, characterizedby all the grandeur of the long-drawn aisle—the latter,by all the glory of the culminating spire. The emotions inspiredby the one were those of a well-chanted service; but I found theeffect of the other like that of a rapturous anthem. I speak nowof the external views only: and certainly my first view of Salisbury,that fine midsummer evening, was as a vision of Paradise.The heavenward shooting of all its parts, and the consummateunity of effect with which they all blend in the sky-piercingpyramid, around which they are grouped, exceeds all that I eversaw of the kind. I only grudged to the levels of Salisbury,what ought rather to crown such a sovereign hill as that ofLincoln.

This Church is familiar to the architect as the full-blown flowerof his art. It stands in a lonely retirement from the town, and,sitting down in its precincts to enjoy the view, I found myselfuninterrupted in my meditations for a long, delightful hour, theonly intruders being some nibbling sheep that pastured under thewalls, and the chattering rooks, that seemed to amuse themselvesin making a spiral flight round the spire, and so winding up fromits base to its tapering point. Beautiful for its figure and itsdecoration, is that spire, and so is the incomparable tower, fromwhich it springs like a plant; and wherever the eye rests in wanderingover the splendours of its surrounding walls, buttresses,pinnacle, arches, and gables, all is in keeping, and one spiritseems to animate the pile. I am sorry to confess disappointmentas to the interior. It is so neglected, and has been so much impaired.The clustered columns that support the tower haveyielded to its weight, and are visibly bowed and sprung from theirpiers. The chapter-house exhibits a shameful neglect, and itsbeautiful decorations have suffered from violent abuse. The presentBishop is exerting himself effectually, however, in the workof restoration: and one cannot but hope that the next generationwill see this cathedral the seat of a living and working system ofdiocesan zeal, and the centre of Gospel life and influence to thesurrounding rural district, and its many needy souls.

A series of altar tombs, in the nave and aisles, gives a peculiareffect to the spaces between the columns, and to the arches above.Among them is the tomb of an unfortunate nobleman, who washanged for murder some three hundred years since, and overwhich was, for a long time, suspended the silken noose whichsuspended him. The tomb of a boy-bishop, marked by a littlefigure in pontificals, is a curious relic of mediæval mummeries;and not less so is the sepulchre of Bishop Roger, a Norman, whofirst attracted the admiration of King Henry I., by the gallopingpace at which he contrived to get through a mass. I paid a morereverent tribute to the plain slab that covers Bishop Jewell, who,with all his faults, deserves the rather to be reverenced, becausethis age has bred a set of men, who seem to take pleasure inspitting upon his memory, while defiling, with equal insolence,the face of their Mother the Church.

As evening came on, I took a post-chaise for Amesbury andFigheldean, where I had been invited to visit that interesting personage,Mr. Henry Caswall, a clergyman who has done, perhaps,more than any other man, to make known, in England, the historyand peculiar characteristics of the American Church. Heis by birth an Englishman; he is nevertheless in American orders,and thus, in his person, unites the Church in which he ministersto that in which he received his commission. The interest withwhich I now sought his acquaintance may therefore be imagined.After a pleasing drive over the downs, and a rapid inspection ofthe curious remains of “Old Sarum,” I found myself in a small,but picturesque hamlet, in which almost every house was thatched,clustered at the foot of a knoll, on which rose the parishChurch of “Filedean”—for so it is pronounced. In a fewminutes I was Mr. Caswall’s guest, and, for the first time sinceleaving home, I was able to talk over American subjects with onewho entirely understood them. After a cordial reception by hisamiable family, a long and cheerful review of American mattersclosed this very happy and memorable day.

I was much entertained to observe in Mr. Caswall many ofthose traits of enterprise and efficiency which seemed to me to bedevelopments of what we should call Western life, though theEnglish would consider them simply American. That he is naturallyenterprising and ingenious to a great degree, I am sure noone can doubt: it was probably this characteristic which originallyled him, though a nephew of the Bishop of Salisbury, toseek the wilds of Ohio, and to become a Missionary under BishopChase. But who, that had not been disciplined to invention inour Missionary field, could exhibit, as he does, the fruits of thisfaculty, in an exuberant degree, amid all the comforts of an Englishvicarage! A river runs near his Church; he has boats uponit of his own construction, and one has paddle-wheels. In thetower of his ancient Church, there ticks a clock of very curiousmechanism: it is entirely of his own manufacture; he cast oneof its wheels in Kentucky, and bought another in New-York!So, too, he has lately built an organ, which discourses excellentmusic; and his other ingenuities are innumerable, to say nothingof his very able works, in which he always contrives to tell whatis worth knowing, and to say what is just to the point.

In his neighbourhood is Milstone, the birth-place of Addison,to which he conducted me with obliging enthusiasm. The nativenest is a modest parsonage, hard by the Church, which is one ofthe very humblest of its kind, and has no tower. I peeped in atthe windows, and saw where Addison was baptized. Our walkwas extended to Durrington, where a fine Church was re-appearingon the foundations of a very ancient one. In the afternoonof the same day, this kind friend took me to Amesbury, wherethe remains of a Roman encampment are still visible in sometrenches and hillocks, which were made by the soldiers of Vespasian.Thence we went to see the grounds of the once celebratedduch*ess of Queensbury, and a grotto, which was formerly frequentedby the poet Gay. We passed an old lodge upon thisestate, which gave shelter, during the Reign of Terror, to a communityof French nuns. Next, we drove to the famous Stonehenge,on Salisbury plain. To me, these gigantic remains ofDruid superstition were of surpassing interest: and while myfriend explained to me the various theories of their origin anduse, I found the actual inspection of this old scene of horribleidolatry, the rather fascinating, because from its still existingaltar, one can just descry over the hills in the horizon, the needle-likepoint of the spire of Salisbury. I never felt before, thatEngland had once been Pagan, and that the Gospel had conqueredit, and made it all that Salisbury is, as compared with thisaccursed temple of the idol Bel. The Chaldean Shepherds seemindeed to have shared their superstition with those of Salisbury.

We drove over the plains, so called, to visit Wilton, and myattention was continually attracted by the shepherds and theirflocks, not unlike, in some respects, to those who are seen on theRoman Campagna. Their dogs, who do the work of men, insearching stragglers, and in driving and tending the sheep, are interestingobjects. Of course the story of Hannah More cameoften to mind as we encountered these sights. But other interestingassociations were excited by the evident remains of oldRoman roads, which traversed these pasturages in ancient times.There were, besides, some strange circular hollows, in form likesaucers, of undoubted Roman origin, which lay on either side ofour way as we drove over a sort of ridge-road. As we left thedowns, we had a fine view of the surrounding country, and descriedTrafalgar House, the seat of Lord Nelson, at a distance.We passed a noble estate of the Pembroke family; and visitedthe magnificent Church, at Wilton, reared by Mr. Sydney Herbert,at his personal expense of sixty thousand pounds. It is asuperb Anglican basilica, a curiosity in England, as departingfrom the historical architecture of the realm, and closely resemblingthe finest churches of Italy. It is, however, a blessing tothe place, and is largely frequented by the poor. From thissplendid Church we drove to a still more interesting one, althougha church as remarkably poor as this is costly. The smallest andplainest little Church I had yet seen in England was reached atlast, and reverently entered. A few pews, a chancel and HolyTable of starving plainness, and a pulpit to match! This washoly Herbert’s Church—this was Bemerton! I climbed, andthen crawled into the little box of a belfry, to see the bell whichhe tolled when he was instituted; and then I went outside, andlooked in at the window, through which he was descried tarryinglong at prayer, on his face, before the altar. How a good lifecan glorify what otherwise would be utterly without attractions!Even in America, I have seldom seen a church look so mean asthat at Bemerton: yet few places have I ever visited with moreof awe and affection; and verily, all the embellishments of theSistine Chapel failed to produce in me such a sense of thebeauty of holiness, as did the sight of the humble altar, at whichministered before the Lord two hundred years ago, that man ofGod, George Herbert.

Reaching Southampton early in the evening of a mid-summerday, I had time enough, during the long twilight, for an excursionto Netley Abbey, which I made in a boat, rowed by an oldwaterman and his son, a lad of twelve years. The descendingsun threw its radiance over the bright Southampton water, aswe left the pier, and a pathway of burnished gold seemed to liein our wake, as we glided rapidly along. The boy volunteeredto sing a little hymn which he had learned at Sunday School, and,accordingly the praise of God was sweetly wafted by the sunsetbreezes that played about us; and if I have heard more romanticstrains on the Venetian waters, since then, from the gondoliers,I can testify that they were no sweeter, and not half so inspiringto a devout disposition. This beautiful bay was filled with manysails, and the neighbouring shores, on every side, were highlypicturesque. We reached the “glad nook,” whose corruptedLatin name survives, in Netley, just in time to disturb the composuresof the rook and owl, as they were congratulating themselveson the close of the day, and settling for the night, theone in his dormitory, and the other in his watch-tower. Therewas enough of day to display the entire beauty of the ruins,and enough of melancholy night to give them a mysterioussolemnity. Here I stumbled over piles of rubbish, overgrownwith grass and wall-flowers, among which slender trees havesprouted side by side with the branching columns of the architect;while through graceful tracery, and broken vaulting, Ilooked up into the deep heaven, and descried the first stars asthey began to twinkle in its unfathomable azure. I fancied Icould hear the gentle sigh of the waters on the pebbled beach,which spreads hard by beneath its walls, and the charms of thespot, as a home of religion, became very vividly impressed on mymind as the soft susurrations appeared to bewail the loss ofresponsive vesper-songs from the consecrated pile. It was abewitching hour for such a visit: and when I went down intocrypts, and gloomy vaults, which were barely light enough toenable me to feel my way, and to descry the surrounding outlinesof Gothic ruin, through loop-holes and doorways festooned withluxuriant ivy, all that I ever read of romance, in its wildestforms, seemed conjured about me. It was quite dark as wereturned, but the waters glittered with tremulous reflections ofmany lights on the shore; and our little pilot sung—“There’s agood time coming, boys!” with a sort of pathetic thrill, whichmade me love him, and I prayed that he might live to see the goodtime which he so feelingly promised himself. I conversed withhim freely, and found that he had been taught of God, in thebosom of the Church.

Next morning I took the steamer to Cowes. The sail downthe sea of Southampton was very pleasant, and my fancy was asbusy as my sight, as we skirted along the shore, from which the“New Forest” stretches away towards Dorsetshire, coveringmany a square mile of merry England with woods as denseas those of our own primeval wilds. How exciting to reflection,the view of a wood which, for so many ages, has perpetuatedthe violence of William the Norman, and the tragic memory ofRufus! A gay little French woman, who knew nothing of thehistory, however, and who seemed to take me for an Englishman,expressed herself, in her sprightly vernacular, in terms of rapturousdelight, with reference to the scenery alone. She was overwhelmedwith the luxurious beauty of England, as contrastedwith the penury which stares you in the face for leagues andleagues in France, in places where nature only needs a little aidfrom cultivation to assume a face as cheerful as those of itsinhabitants. When we passed Calshot Castle, and had the Isleof Wight in full view, I was nearly as much inspired as herself.The admirable service which the island renders to the Britishfleet, became apparent as we looked towards those “leviathansafloat,” at Spithead; but I turned with greater interest towardsthe Solent, and tried hard to descry that lonely spur of Hampshire,on which stands Hurst Castle, the scene of one of the mostthrilling episodes in the closing history of Charles the First. Aswe approached Cowes, it reminded me of Staten Island, offNew-York, and, at first, I hardly knew to what I owed the association,though the similarity of scene is considerable; butwhen a second glance showed me a noble ship, of unmistakeableAmerican proportions, with the American ensign fluttering ather peak, just under the lee of the island, I felt the home-feelingoverpoweringly, and could have shouted my salutation to mycountry’s oak, with full lungs and a fuller heart! I pointed itout to the French woman, and told her of my country, and thenI was saluted with her voluble congratulations, in such terms asshowed that she, at least, thought it a land of which one has aright to be proud.

Osborne House is a prominent object, on the rising bank of theMedina, as one drives from Cowes toward Newport, and I lookedwith no little interest at the beautiful home in which Victoriaand Albert live the life of private people, without sacrificing thedignity which they owe it to the nation to sustain. It delightsme to say that they have the reputation of cultivating, there,every domestic virtue; and I was charmed with a popular print,which one sees in the neighbourhood, representing the family atOsborne, on their knees, with the prince reading prayers amonghis children.

I was fortunate in visiting this gem of the sea, during themost pleasant part of the year. The hay-makers were at work,and everywhere a delicious fragrance filled the air. Our drivefrom Newport to Chale afforded many pleasing views, and myfirst view of the open sea was enchanting. The channel was assmooth as glass, and the vessels that lay upon it scarcely seemedto move. From the celebrated Black-gang Chine, the view ofthe chalky coast of Dorset, the curving shore of Freshwater-bay,and the bristling file of cliffs, called “the Needles,” wastruly superb. Then wheeling round the bold head of St. Catherine’sDowns, we entered that sweet realm of Faerie, called theUndercliff, where a palisade of rock rises on one side of theroad, and the sea-beach lies below, the exposure being such as toreceive the breath and the sunshine of the genial south, with allthe vigorous breezes of the ocean. Here the roses bloom all theyear in the open air, and Nature has made it all that Naturecould, by a combination of her charms. Indeed, the circuit ofthe coast, from here to Yaverland, seen, at various hours of theday, in all the shifting effects of the sun and shadows, affords apanorama of incomparable attractions: here a dense grove, andthere a deep cleft in the rocks, intercepting the sea-view, andthen, again, a fresh apocalypse of beauty, breaking upon the sight,at some unexpected turn of the way. The murmur of oceancomes to the ear just as the eye catches the numberless smiles ofits surface, and a glimpse through green foliage will often discovera brilliant perspective, in which the blue sea, and the grayrocks, and the fading horizon, are enlivened by a stretching showof snowy canvas, reflecting the golden light of the sun, sail aftersail, the tiniest glittering far off on the verge of the expanse, likea star in the twilight.

The Tom-thumb Church of St. Lawrence, with walls six feethigh, and all the rest in proportion; the beauties of Ventnor,and Bonchurch, and Shanklin Chine; in short, the entire sceneryof the Undercliff is enchanting, and bewitches one with a desireto build a tabernacle there, and to rest from one’s labours. AtBrading, I paused, in honour of good Legh Richmond, andvisited the grave of his “Young Cottager.” Ryde is a pleasantplace enough, something like our Staten Island towns in situation,and in many other particulars. But my drive from Rydeto Newport, through Wooton and Fern-hill, disclosed many ofthose inland scenes of rural beauty, for which the Isle of Wightis unsurpassed. Hedges, thick and green, on each side of theroad, with wild woodbine twisting all over them, and loading theair with perfumes, were the appropriate frame-work of rich fields,waving with golden crops, fragrant with new-mown hay, or filledwith pasturing cattle, while here and there they enclosed a littlegarden full of flowers, or were broken by the prettiest cottages inall the world, neatly whitewashed, and trimly thatched, andplanted about with white and red roses, clambering over the windows,mounting to the eaves, and even straggling among the straw,to the ridge of the roof. Again I caught a glimpse of the towersof Osborne; but it seemed to me that the Queen herself mightbe willing to exchange them for these charming little snuggeriesof her contented peasantry.

But I came to the Isle, above all, to see Carisbrooke Castle,and thither I went, after a night at Newport. It was a bright,unclouded morning, and I went alone. Over a little bridgeyou pass to the great doorway, between two massive towers,hung with verdure, and pierced with cross-shaped arrow-slits.All was as quiet and as beautiful as if no history brooded overthe spot, with strange and melancholy witchery. The twitterof a bird, the nodding of a wild rose in the morning breeze,the sparkling of the dew upon the leaves, all seemed to sharesomething of the mysterious spell. ‘How still, and yet howspeaking, thought I, this scene of mighty personal struggles,of a crisis of ages, of overwhelming sorrows! Is it not consciousof its own dignity? Poor Charles! after seeing thy briefwrestling with adversity, it has lapsed into desolation, and letsthe world have its own way, while it alone wears enduring tokensof sympathy with thee!’

I saw the window where the King made one last effort to befree. Sir Thomas Herbert’s portraiture rose all before me, anda thousand busy thoughts, which any one may imagine, butwhich language fails to arrest, much more to convey. Ascendingto the keep, surveying the undulating scenery, and loitering hereand there among the ruins, the past, the entrancing past floatedaround me like an atmosphere; and I felt how much more powerfulthan romance, is the charm of historic fact, when investedwith living interest, by associations of religion, by connectionswith surviving realities, and by the perpetual attraction and moralsublimity of an example of greatness and worth, tried in the furnaceof affliction.

Nor did I forget that lily among thorns, the little princesswho died in this doleful prison, of a broken heart, after bewailingher father’s murder a single year. The sweet child,Elizabeth! what a thought it was to imagine her moaning heryoung life away, amid these gloomy walls, surrounded only bythe butchers of her adored parent, mocking her woes! Amongtales of childhood’s sorrows, there have been few like hers.

Everybody has heard of “a pebble in Carisbrooke well.” Itried the usual experiments, and saw a lamp let down in it, threehundred feet, and then drank of the water, drawn by donkey-power,with all the sublime emotions conceivable on such anoccasion. There is a story that the well was originally of Romanconstruction, and that the Romans had a fortress here, which itfirst supplied. At any rate, it is a very good well, and no doubtadministered many a refreshing draught to the royal prisoners, towhom “a cup of cold water” was well nigh all that the charityof the place afforded.

Crossing from the Isle of Wight to Portsmouth, I had a finesight, in the incessant broadsides which were fired by her Majesty’sship, the “Vengeance,” anchored at Spithead, apparently forexercise, or sport. The gallant ship, the blazing port-holes, therolling clouds of smoke, and the reverberating thunders, made ourtransit, from shore to shore, one of exciting interest. The “RoyalGeorge” went down just in that anchorage, and there she liesnow. I paid a visit to the “Victory,” in the harbour of Portsmouth,after an unsuccessful effort to board the beautiful yacht,in which the Queen makes her progresses by sea. On the deckof the “Victory” fell the idolized Nelson: a small brass platemarks the spot. After looking at this, and trying to reproducethe scene, I descended to the co*ck-pit, and surveyed the dark andgloomy cell in which he breathed his last, reclining against a hugerib of his ship. Poor soul! If he had but served God as he servedhis King, there would have been a glory in that death, beyondthat of “victory, or Westminster Abbey.” After a rapid surveyof the dock-yards, I made my way, by rail, to Chichester.

A fine market-cross distinguishes this city, and is kept in excellentrepair. But the great attraction is, of course, its cathedral,a mutilated but still noble structure, which I found wellworthy of a visit. It exhibits some praiseworthy restorations,and I was pleased to find that its nave is frequently used for sermons.It has many tombs and monuments of note, and many ofits architectural peculiarities are attractive. Relics and antiquitiesconnected with the history of the See are shown, and it ispainful to find, in one apartment, mysterious evidence of the illuses to which a church could be put, before the Reformation. Inthe Bishop’s Consistory Court, there is a secret door in the wainscotlooking like a mere panel. This moves with a slide, andcovers a massive gate, with a lock, which opens into a strongroom, once used as a prison. It was no doubt the scene of sufferingfor conscience sake, in the days of the Lollards.

After having so lately described other cathedrals of muchgreater interest, I will only add, concerning this, that I was muchpleased to note among its monuments the modern one, by Flaxman,commemorative of the poet Collins. Architecturally, indeed,it is out of place: but the unfortunate bard was a native ofthe cathedral precinct, and the Christian artist has seized uponthat incident in his unhappy life, which attests the consolationswhich highest genius may derive from the same source that makeschildhood wise unto salvation. “I have but one book,” said heto a visitor, shortly before he died, as he held up the New Testament,and added—“the best.”

My next stage was Brighton, where I enjoyed a sea-bath, anda brief survey of that beautiful creation of fashion. But mychief enjoyment here was received in the delightful hospitalitiesof a distinguished family, which I shall always remember withsincere regard, as embracing some of the most agreeable personsI have ever met. Among the varieties of English characterwhich have most charmed me, those to which I now gratefullyrefer, are often reviving in memory, as affording a true ideal ofdomestic happiness, enlivened by sentiment, and hallowed by aspirit of devotion.

I was forced to make a very rapid survey of the southern coast,passing by the old abbey at Lewes and the castle at Pevensey;and pausing scarcely an hour upon the noble beach at Hastings,and amid the ruins of its castle. With greater regret I wasforced to omit visits to Battle Abbey, to Hever Castle, and toPenshurst, to the last-named of which I had an especial drawing,for the sake of Hammond and Sir Philip Sydney. I was engagedto spend St. Peter’s day at Canterbury, and to be the anniversarypreacher, a privilege to which I was willing to sacrifice, manyother pleasures. Passing, therefore, through some pretty Kentishscenery, and pausing to visit the old monuments at Ashford, Imade my way, before nightfall, to the city of pilgrimages, and wasreceived as a guest within the Warden’s lodge at St. Augustine’s.An anniversary dinner was served in the hall, at which severaldistinguished personages were present; and afterwards I saw theceremony of admitting a scholar to the foundation. I then visitedthe room over the gateway, which lodged King Charles I., onhis bridal tour; and, after service in the chapel, retired to myroom in this holy and religious home of the Church’s children.

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

In the chapel of St. Augustine we kept St. Peter’s Day, andcommemorated the benefactors of the college. It was a cheeringspectacle to behold around me those missionary youths, devoted tothe noblest warfare which can enlist the energies of man, anddestined, as I could not but pray, to see and to achieve greatthings in the extension of the kingdom of Immanuel upon earth.And how inspiring to them the associations with which they aresurrounded! On the very spot which they inhabit, the MissionaryAugustine preached the Gospel to their ancestors, whenAnglo-Saxons were but pagans, and now they go forth from it,as from the very centre of Christian civilization, to bear the preciousseed to the uttermost isles of the sea, so that what Englandis, Australia may become.

In the afternoon, I preached in old St. Martin’s, which probablyis the very oldest Church in England. Its name of St. Martinis probably a second designation, given to it when it was fitted upfor the use of good Queen Bertha, before the conversion of herhusband, Ethelbert. Such a Church is spoken of by Bede, ashaving been built before the Romans left the island; and asRoman bricks, of unquestionable antiquity, are a large portionof the material of this Church, it is on this and other accountsgenerally dated from A. D. 187, and supposed to have been originallyerected by some good Cornelius of the Roman army. Bethat 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 inwhich Ethelbert was baptized. What hoary antiquity, whatvenerable and august dignity invest this sacred place! It is ofhumble dimensions, and both without and within bears the marksof its primitive character, in its plainness and simplicity, but itis kept in good repair, and regarded with the affectionate reverencewhich is so becoming. The yews and the ivy which adornit with their shade, are, apparently, almost as old as the Church:and the church-yard gently slopes from the church-door to theroad-side, giving a beautiful elevation to the old pile, and presentinga highly picturesque effect to the passer-by.

But how shall I describe the cathedral, whose huge bulk everywherelifts itself into sight above this curious and reverend oldtown? The metropolis of the Anglo-Catholic communion isgraced by an Archiepiscopal church, every way worthy of themajestic relations which it bears to Christendom. There it stands,like the Church of England itself, worthy to be “the joy of thewhole earth,” and not more magnificent and imposing, than harmoniouslychastened throughout with an air of sovereign splendoursubdued by solemn propriety. There is about it, as comparedwith other English cathedrals, a sort of aggregated look,strikingly significant of the massively conglomerate body whichthe Anglican Church has already become, and something ofwhich has characterized her from the beginning. The doublecross, in form of which the cathedral is built, very appropriately,in view of its primacy, heightens this effect: and the result is, thatit* prestige is well sustained, when the pilgrim sees before him thehead church of his religion. A blessing on its ancient towers,and may it more and more become “dear for its reputationthrough the world.”

On Sunday and the day following, when I attended service inthe cathedral, I had the best opportunities for surveying it throughout,under the attentive guidance of Lord Charles Thynne andthe estimable Archdeacon Harrison. I am glad to say that theservice here was very effectively celebrated, though a larger forcewould have been more worthy of the place and of the work.The organ is quite concealed in the triforia, and its sound is somewhatpeculiar as it issues from those high cells, in perfect unisonwith “the full-voiced choir below.” As to the effect of the cathedralupon the eye, I remember no interior, save that of Milan,which can compare with it for impressiveness; and if, from generaleffect, we descend to details, this cathedral is vastly the moresolemn and magnificent of the twain. Its altar, for example, isone of the most lofty in Christendom, the choir rising from thenave by a long flight of steps, and the altar being elevated, in likemanner, very high above the level of the choir. The severalascents and various levels of the Church, instead of too muchbreaking its whole, seem to add an air of vastness and sublimityto the general design. But when one surveys, now the nave, andlooks upwards into the tower, and along the far-sweeping vaultings,and now the choir and its intersecting arches and vistas; or descendsto that varied undercroft, with its chapels and sepulchres,and twisted columns, and French inscriptions; or mounts to makecircuit of the tombs and chapels, pausing within “Becket’s Crown”to admire its unique and anomalous elegance; and then makes hisway through the cloisters into the chapter-house, and finally escapesinto outer day, and looks up again at the vast pile, throughwhich he has been wondering and wandering so long—the impressionleft upon the mind is one of astonishment, like that of theQueen of Sheba, when “there was no more spirit in her.” I hadseen the spot where Becket fell beneath the stout blows of hismurderers—the marble floor which received his blood still exhibitinga speaking memorial of the tragedy, in a small mutilationwhich was made in sawing out the bloody block, to be carried toRome as a relic; I had seen the remains of the same prelate’sshrine, where his sovereign submitted to flagellation, whereprinces presented so many costly oblations, and which once glitteredwith such gorgeous wealth before the eye of Erasmus; I had seenthe stone-stairs leading up to his sepulchre, worn away by thethousands of devotees, among which I reckoned those of certainCanterburie pilgrims, accompanied by Dan Chaucer himself; Ihad seen the tomb of the Black Prince, with his lion-like effigy—overwhich dangles his surcoat, a thing of tatters, but which noone can behold without emotion, when he reflects that it onceencased the beating heart and chivalrous breast of that gallantPlantagenet. I had beheld the recumbent effigies of the usurpingLancaster, Henry IV., and his Queen, Joan of Navarre; andI had surveyed the memorial works, or sepulchres, of the primatesof all England, from Lanfranc to Chichely; but after all, I boreaway no remembrance more pleasing than that of the monumentalwindow and tomb of the late Archbishop Howley, commemorating,as they do, a most worthy prelate, and marking the greatepoch of a revival of theology, and of practical faith, throughoutthe Church of England. This tomb is surmounted by the recumbenteffigy of the Bishop, and presents a most graceful specimenof reviving art. He is habited in his sacred vestments, to whichthe addition of the cope gives completeness and effect; and as theArchbishop wore that vestment at the coronation of Queen Victoria,there was reality to justify its use. In short, I was glad tosee that even in the cathedral of Canterbury, and without servilityin copying the antique, our own age can erect a monument,and surmount it with a figure, literally true to its original, whichis worthy of the place as a work of art; and which, if it is moremodest than the mediæval sepulchres which surround it, is still inperfect keeping with all their splendour; while it tells the simplestory of a primacy the most brilliant in its contemporary achievementsof any that has ever blessed the Church of England, sincethe days of Augustine. It will be forever celebrated as distinguishedby the rapid extension of Anglican Catholicity in allquarters of the globe, and by a holy effort for the restoration ofunity to the Church of God.

The city of Canterbury abounds in quaint nooks and corners—oldgates, and fragments of wall;—and, in particular, is markedby 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 itsname appears to import; but it strikes me as something of religiousorigin, and not unlike those mysterious tumuli which aboundin our own Western country. If truly British, indeed, whoknows but some primeval Madoc built both it and them?

It was my fortune to hear in the cathedral, as an anthem, thatchef d’œuvre of Sternhold and Hopkins, which must have beenwritten in some fit of poetical inspiration, vouchsafed to themfor those two verses only—

The extract has been set to noble music, but who was the composerI cannot say. After a visit to the Deanery, and a gratifyingsurvey of its long gallery of ecclesiastical portraits, I was showninto the surrounding gardens, and conducted to almost every partof the cathedral precincts, and finally dismissed by an ancientgate, which, owing to some tradition, retains the romantic nameof Queen Bertha’s postern. But let me not conclude my remembrancesof Canterbury without a warm tribute to the delightfulsociety to which I was introduced at St. Augustine’s, and amongthe dignitaries of the cathedral. The esteemed Warden, who receivedme as his guest, and who so kindly entertained me, deservesmy most grateful acknowledgments.

On the morning of my departure, rising very early, and accompaniedby a friend, to whom I had become warmly attached sincemy arrival in England, I drove out, through pleasant Kentishscenery, to the parsonage of Borne, which is from Canterburythree miles distant, according to Izaak Walton; following theexample of the many, who once did so, to see the face of thevenerable and judicious Richard Hooker, though I could onlyhope to see his tomb, and the church in which he ministered. Ishall never forget that morning drive, nor the reverence withwhich, at length, I beheld Hooker’s own church, and the parsonagein which he so loved to see God’s blessings spring out of theearth about his door. I entered the holy place, and there washis bust, coloured by the old artist to represent life: and lookingat it, through my hands, so as to shut out the surrounding partsof the monument, I was verily able to conceive that I beheldgood Master Hooker in his pulpit, about to speak. It imprinteda live idea of the man upon my memory, which I would not losefor many costlier things. The place called up many of thosegraphic anecdotes which his quaint biographer has chronicledconcerning him; but I was especially reminded of that scene betweenthe Puritan intruders and the old parish clerk, who, whenthey sat down on joint stools to partake their communion, said,as he resigned the keys with a heavy heart, “Take the keys andlock me out, for all men will say Master Hooker was a good manand a good scholar, and I am sure it was not used to be thus inhis days.” I could not but remember, moreover, that withinthose walls Hooker had passed many a lonely Ember-day, lockedup for fasting and prayer; and ‘who knows’ said I to myself,‘but we are even now realizing the blessed answers to those intercessionsfor the Church, in all parts of the world?’

On my way up to London, I paid a visit at S—— Park, theresidence of a young country squire, who had lately taken hisdegrees at Cambridge, married, and settled here on his hereditaryestate. The life of an English gentleman, of this degree, hasalways struck me, as nearly the most perfect realization of sublunarybliss, which the world affords. Nor did the glimpse whichI thus gained of such a life, in the least disappoint me. Theyoung mistress of the mansion, in the momentary absence of herhusband, kindly made herself my guide, over a portion of theestate, in search of him. No ceremony—and no attempt to appearfine. In a moment she was ready, and as she led me hitherand thither, she was not above taking me to her poultry-yard,and her dairy, and showing me her amateur farming. We entereda fine field of standing corn—the golden wheat of Kent—andas we passed through the narrow foot-path, my fair guide informedme ’twas their way to parish church, and just thenI descried the church itself, at a little distance, in its modestbeauty, at the foot of a hill. A lark flew up, and she pointed atthe little fellow, as he mounted the skies, and poured out hissong, reminding me of a remark I had made to her, that we haveno sky-larks in America. She entered a pretty farm-house, wherea decent-looking family were just taking their tea: they treatedher as they would have done a descended angel, while she, in theprettiest tones, inquired whether they “had seen their Masterthereabout,” and so, thanking them, departed. We soon encounteredthe young “Master,” who gave me a kind welcome, andshowed me the further attractions of the estate. Then home,and soon to dinner, and after that, a pleasant summer eveningsauntering 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 frommany American residences that I have visited; but in others itdid, 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 servantsin America, though we have slaves. All white-complexionedpeople scorn to obey. Hence the misery and the stiffness ofhousekeeping, and the deplorable multiplication of those vulgarestablishments called “fashionable hotels.” Let me add, concerningthis happy abode of unostentatious English comfort and refinement,that what especially pleased me was the devout appearanceof the household servants at family prayers. They alljoined in the devotions, and each had a Prayer-book in hand,which appeared to be a cherished companion of their dailyroutine. Happy the household where all the inmates, fromthe least to the greatest, have one Lord, one faith, and onebaptism.

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

In frequent visits to Westminster Abbey, I had become familiarwith every portion of it, including cloisters, chapter-house, andlibrary. In the library, by the politeness of one of the dignitaries,I was favoured with a minute inspection of some of itsmost precious historical deposites. Such were the dies fromwhich were struck the coins of Henry Fourth, and many succeedingsovereigns, rude works of art, depending upon blows ofthe hammer to produce their impression. In the chapter-houseis the original Domesday-book, and many other historical documents.I was shown the instrument by which Edward I. wasauthorized, by twenty-three competitors, to settle the Crown ofScotland upon one of their number. The seal of Bruce’s fatheris very distinctly visible. Here are Henry VII.’s very minuteinstructions to his commissioners to examine the personal claimsto his choice, of a young princess, whom he proposed to marry,with their not over-gallant reports. A superbly decoratedinstrument, dated at Amiens, August 18, 1527, and signed byHenry VIII., and Francis, was also a great curiosity. It has agolden seal, with the legend—Plurima servantur fœdere, cunctafide. Among other parchments, one signed by Mary, as Queenof France, with her husband Francis II., was interesting. Isaw also the stamp, used by Henry VIII., to affix his signatureto parchments, in his dying days; a prayer-book of QueenElizabeth’s; and a fine old Missal of 1380, from which some zealousreformer had erased the service for Becket’s-day, and severalprayers for the Pope.

But all these were inferior in interest to the tombs andchapels of the Abbey. Many of the monuments are in wretchedtaste, and a general banishment to the cloisters, of those whichare not in keeping with the architecture of the church, would bea great improvement. The residue should then be repaired anddecorated. But even as they are, they present a most interestingepitome of history, and a most affecting commentary on thevanity of worldly grandeur and greatness. With Henry VII.’schapel, and its royal sepulchres, I was greatly impressed, andthe near neighbourhood of the tombs of Mary and Elizabeth,struck me as forcibly as if I had never heard of the strangeproximity, in which they, who once could scarcely live in thesame world, here mingle their dust with the same span of earth,and side by side, await the judgment. Oh, what pomp of sepultureattests 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 liesleeping around it. The rough old stone, inserted in its base, isthe Scottish palladium; and the old monkish fable makes it oneof the stones of Jacob’s pillow, at Bethel. The monuments ofEdward III., and Queen Philippa, and that of Henry V., commandedmy especial attention. Above the latter, are preservedthe saddle, shield, and helmet, which he used at Agincourt. Thebody of Edward I. rests beneath a plain altar-tomb. In thecentre of the chapel is the shrine of St. Edward: and it is asnear as possible to these relics of their predecessors, that Englishsovereigns are still anointed and crowned in the adjoining choir.At such times, if these silent tombs are startled by the shouts ofthe multitude that cry—Long live the King, how much moreforcibly they must speak to him, in their mute expressiveness,reminding him of his nothingness, and calling him to prepare fora long home in the dust!

To the reflections of Addison and of Irving, in this consecratedpile, I shall not attempt to add my own. The sweet interpreterof the moral of this wonderful place, sleeps appropriately under itstutelage, and few are the graves within it, which more affect akindred heart. To see the grave of Addison, which was latelymarked by a small white stone, in the pavement of one of thechapels, suggests a kind of postscript to his own musings; and,as I stood, thoughtfully, over it, I seemed to hear his voice, outof the sepulchre, confirming his living words. I thought, moreover,how much has been done, since his day, to add to the interestof the holy place—even in addition to his own grave!How many tombs I saw, which he did not—his own amongthem! Addison knew nothing of Johnson’s sepulchre; stoodnot by the rival relics of Pitt and Fox; thrilled not as he approachedthe resting-place of a Wolfe, or a Wilberforce; andlittle dreamed how much more than the shrine of Kings, his ownlast bed would impress a stranger from America, in the nineteenthcentury. How transcendant the enchantment withwhich genius invests its possessor, where it is paired with virtue!With what refreshment I often turned from the royal tombs tothe Poets’ Corner; and there, with what reverence did I turnmost frequently to the monuments of those whose high artisticinspiration 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 pausedmore frequently before that of the stainless Spenser. I thoughtof his words concerning “the laurel”—and how fittingly theyapply to this Abbey, as the—

With a different sort of pleasure I surveyed the wonders ofthe British Museum. There, a scholar can find all he needs inthe way of literary food, freely bestowed. I do not admire thenew buildings; but the Institution is worthy of a great nation,and reflects eternal honour on George the Third. Will theSmithsonian, at Washington, ever rival it? Its newest and itsoldest treasures, were the great stones from Nineveh, so cleverlydescribed by the Quarterly. With what emotions I surveyedthose illegible hieroglyphics; and scraped acquaintance withthose “placid grinning kings, twanging their jolly bows overtheir rident horses, wounding those good-humoured enemies, whotumble gaily off the towers, or drown, smiling in the dimplingwaters, amidst the ἀνήριθμον γέλασμα of fish.”

The English, though a proud people, are really very moderatein their appreciation of the manifold charms of their incomparableisle. When I surveyed the river-view from Richmond-hill, Irecalled the glorious waters of my own dear country, and manya darling scene which is imperishably stamped in my mind’s eye,and asked myself whether, indeed, this was more delightful to thesight than those. I was slow to admit anything inferior in thescenery of the Hudson and Susquehanna, when I compared themwith so diminutive a stream as the Thames, and I even reprovedmyself for bringing them into parallel; but over and over againwas I forced to allow, that “earth has not anything to show morefair,” than the rich luxuriance of the panorama which I thensurveyed. A river whose banks are old historic fields, and whoseplacid surface reflects, from league to league of its progress, thetowers of palaces and of churches which, for centuries, have beenhallowed by ennobling and holy associations; which flows by thefavourite haunts of genius, or winds among the antique halls ofconsecrated learning; and which, after sweeping beneath thegigantic arches, domes and temples of a vast metropolis, givesitself to the burthen of fleets and navies, and bears them magnificentlyforth to the ocean; such an object must necessarily beone of the highest interest to any one capable of appreciatingthe mentally beautiful and sublime; but when natural gloriesinvest the same objects with a thousand independent attractions,who need be ashamed of owning an overpowering enthusiasm inthe actual survey, and something scarcely less thrilling in therecollection! When I afterward looked towards Rome, anddescried the dome of St. Peter’s from Tivoli, I felt, as Gray hassomewhere observed, that nothing but the intellect is delightedthere, while on Richmond-hill, the soul and the sense alikeare ravished with the view, and fail to conceive anything moresatisfying of its kind. If ever, which God forbid, the barbarianshould overrun this scene, and make ruins of its surroundingvillas and churches, the contemplative visitor of a future generationwill still linger on those heights with far more of complicatedand harmonious satisfaction than can possibly refreshthe eye that wanders over the dreary Campagna. Yet howfew of the great and fashionable in England have ever allowedthemselves to appreciate the glories of their own scenery afterthis sort!

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

Where was “yonder grave,” and where “yon whitening spire?”It was with some chagrin that I followed my directions into thedullest haunts of the town, and into a modernized church, in anunromantic street, and there soliloquized, over a miserable brassplate, amid a pile of pew-lumber—“In such a grave your Druidlies!” It is amusing, on a few square inches of worthless metal,as entirely devoid of artificial value as it is of intrinsic worth, toobserve the vanity with which a man of rank has contrived towrite his own name in as large letters as those of the poet’s.“The Earl of Buchan, unwilling that so good a man, and sosweet a poet, should be without a memorial, has denoted the placeof his interment, &c.”—so reads the inscription. The Earl hasat least the merit of having exactly expressed the character ofhis tribute, for it denotes the place, and that’s all. One wouldthink a Scottish nobleman might have spared a few guineas indoing something better for the grave of his countryman.

A glimpse of Twickenham, and of the spire of the churchwhere Pope is entombed, were all that I allowed myself, in honourof a bard whose faultless verse is no excuse for the frequent indecencyand paganism of its sentiment. It is a curious and revoltingfact that his skull has been purloined, and now belongs to a phrenologist.I caught a railway view of Dachet-lane, famous forFalstaff’s experiences in the buck-basket, and so once more toWindsor! I stopped, over a train, to enjoy one more walk on thecastle terrace, and one more look at Eton college, and then hastenedon to Oxford, to attend the Commemoration. I accepted thehospitalities of my friends of Magdalen, who lodged me in therooms 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 tobe. His appearance indicates nothing eccentric or ascetic, and hismanners are those of a gentleman at home in the society of hisfellow-men. He has friends and foes at Oxford, as well as elsewhere,but all seem to regard him with respect as a man of pietyand learning. To me he was less a lion, however, because I havealways regarded the application of his name to the great movementof 1833, as a mere instance of popular caprice. His share init has been less than that of many others; neither the credit of itsgood, nor the disgrace of its evil, belongs to him in any superlativedegree. Its progress has left him, with others, far in the rear of itsexisting interests; and what has been stigmatized as Puseyism isperhaps, when fairly distinguished from the extravagances of a fewfanatics and sophists, the English phase of a world-wide return toprinciples that were the life of Christianity, long before Popery wasin existence, and ages before it had bred Protestantism by its violentreaction.

Oxford and Cambridge.

I had seen Oxford in vacation, and again during term; I hadnow the privilege of attending its Encænia. The occasion bringsmany distinguished persons to the University, and the pleasuresof dining and breakfasting in the college-halls, and with privateparties, are greatly enhanced by such additions to the company ofeminent residents. The ceremonies in the Academic theatresadly disappointed me. Imagine an open area, filled with gownsmenand their friends, and surrounded by tiers of boxes filledwith ladies, above which, near the ceiling, is elevated a thirdtier, full of undergraduates. The Dons and doctors, in theirrobes, sit on either side of the Vice-Chancellor, at one extremityof the theatre, in a place something between a row of boxes andan orchestra. In the presence of ladies and of such grave andreverend seniors, one naturally expects decorum from all parties;but though I had often read of the frolics in which the undergraduatesare permitted to indulge on these occasions, I confessI was not fully prepared for the excessive and prolonged turbulenceof the scene. While awaiting the opening of the ceremonial,it was well enough to laugh at the cheers of the youthas they called out successively the names of favourite publicpersonages, or at their sibilations, when the names of “Lord JohnRussell” and “Cardinal Wiseman” were proposed for meritedderision. But when, again and again, as the venerable Vice-Chancellorrose to make a beginning, his voice was vociferouslyoutnoised by that of the boys overhead, I began to think thejoke was carried a little too far. There had been some omissionof customary music, and to supply the deficiency, uprose thoselegions of youth, and shouted—God save the Queen, in full chorus,stanza after stanza, till the Dons looked eminently disloyal intheir impatience. The Creweian Oration was delivered by thePublic Orator, and I was particularly desirous of marking hispronunciation of Latin words, as well as the general merit of aperformance in which once, upon a like occasion, Bishop Lowthso handsomely acquitted himself. But, I think, I speak withinbounds when I say that scarcely an entire sentence could beheard, from beginning to end. All manner of outcries assailedthe speaker, from his rising till he surceased. At one time, anextremely impudent personality excited a general smile. Theorator waxed warm as he spoke, and growing quite rubicund ofvisage, some flagitious freshman cried out—“Pray stop; it makesme hot to look at you.” Several distinguished individuals,bishops and generals, and scientific men, were presented to receivethe Doctorate in Civil Law, and now I supposed the hospitality ofthe University would suffice to shield the eminent personages fromthe annoyance of such untimely fun. But there was no cessation,and when Sir W. Page Wood was presented, there was amerry cry of “inutile lignum,” at which no one laughed moreheartily than the party himself. Verily, thought I, if this wereunheard of in England, and were only set down in the book of someperegrine Dickens, as what he saw in America, at a HarvardCommencement, how inevitably would it figure in reviews andnewspapers as a telling fact against the disorganizing tendencies ofdemocratic education! In Oxford, it is regarded as a mere outbreakof youthful merriment, and such is indeed the case: andyet, unless Encænia and Saturnalia are synonymous terms, onemust be allowed to think the custom best honoured in the breach.I must add, that during the delivery of a poem, by an undergraduate,his comrades showed more respect, and the tumultsubsided for a time, like that of Ephesus, on the remonstrance ofthe town-clerk. The young poet pronounced his numbers in thesame tribune where once stood Reginald Heber, enchanting allhearers with his “Palestine.”

A lunch in the superb new hall of Pembroke, of which manyladies partook with the other guests, giving the hall an unusuallygay appearance; a dinner at Oriel, and afterwards sport withbowls, and other games, in the garden of Exeter; and, finally, avery agreeable evening party at Magdalen; these were the otheroccupations of the day, in which I greatly enjoyed the society withwhich I mingled. I was particularly pleased to observe the enthusiasmof the female visitors of Oxford, many of whom had comeup for the first time, and were less acquainted with the place thanmyself. It was a novel pleasure, on my part, to turn cicerone,and to explain to a group of English ladies, the wonders of theUniversity.

Next morning, after breakfast at Merton, and a lunch at JesusCollege, with some kind friends who were preparing to leaveOxford for the Long Vacation, I went, in the company of someof them, to Bedford, and there took coach for Cambridge. Ithought of John Bunyan, who once inhabited the county-jail, inthis place, and there composed his wonderful allegory; and as Ibegan to travel along the banks of the Ouse, I thought of WilliamCowper, who was one of the first to do justice to his piety andgenius. If the Church of England, sharing in the fault of thetimes, (and visiting others with far milder penalties than bothPapists and Puritans laid upon her) was in any sort a party tohis ill-usage, it must be owned that she has done him full justice,in the end. He owed his enlargement to the Bishop of Lincoln’sinterposition, and Cowper and Southey have affixed the stamp,and given currency to the gold of his genius. I am ashamedthat he was not taken into the Bishop of Lincoln’s house, andmade a deacon, and so cured of the mistaken enthusiasm whichwas evidently the misfortune of the tinker, and not the naturalbent of the man.

Our journey lay over a dull and level country, and there waslittle to enliven it, except the conversation of a young Oxoniangoing to see the rival University. A cantab, returning from Oxford,maintained a good-natured debate with him, in favour ofhis own alma-mater. We went through St. Neot’s, where I rememberedCowper again; descried at the distance of some twentymiles the majestic bulk of Ely Cathedral, and finally greeted thefair vision of King’s College, conspicuous among the other academichomes of Granta. It was the fourth of July—and thoughtsof the very different scenes through which my friends were passingin America, were continually in my mind. Here it was notthought of, though a day which has left its mark upon GreatBritain, and the world. Was it the day of a rebellion? By nomeans; unless the day that seated William of Orange on thethrone of England was such. Our fathers ceased to be Englishmen,because a corrupt and incompetent Ministry were resolvedthat they should no longer be freemen. I thank God we are nolonger at the mercy of such men as Lord John Russell, and SirWilliam Molesworth. So I mused, even as I stood, for the firsttime, in venerable Cambridge, where some of my forefathers wereeducated, and where I felt it a sort of wrong to be disinheritedof a filial right to feel at home.

I was not disappointed, disagreeably, in Cambridge, but thereverse; and it grew upon me every hour that I was there. Oneof my first visits was to the truly poetical courts of Caius, wherethe singular quaintness of its three gates charmed alike my sightand fancy. “Before honour is humility”—and here the proverbis translated into architecture. You must pass through the gateof humility, and the gate of virtue, before emerging throughthe gate of honour. Strange that the beneficent founder ofthis college, like Dr. Faust, in Germany, should have left hisname to legend-makers and fabulists, and so to comedy, and the“Merry Wives of Windsor.”

The noble twin of Oxford is certainly inferior in the appearancewhich she first presents to a stranger, and yet, fromthe first, the chapel of King’s is a superb sight, which evenOxford might almost grudge to her sister. I greatly regrettedreaching Cambridge during a vacation, when comparatively fewof the gownsmen were on the spot. Still, having become sofamiliar with academic manners, in Oxford, it seemed hardlynecessary to do more than survey the still-life of Cambridge, inorder to understand it as well. The diversities between theUniversities are indeed many, and all my prepossessions are infavour of Oxford; and yet, after a brief external survey of herrival, and much conversation with some of her loyal sons, I caneasily understand their attachment to her, and the pride theytake in her reputation, as well as their firm conviction of hersuperiority. To an American, indeed, the late election of sounfit a person as Prince Albert to be their Chancellor, is a surprisingthing; and it is no very bright omen, for the University,that the prince already aims to shape it, as near as possible, afterthe similitude of Bonn, his own garlicky, blouse-wearing, andpipe-smoking Alma Mater, in Teutschland. But, on the otherhand, the spirited resistance which was made to that measure, inbold opposition even to the known wishes of a beloved Queen, isinstanced, by many Cantabrigians, as a proof of devotion togreat principles, of which they have reason to be proud. Theyhave a thousand better reasons for being proud of their University,and would that their Chancellor, who is otherwise so wellqualified, had the power to appreciate and feel them half as warmlyas many an American does, from the depth of his soul!

Cambridge struck me as an older and less modernized placethan Oxford. Its streets are a labyrinth, and many of thempresent the appearance of Continental, rather than of InsularEurope. One of the first things that struck me was the conduiterected by the same “old Hobson” whom Milton celebrates, andfrom whom comes the adage of “Hobson’s choice.” He was acarrier, and kept horses to let, but made the Cantabs take thehorse that stood next the stable-door whenever they came to hire.He certainly was a remarkable man, for what other carrier wasever consigned to immortality by a monument in Cambridge,by a practical proverb, and by a memorial in the verse of such apoet as Milton?

As the means of information respecting Cambridge are ineverybody’s hands, and as the picturesque of its colleges andgrounds is familiar from engravings, I shall spare my readerthe trouble of details which might seem a repetition of thoseof Oxford. In St. John’s college, which its own men areaccused of considering the University, I found the chapel,though small and plain, a most attractive place. Its “non-jurorwindows,” and other memorials, revive many historical names.I know not why the Johnians have received the Pindaric epithetof Swine, but so it is; and the peculiarly pretty bridge, spanningthe Cam, which unites its quadrangles and halls, hasaccordingly won the sportive name of the “Isthmus of Sues.”In the very pleasant grounds adjacent, I plucked a leaf from thesilver-beech, said to have been planted by Henry Martyn, andbreathed a blessing on his memory. A fellow of Trinity kindlydevoted himself to showing me the attractions of his college,and they are very great. The library is a Valhalla of literaryheroes, the sons of Trinity, whose busts adorn the alcoves: andthe statue of Byron, by Thorwaldsen, is a superb addition to itstreasures of art, which, on the whole, will do no harm here,excluded as it was from Westminster Abbey, by a virtuousabhorrence of the bold blasphemer whom it represents, and thusstamped as deep with infamy as it is otherwise clothed withattractiveness. Among the relics of the collection, there weretwo which any man must behold with reverence: a lock ofSir Isaac Newton’s hair, and the original manuscripts of ParadiseLost, and of Lycidas! Then to the chapel—that chapelwhich ever since I read “the Records of a Good Man’s Life,”in school-boy days, I had longed to see, and where I had oftenwished it had been my lot to pray, in college life. In theante-chapel, there was that statue of Newton, so beautifullydescribed by the author, as arresting the melancholy attentionsof a consumptive youth, as he passed it, for the last time, in hissurplice, and confessed that this had been too much his idol, inthat house of God, filling his enthusiasm with the worship ofgenius, when he should have thought only of his Maker. Ishall never forget the thrills of excited imagination with which Ireceived some of my first impressions of Cambridge, in readingthat story of Singleton: and now they all revived as I stoodupon the spot.

Among the attractions of the small colleges, I must not omitto mention the chapel of Jesus College, which has lately undergonea thorough restoration, and presents one of the mostbeautiful specimens of revived mediævalism in art which I haveever seen. It is the work of an accomplished gentleman of thecollege, assisted to some extent by the voluntary contributions ofundergraduates. Nothing of the kind which I saw in Oxfordcan compare with this exquisite Oratory. I went to Christ’scollege and saw Milton’s mulberry—a pleasant memorial ofhis best days; the days when he was the “lady of his college”for youthful comeliness, and the man of his college for thegenius that produced Lycidas, and for the unsoured feelings thatcould yet appreciate “the high embowed roofs,” and the“studious cloisters” by which he was there surrounded. Happywould it have been for him, had he kept that youthful heart!The mulberry is propped up like an old man on his staff, andshielded from the weather by a leaden surtout, but must sooncease to be the last living thing that connects with the name ofMilton.

What a place is Cambridge, when its minor colleges suggestsuch names! As I passed what was formerly Bennet college,I thought of Cowper’s lines on his brother. There, too, wasPembroke, suggesting thoughts of Bramhall and of Andrewes—ofAndrewes whom even Milton could praise, albeit he was aprelate. There was Peterhouse, reminding me of good oldCosin. More than all—there was little Caius (pronouncedKeys) where Jeremy Taylor, the poor sizar and the barber’sson, passed so often to and fro, beneath its quaint old gates,bearing a soul within him, which in after years he poured forth,like another Chrysostom, and made a treasure for all time. Iam sorry to say there is another college there, which suggests theodious name of Cromwell, the man who kindled the fiery coalsin which the golden heart of Taylor, and the hearts of thousandsmore, were well refined, and seven times purified.

The Fitzwilliam Museum is a noble collection of antiquesculpture and architectural relics, with a library and paintings,and has been housed superbly in a building, which is a greatornament to Cambridge, although built, in modern taste, and inGrecian style, suiting the things it contains better than theplace which contains it. I received far more pleasure, however,from a visit to the celebrated round church, which has beenlately restored, and whose name, St. Sepulchre, refers it to theera of the Crusades. But how shall I speak of King’s CollegeChapel? I was not so fortunate as to see it filled with itswhite-robed scholars, but its own self was sight enough. “Suchawful perspective”—indeed! Such tints from such windows—suchcarvings—such a roof! It springs and spreads above you,light as the spider’s web, and yet it is all massive stone, and itsconstruction is an architectural miracle. I climbed to the roof,and walked upon that same vaulting, as upon a solid stone-pavement.It is put together in mathematical figures, and onprinciples purely scientific; but modern architects are puzzledto explain them. Above this, there is another roof, which isexposed to the weather, and from which one enjoys a fine view ofthe town and the surrounding country. The walks and avenuesof limes, which stretch before King’s, and which connect withthe grounds of Trinity and St. John’s, are inferior to nothing inOxford, and are generally pronounced by Cambridge men superiorto Christ church meadows and the walks of Magdalen. Istrolled among some magnificent limes in the grounds of Trinity,which might well apologise for a student’s opinion, that no othercollege in the world has such grounds and trees. As for theriver Cam, its beautiful bridges, I am sorry to say, are reflectedin a very sluggish and dirty tide, called “silvery” only by poeticallicense.

Dining in the hall of Trinity, I was overwhelmed by thesublime associations of such a place, as illustrated by the portraitsaround me. Everywhere were the pictures of greathistoric sons of this college; here was Pearson, and there wasBarrow; and before us, as we sat at meat, were Bacon and SirIsaac Newton. What children has this Mother borne; not forherself, but for all mankind! And thus much I will say forCambridge, as compared with Oxford, that whereas amid thearchitectural glories of the latter, one almost forgets the gloryof her sons, you are reminded, at every turn in Cambridge, thather chief jewels are the great men she has brought forth. Onecannot give her all the credit, indeed: she has been singularlyfortunate; but when hers are Bacon, and Newton, and Milton,and Taylor, and stars, in constellations, of scarcely minor magnitude,what university in Christendom can call itself superior?If Granta has her peer, there is nothing that is more than thaton earth.

Cathedral Tour—The Border.

A cathedral tour now lay between me and Scotland, towhich I began to make my way rapidly. All that I had yet seenof architecture, promised to be the mere preface to what wasstill before me, in the splendours of Ely, of Peterborough, of Lincoln,of York, and of Durham. To my reader it will be impossibleto convey the idea of variety and ever-novel delight with whichthese successive miracles of the builder’s art impressed me, as Ipassed from one to the other, from day to day; but I will touchon the more special characteristics of each, in full confidence thatwhat is most striking in old historic monuments, like these, cannever tire the head that is furnished alike with eyes and brains.

The train took me swiftly to Ely, over a fenny district, whichsupplied nothing of interest, except the distant view of thetowers, which loomed up, more and more, as we drew nigh thelittle city. How different this railway approach from that celebratedby Wordsworth:—

I found this magnificent work partly in ruins—partly undergoinga beautiful restoration; and as the pavement of the choirwas torn up, I beheld a stone-coffin, in which, perhaps, lie thebones of one of those very monks, who were singing in the daysof King Canute. At my request, one of the workmen raised thelid of the coffin, and there lay the skull and bones of an oldecclesiastic, the former quite entire; or, perhaps, it was St.Ethelfreda herself, who began her building here in the seventhcentury. If so, they are repairing her works, in the nineteenth,in a spirit of nobler art, than she ever imagined. The restorationsare truly superb, and a future visitor will find the choir ofEly one of the most impressive temples in Christendom. Whatan age of restorations this is, in the Church of England! ’Tis anobler reformation than that of three hundred years ago—forthat was, necessarily, one of haste and of overthrow. Now acalm constructiveness is at work, holding fast all that was gainedbefore; but giving it the finish, which was impossible then.And these material restorations are but the symbol of a greatspiritual awakening, concerning which, there is one painfulthought which no student of English History should ever forget.It is this, that but for the Puritans, all this would have beendone in the seventeenth century! Greater and better men werethen on the stage than any that are now living, and all that theage of Victoria is doing for Christ, it was in the heart of KingCharles to do. It is impossible to say what might not have beenthe blessed results for the Universe had the Church of Englandbeen in a condition to tempt the Church of France to an alliancein 1682. All we can say on the other hand, is that, let Macaulaydeclaim as he may, progressive freedom would have beenestablished in England without the paradoxical intervention of aCromwell, while there is nothing left us, as the direct results ofPuritanism, except a few Socinian congregations, and the “Dissenters’Chapels’ Bill.”

The massiveness of some portions of this cathedral, and thelightness and grace of others, are very impressive. Its length isvery great, and the vista “long drawn out.” Amid its ancient monumentsI spent a solemn hour of musing, while the light of thedescending sun, through the clere-story and lantern, showered asoft and melancholy radiance over the whole interior, admirablyharmonizing with the reflections it necessarily inspired.

I found Peterborough another sleepy little city, and the cathedralbeautifully situated, with the Bishop’s palace hard by. Itis a severe, but grand exterior, and presides over the surroundingtrees, and roofs, like a sort of divinity. It is quite free of encroachmentfrom other buildings; but its close, or precinct, isguarded by a circuit of prebendal, and other ecclesiastical houses,with turreted and arched gateways, which seem to command areverent approach to the sacred spot. I omit a technical descriptionof the architecture, but must be allowed to give some accountof the Sunday I spent there, and of one or two little things thatdeeply affected me.

While the bells were thundering for Morning Service, I stood inthe nave, wholly lost in contemplation of its plain, but massivemajesty. A train of children entered, with their teachers, evidentlya Sunday-school. I watched the little procession as itwound its way amid the columns, and turned to the left of thechoir. Following them, I saw them enter the choir, by a smallside-door, and as they stepped into it, every little foot fell on aslab of stone, in the centre of which was a little brass plate, notso large as one’s hand. When all had gone in, and were kneelingin their meek array, I drew near, and stooped down to seeover whose dust they had been treading. I read a few words, butthey thrilled me like electricity—“Queen Katherine, 1536!”Here, then, lies that proud daughter of Arragon, whose mournfulhistory has left its mark upon nations, and upon Christendom!The scene in Shakspeare rose before me—Pope—Cardinals—Princes—HenryVIII. This stone covers all, and peasants’ babestrip over it as lightly as if the life that lies extinguished there,had been as simple as their own!

In the corresponding spot, on the other side, lies just suchanother slab, over another sepulchre. The body has been removedto Westminster Abbey; but its first repose was here.The brass has been torn out; but it once read, “Queen Mary,1587”—for here the poor Queen of Scots was laid, headless, andfestering in her cerements, six months after that fatal day, in theneighbouring Fotheringay Castle. The date of her intermentoffers the best apology for the severity she had suffered, althoughnothing can excuse the sin of Elizabeth. It was the year before theSpanish Armada; and it is now known that she had, two years previously,given her kingdom to Philip II., inviting that bloody bigotto set up his Inquisition among her Scottish subjects, and excludingher own son from his right. Such was her crime againsther own people, aimed, however, more especially at England,by her fanatical zeal. Between these solemn tombs of a Queenof France, and a daughter of Spain, I worshipped that day, andreceived the Holy Communion, to my comfort. The anthem wasa familiar strain, from Mozart, which we sing in America to theChristmas hymn, set to words from the Psalter—Quam magnificataopera tua! The Bishop of Peterborough was the preacher,and I heard him again at Evening Service. As you leave thenave through the western entrance, you see an odd portrait setagainst the wall, that of a grave-digger, spade in hand. Underneath,you read—“R. Scarlett, died 1594, aged 98.” He buriedthe two Queens, and the inhabitants of the town twice over, asyou learn from uncouth rhymes subjoined. Was ever such a“king of spades?”

Next morning I saw “Lincoln, on its sovereign hill,” andheard the Great Tom—“swinging slow with sullen roar.” Therestorations going on in the choir had driven the service into alittle chapel, near the west end; but the singing was very sweet,and solemn, though entirely without ceremony. I devoted themorning to the survey of this model of art, which I like the better,because it is, in part, a monument of the Anglican Liberties,as they were maintained in the middle ages, against the RomanPontiff. The central tower is the work of brave old BishopGrostéte, in the thirteenth century. He was the predecessor ofWycliffe and Cranmer, in defying the Pope, and in spite of papalanathemas, he died in peaceful possession of his See. All honourto his pious memory.

It is the custom to admire the west front of this cathedralextravagantly; but I confess that with all that there is to admirein its separate parts, the whole seems, to me, ill-composed. Thetowers, more particularly, strike me as possessing no unity withthe mass of architecture, behind which they rise, as from ascreen, whose broad rectangular frontage detracts from the apparentheight. It is only as seen from the foot of the hill, that thewhole architectural bulk affects the eye sublimely, toweringmajestically over the town, which crouches at its base. Thewhole pile affords to the architectural student every luxury of hisart, both within and without; but such were the desecrations whichit suffered from the Cromwellians, that few of those gorgeousshrines, for which it was formerly distinguished, remain, to delightthe ordinary visiter. In the cloisters have lately been discoveredsome Roman remains: a mosaic pavement, in particular,such as the traveller is so often shown in Italy. “The Jew’shouse,” so called, a relic of mediæval art, was more interesting tome, as connected with the legend of the little martyr who liesin the cathedral, and who is celebrated by Chaucer, in the taleof the Prioress.

The City of York makes an imposing show, crowned by theglories of its vast minster, and walled in, like Chester, withancient ramparts, which nearly encircle the town. How singularthe reflection that Constantine the Great was a native Yorkshire-man,born in this town, in A.D. 272! Here, too, his father died,in A.D. 307, and he succeeded to the empire, going forth to reformpagan Rome, as I trust the spirit of England has even nowgone forth to do the same for Rome papal. Here, too, diedthe Emperor Severus vainly striving to reconcile his sons Caracallaand Geta. Among the monuments of the Roman Forum,these names afterward reminded me of York; while, across thebroad Atlantic, the immense city where I had been brought up,had always been to me, her memorial. How many were the reflectionswith which I walked the whole circuit of her walls, andsurveyed the town, the ancient castle, and the surroundingscenery, and then sailed upon the river beneath! The beautifulruins of an old abbey, near the river, still delight the antiquarian;but after cursorily surveying these, I hastened to thecathedral.

The western front of the minster is worthy of its extraordinaryfame. The semi-barbarian features of many of the cathedralsare here superseded by what might seem to be the idealizedperfection of their rude details. The unity which was wanting inLincoln, seemed to be here complete and entire; and the rich anddelicate tracery which invests it has the appearance of an elaboratetissue of lace, fitted over the stone after the substantial part wascomplete. From other points of view, the impression is less ofgrace, and more of majesty. The whole is sublime in its effectbeyond that of any other cathedral that I ever saw; and even inMilan, I could not but say to myself, as I gazed on its wonderfulDuomo—“after all, it is, as compared with York, only a beautifulmonster.” There is something about it which realizes theidea of a cathedral, in its model form; and this is a charm that iswanting in many others of its class. In its ample choir, I wasmore affected by the service than at any other place, with theexception perhaps of Canterbury, so far as it depended on theelevating influence of mere architecture, consciously felt and employedto ennoble the sacrifice of praise and prayer. With thesurvey of the chapter-house, cloisters, and tombs, I was less interestedthan with repeated efforts to take in the vast sweep of theinterior, and to animate it with visions of what it may yet become,when Deans and Canons wake up to the immense responsibilityof their opportunities to work for the glory of God. Thetone of the service, and the swell of the organ, even now, givewings to worship, when the anthem rises beneath this lofty vault,and dies away in the profound depth of the nave, or spreads itselfamid aisles and columns, with multiplied reverberations and undulationsof harmony; but oh! what might not be its heavenly effect,were the choir and nave all one, and filled with kneeling thousands,lifting up their voice with one accord in the overwhelmingcommon-prayer of the Anglican Church! A friend of mine,who was once present, in Yorkminster, on a Sunday, realizedsomething very near what I strove to imagine. The congregationwas swelled by the presence of several regiments of soldiers, whoappeared to take part in the worship, and whose gay uniforms,as they knelt on the mosaic floor, received a richer splendourfrom the tinted lights that flowed down from lofty windows,where meek saints and mighty princes seem to live again in thelustre of their portraiture.

An early start next morning, a short railway trip, and then astage-coach drive of two miles, and then a walk through thefields, brought me to S—— parsonage, before breakfast, where akindly welcome awaited me from my Malvern acquaintances. Aday had been planned for me by the kind lady of the parsonage,and though it threatened rain, she laughed at the idea of abandoningit on that account. An American lady would scarcelyhave thought of it, even in fair weather, as the excursion involvednot a little exercise of the foot. Off we went in a pony-carriageto Ripon, where I had time for a hasty inspection of theminster, lately made a cathedral. It is a severe specimen of EarlyEnglish, and affords much to interest the student; but very littleto make a story of, unless we adopt Camden’s explanation of St.Wilfrid’s needle in the crypt. It is a narrow perforation of themasonry, through which ladies were sometimes required to pass,when, as Fuller says, “those who could not thread the needlepricked their own credit.”

We went through the grounds of Studley Royal, enjoying adiversified view of beautiful park scenery, till we came to theneighbourhood of Fountains Abbey, and exchanged our drive fora walk. We passed through woods, and by little lakes, and overrustic bridges, and came at last into a walk richly emboweredwith trees, along a height, where the foliage completely screenedthe view below. Our fair conductress promised us a lunch at alittle halting-place called Anne Boleyn’s Seat. I did not tell herthat I had foreknowledge of the trick she meant to play uponme; but I sincerely wish that I had never heard of it, for my ownsake as well as hers. Arrived at the spot, we sat down to rest,when suddenly the lady flung open a door, and before us wassuch a view as can be seen nowhere else in the world. We werebalconied, in a lofty window, and below was the beautiful valleyand meadow: at the extremity of which, rise the ancient walls,chapel window, and tower of Fountains Abbey—the most poeticalruin in existence. All Italy has nothing to show, that can becompared with it for beauty, especially if we take into accountthe extraordinary charms of the wooded steeps that surround it,and of the green velvet mead, from which it lifts itself like thecreation of enchantment. Its architecture is vast and majesticin scale, and the ivy has contrived to festoon and mantle itsmagnificence, in such wise as to lend it a grace it never couldhave possessed even in its first glory. There is a more sylvancharm about Tintern. Fountains Abbey is the perfection ofartificial beauty, for even its surrounding nature is impressed witha look of long and complete subjugation to the hand of consummateart.

I assured our fair enchantress, that although I had heard ofthis surprise before, her playfulness had not been lost on me. Ihad expected to enjoy it only under the humdrum operation ofan ordinary guide. She had heightened the effect by her talismanictouch and artistic air, and I was free to confess that theeffect produced was such, that “the half had not been told me.”A little streamlet runs through the meadow, like a silver threadupon emerald; and nothing which a painter could wish is wantingto make the scene a picture of delight. I could not butthink of the still waters, and the green pastures, and the gloriousmansions of a better world.

The Abbey was Cistercian, as the fat valley in which it standsmight indicate, according to the rhyme:—

It was founded, in fact, in the time of St. Bernard, under thefirst impulses communicated to Europe by his vast enthusiasm.But it is in vain that we look for any traces of his asceticism, inthe luxurious splendour of every portion of this noble pile.Here you enter the lordly refectory; you pass to the amplekitchen, and ascend to the long range of dormitories. Whatprince on earth is better lodged? The chapter-house is on thesame scale of dignity; and the cloisters are a long perspective ofpillared arches, through which the eye can scarcely penetrate tothe end. But the church, with its elaborate chapels, of whichnearly half the pillars are standing in their gracefulness, beggarsdescription. Its floor is green turf, and its walls are hung withliving tapestry; but it seems still a vast cathedral, and the morebeautiful, for its heavenly vault, and its windows, opening in alltheir rich variety of form, bright glimpses of wood and sky.Everything is in keeping, and the whole is such an epitome of themonastic system as suggests alike its glory and its shame. Theexcavations are still going on, and like those of Pompeii, they arerevealing the most minute and tell-tale particulars of monasticlife. One cannot altogether regret that such establishments areof the past, and yet the experiment of their reform should havebeen fairly tried, before destruction made it forever impossibleto restore them to noble and pious uses.

Near the Abbey is a yew-tree of great antiquity, beneathwhich, tradition says, the first colony of monks assembled, andplanned their future home. In a secluded spot, a little furtheron, I came to Fountains Hall, a pleasant manorial residence.It was built in the time of the first Stuart, and, I am sorry to add,of materials, quarried in the old Abbey. Such being the case, Iam glad it is not mine. Sacrilege is so fatal a sin, that I hardlydared to take away a bit of moss from the Abbey walls; and toremove a cubic inch of its masonry, was a liberty from which Ishrank, as a sort of irreverence to God.

Adieu to Fountains—but the scene will never leave my mentalvision, which will retain as tenaciously, also, the recollectionof those whose company enabled me to enter into the spirit ofthe scene, as I never can when alone. Reluctantly bidding themfarewell, I went by rail to South Shields, on a visit to an estimableM.P., whose acquaintance I had made in London. He is aman of great natural refinement, and of very superior accomplishments,having greatly distinguished himself in early life, atOxford, though his retiring disposition has kept him from theambitious dignities which he might easily have commanded.Though there are few, in England, to whom I became moreattached, I must add that it was neither from political nor religiousaffinities. He is as much of a dissenter as a churchmancan well be, and as little of a John Bull as an Englishman canwell be; but it is my creed, that none but the most narrow-mindedmortals limit their society to those who share their own likes anddislikes, and never has my contempt for Sallust’s rule of friendshipbeen more richly rewarded than in the relations which Iformed with Mr. I——. With his liberal feelings towardsAmerica, I was particularly gratified; and it was pleasant indeed tolisten to this estimable man, as he generously eulogized several ofmy countrymen, whom he had made his friends. Most attractivetoo was his unassuming piety. His Greek Testament was hisfamiliar companion, and he was sometimes betrayed into scholarlycriticisms of its text, which I could not always adopt, but whichI was forced to admire, as drawn from stores of classical knowledgeand accuracy. I felt it a great privilege to be his guest, andfell asleep in my chamber, full of happy reflections on thepleasures of the day, and lulled by the sounds of the sea, whichbreaks on the boundaries of his demesne. The morning lightcame to my window over the German Ocean, for the King ofDenmark is next neighbour to my friend in that direction.

I was now among the collieries, but had no desire to knowanything about them. I saw the mouths of the doleful pitswhich descend to these human burrows, and to think of themiserable population below, was enough! There they live, anddie, and are buried while they live, and are far more wretched,I should imagine, than the servile class, in most cases, among us.The amelioration of life in the collieries, is by no means neglectedhowever. England is alive to the spiritual and temporal destitutionof her poor, of every condition; and happy will it be for us,when our national evils are as deeply felt as those of Englandare by Englishmen; when they are as temperately and freely discussed,and as boldly submitted to an enlightened spirit of progressand reform.

With my estimable friend, I visited Durham, its cathedral andUniversity, and enjoyed great privileges in so doing, as the resultof his kindness. On our way, he pointed out the secluded andsaintly Jarrow, and the tower of Bernard Gilpin’s Church. Inthis neighbourhood occur two names that startle an American:he comes to Franklin, and to Washington, little villages whichhave imparted their names to hundreds of places in America, byfirst giving them to two really great men. With us, places arenamed from individuals; but in England, the reverse is morefrequently the case.

“Stupendous”—is the epithet for the cathedral of Durham.It is the poetry of the frigid zone of architecture, as Milancathedral is of its tropics. The first impressions, on entering,were instinctively those of the patriarch—“how dreadful is thisplace—this is none other than the House of God.” At York, Ihad said—‘this is the gate of heaven.’ Here an overpoweringsolemnity brooded over every thought, and I less admired thanwondered. One thing was most pleasing: there is no screen, andthe eye ranges through nave and choir, unrestrained, to the altaritself to which a bas-relief of the last supper, gives a fine effect.Under the guidance of Canon Townsend, who had lately returnedfrom his most primitive visit to the Pope, we surveyed theentire cathedral and its adjoining courts, all alike builded foreverlasting, if the solidity and grandeur of its masonry be anyindex of its design. We visited “the Galilee,” and the tomb ofthe venerable Bede, the “nine altars,” at the eastern end, and thetomb of St. Cuthbert. Also, the chapter-house, hallowed bythe names of Aidan and Finan, those apostles of the North, whocame forth from Iona to illuminate our Saxon ancestors. I pitythe man who claims no kin with their ancient faith and piety!They infused into the Church of England many elements of itspresent character, and Bernard Gilpin was their legitimate son,even more than Bede himself.

In the library, we were shown, by the polite dignitary whowas our guide, many antiquarian and literary curiosities. Thestole of St. Cuthbert, taken from his coffin, and some needleworkof the sister of Alfred, were of the number, and divers manuscripts,on vellum, of great beauty, and one the autograph ofBede! Some modern copes, of the time of Charles First, wereshown us, as having been worn in Divine Service, in the cathedral,according to the rubric, till Warburton laid them aside.We also visited the University, which now fills the old castle ofDurham. This castle was built by William the Conqueror, andwas long the residence of the Bishops, as Lords of the Palatinate.Its old Norman chapel is very interesting, and the modernfittings are in good taste throughout, and turn it to good account.In one of the prebendal houses, we found the Bishop of Exeter,a prelate of great distinction, and celebrated for making warmfriends and bitter foes. Canon Townsend gave us our lunch, athis own table, and warmly eulogized the American Church,which he designs to visit. He also praised our country and itsachievements. His burning desire seems to be to unite allChristians, once more, in one holy fellowship of faith and worship,and it was in this spirit that he visited the Vatican, and exhortedthe Pope to repent. It was the last testimony to PiusNinth, before he dared to commit that damning sin againstChristian charity, on the 8th of December, 1854. In my opinion,Canon Townsend need not be ashamed of having preached theGospel at Rome also.

I crossed the river Wear, and gained from its well-woodedbank, the best view of the cathedral. It rises on the oppositebank, high over the stream, like part of the rock on which it isbuilt. It presents the appearance of entire “unity with itself.”Massive and ponderous dignity invests the whole pile, and withthe advantage of its deep descent to the river, I know not whereto look for anything that seems at once so fixed to the earth, andyet so aspiring in its gigantic stretch towards heaven. Thecathedral at Fribourg, in Switzerland, not only lacks its grandeur,but is too far from the edge of the steep, on which it stands, toderive much character from it. Durham, on the contrary, growsout of the cliff itself, and it is hard to say where the naturalarchitecture terminates, and art begins.

I heard the service, in the cathedral, and it was effectively performed.From preference, I occupied the extremity of the nave,and enjoyed its distant effect. The Episcopal throne, in thiscathedral, is a great curiosity. Had I not been told it wasa throne, I should have said it was a gallery, or orchestra. Itsstyle is altogether curious, and unique; but I should think hisLordship would prefer any place in the cathedral, to such astrange eminence. I left Durham, with great regret that Icould not linger for a long time, amid its venerable and sacredattractions.

A good portion of the succeeding day was given to Newcastle-upon-Tyne,its smutty old-town, and its spruce and showy new-town.Here is Norman England on one hand, and England ofthe Reform-bill on the other. Standing upon one of its loftybridges, I surveyed the town, and the river, and felt more pleasedwith what I saw than I had supposed it possible for me to bewith such a coal-hole.

Out of the hole I climbed, however, to the height on whichstands its old castle, built by Robert Curthose, son of Williamthe Conqueror. It is a dingy tower, at best; but massive, andfull of historic interest. Its chapel, only a few yards square, anddimly lighted, is remarkable for some of the finest specimens extant,of the Saxon arch. Its parts are distinctly marked, aschancel, nave, sacristy, and the like; but it is more like the chapelof an Inquisition, than of a royal castle. Several rooms inthe castle are filled with Roman relics, all found in the neighbourhoodof the town; and often, when I afterwards visitedRome, and thought of this far distant place, did it give me newideas of her ancient power, to reflect upon her identity here andthere, and upon the skill in overcoming difficulties, which, in thatbarbarian day, made her to be felt as really upon the Tyne, asupon the Tiber. I saw very soon the same marks of Roman conquest,far away in Scotland, near Elgin, and Inverness.

And to Scotland I now made my way, without stopping. Flyingthrough Northumberland, I caught many glimpses of itsscenery and antiquities, about Warkworth and Alnwick. Farout at sea, I spied the lofty bulk of Holy Island, or Lindisfarne,the Iona of England. I instinctively bared my head to it. Atlength I sighted Berwick-upon-Tweed, the Amen Corner of England,where the Church ceases, and the Kirk begins. Anon, Iwas over the Border.

The Lakes and the Lakers.

As I am now detailing my “Impressions of England,” I mustleave out my Scottish chapters, for Scotland is far too rich in materialto be smuggled into the world under any cover except its own.After a most interesting visit to this romantic land, I again sawEngland as I approached the Cumberland mountains, at Ecclefechan,and in spite of my delight in Caledonia, I somehow feltthat it was home. I reached “Gretna Green” from a directionthe opposite of that which is the fashion for runaways, and hencesaw nothing of “the blacksmith;” but I was informed that heduly posts himself at the station when the train approaches fromthe other direction, and very frequently finds customers. It isnot now as in the days of posting; and if a brace of lovers canmake sure of a train in advance of pursuers, they are quite safe.The next train may bring the frantic friends and parents; butthe wedding is already performed, according to the barbarous lawof North Britain. It has been remarked as something singular,if not disgraceful, that several who have risen to be Lord-Chancellorsof the southern kingdom, were, in early life, married inthis way. After a moment’s pause at the Gretna station, we werewhirled across the Sark, with a glimpse of the Solway, and soonI was in “merrie Carlisle.” I entered it, thanks be to BishopPercy, with special thoughts of “Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough,and William of Cloudeslee.” The poetry of the town is, in fact,concentrated in that ballad of ballads. As a border town, it hasalways been subject to those fearful scenes and tragedies, whichonly war creates: and its history is a romance, from the days ofthe Conquest to those of the Pretender, whose flag once wavedon its walls. It is charmingly situated, and well watered by itsthree rivers; but its castle and its cathedral are its chief objectsof interest, and offer little that can be described with effect, aftera review of more striking specimens of their kind. Among thetombs in the latter, is that of Archdeacon Paley, the moralist,who “could not afford to keep a conscience.” I did not regardit with any great emotion. The adjacent Deanery, at one timeinhabited by Bishop Percy, was more interesting to me, for whateverhe may have been as a bishop, I cannot doubt that his tasteand industry in literature have produced a vast result in thepoetry and letters of his native tongue. I have often amusedmyself, not only with his “ballads” themselves, but with aneffort to trace their immediate and remote effects on the taste,and even upon the genius of England. They are very striking,and prove what may be the lasting results of a very humble sortof literary enterprise, when it is founded on “truths that waketo perish never.”

I was in the region of the Lakes, and felt upon me already thepowerful influences which its great poets have left it for an heritageforever. The noble range of the Cumberlands seemed tolift their monumental heads, in memory of Southey and Wordsworth.I went to Kendal, and sighted the castle where KatherineParr was born, but was glad to take the earliest train to Bowness.Welcome was the sight of Windermere, brightly reflecting theevening sky, and encircled by an army of mountains, lifting theirbristling pikes as if to defend it, like a virgin sister in her loveliness.Who can forget Dr. Arnold’s enthusiastic return to thisdear spot, from the Continent: his just comparison of its charmswith those of foreign scenes, and his close noting of the veryminutes that lingered as he hasted to his home at Fox How?To me, there is all the heart of poetry in his honest effusion ofgenuine English feeling. “I see the Old Man and the LangdalePikes, rising behind the nearer hills so beautifully! We open onWindermere, and vain it is to talk of any earthly beauty everequalling this country, in my eyes. No Mola di Gaeta, no Valleyof the Velino, no Salerno or Vietri can rival, to me, this Vale ofWindermere, and of the Rotha. Here it lies in the perfectionof its beauty, the deep shadows on the unruffled water; andmingling with every form, and sound, and fragrance, comes thefull thought of domestic affections, and of national and of Christian:here is our own house and home: here are our own country’slaws and language: and here is our English Church!”Good! glorious! every word. I can feel it all, and the lastwords more than he did. It is to the Church that England owesall the rest, and yet that palladium (I hate the word) of England’sholiest, and dearest, and best peculiarities, he would fain haveGermanized! I believe, in my heart, he was better than histheories, and would have been the first to shrink from his owndreams of reform, had he lived to see them coming into shape asrealities. I cannot but follow his speaking memoranda:—“Arrivedat Bowness, 8.20; left at 8.31; passing Ragrigg Gate,8.37; over Troutbeck Bridge, 8.51; here is Ecclerigg, 8.58; andhere Lowood Inn, 9.04 and 30 seconds!” No fast man, at theDerby, ever held his watch more breathlessly; he was speedinghome, and there he was in twenty minutes more, at his own“mended gate,” wife and darlings all round papa, and so endshis journal! Oh, what so enviable as a home, just here? Myown is far away—and I stop at Lowood Inn, grateful for suchinns as England only affords, and proposing to spend such a Sundayas England only hallows. I am not forgetful of my owndear land; I love her Hudson, as I can never love even an Englishlake; but the janglings of a Sunday in America, the unutterablewretchedness of perpetuated quarrels among Christians, andall the sadness of religious disunion, in its last stage of socialdisorganization, take away my sense of repose, when I surveyan American landscape, and the spires of our villages; and whocan measure the indifference, the atheism, and the godless contemptfor truth which all this breeds? Good Lord! when shallthis plague of locusts disappear from our sky? When shall allChristians who love Christ in truth and soberness, agree to loveone another?

At Lowood Inn I spent such a Sunday, as I had promised myself,at St. Asaph. A morning and evening walk, by the lake,was its morning and evening charm, and calm, sweet enjoymentof the service was its substantial blessing. Here, Southey’s wordscame forcibly to mind, as I recalled the common worship, inwhich my beloved friends, at home, were uniting with me; thePrayer-book its blessed telegraph!

Early on Monday morning, in a fairy-like little steamer, I madea circuit of the lake, enjoying fine weather, and delightful views.The clouds took the shape of everything beautiful during the day,now hanging over the “Pikes,” like legions of angels, and nowbuilding themselves up into domes and cathedrals, upon the summitsof the everlasting hills. As for the lake itself, it is somethingbetween Lake George and Cayuga Lake: its scenery insome parts, even finer than the finest of the one, and its tamerparts, almost always equal to the best of the other. LakeGeorge, however, in its exceeding wildness, has its own specialcharm for me; and Windermere is too artificially beautiful, onthe whole, to rival it. Towards noon, I went, by coach, toGrassmere, passing through Ambleside, and by the late residenceof Wordsworth, and enjoying the views of Rydalmere, andKnab Scaur, and then of Grassmere itself, with its sweet church,deep in the vale. The inn at Grassmere is well placed, on aslight ascent from the valley, and provides a toothsome repast forthe tourist. I went on horse-back, over hill and dale, to “DungeonGhyll,” a cataract well known to readers of Wordsworth,but less interesting in itself, though curious as well as pretty, thanthe scenery through which one passes to get there. The mountainranges, and peaks, as they come into sight, and seem to shifttheir positions, are sufficient, I should think, to make the regionever new in its peculiar attractions, especially when one takesinto account the endless variety imparted to such scenes by thedifferent seasons, hours of the day, states of the atmosphere, andconditions of sky and clouds. Wise poets were these Lakers!And how “Kit North” must have revelled in these palaces ofnature! As I slowly returned, I caught my last glimpse of Windermere,and then saw the vale of Grassmere, in its eveningbeauty. Arrived at the churchyard, I sought the grave ofWordsworth. A plain grave, and his name merely. The riverrushing by lulls his repose. A carriage drove up, and seeing afemale mourner approach, attended by a servant, or waiting-maid,I withdrew, and pretended to be otherwise engaged. Thelady scattered flowers on the grave of the poet, and stood thereawhile, musing. It was his widow; and when she had leftthe sacred spot, I returned, and admired the fragrant and beautifultokens of her affection, which, as I learned, she every dayrenews. I gathered some wild flowers, growing by the grave,and resolved to bear them to Keswick, and leave them on thegrave of Southey. This pilgrimage I was determined to make, onfoot; and having arranged for my luggage to be sent to a convenientpoint, I started accordingly, late in the afternoon, with awalk of twelve miles before me; to do which, I gave myself threehours for the walking, and one for resting and idling. I expectedto reach Keswick by early moonlight, for the moon was new, andthe days long. Mine host thought it too late for a start, after afatiguing day; but I had practised in Scotland, and knew mystrength, and the inspiration of the spot was such that I felt noweariness. On the contrary, it is impossible to describe the flowof spirits with which I began and ended this walk. PassingHelm Crag, I decided that the “old woman” on the top, is farmore like a millenial group, in colossal sculpture, for it greatlyresembles a lion with a lamb in its embrace. At every step,Wordsworth and Southey revive in memory; every pebble seemsto have attracted their love, and taken its place in their poetry.After a long, but gradual ascent, we reach the cairn that coversKing Dunmail’s bones, and looking back at the charming view,say farewell to Grassmere. In the distance, ahead, what loomsup? The guide-book says Skiddaw. There once lived Southey;there now he sleeps. As I left this neighbourhood, I observedto my surprise, another group on the mountain, in all respectslike the “old woman,” only turned the other way. Both areformed by loose rocks on the height of the mountain; but I haveseen no mention of this one. And now my way lay along thebase of the “mighty Helvellyn.” The road was easy to the foot,and innumerable are its charms. I came to the lovely Thirlmere,or Leatheswater: the views of the surrounding crags, and of thewater itself, wearing a more beautiful aspect, for the hour andthe departing daylight. Blue-bells were everywhere growing bythe road, in handfulls. I stopped to examine a stone whichseems to record the death of a Quaker’s favourite horse. A carriagecame along, which proved to be full of co*ckney tourists.One of them descended and read, as follows:—“Thirtieth ofninth month, 1843;

The pathos with which these words were uttered was trulyPickwickian, and the step from the sublime to the ridiculous wasso effectually taken by my feelings, that for a long way beyond,Helvellyn re-echoed to my laughter. Passing Thirlmere, thesweet vale of St. John opened a bewitching prospect, and I lovedit for its name. Leaving it on my right, I then turned towardKeswick, and as the last light of day disappeared, there, beforeme, lay Derwentwater, the new moon shedding a tremulous lighton its bosom. This, then, was Southey’s own Keswick, andSkiddaw rose over head! I slept soundly and sweetly at the“Royal Oak.”

In the morning, I took a barge, and was rowed round thelake, which did not disappoint me. One of the men had been aservant of Southey’s, and he told me many anecdotes of hismaster. “Yonder, it seems to me, I can see him now,” said thefellow, “walking with a book in his hand.” He described himas good to the poor, and said, “he often gave five shillings, at atime, to my mother.” In wet weather he still took the air, andwalked well on clogs. I was much charmed with the islets ofthe lake, and the singular traditions which invest them all withso much interest. The romantic stories of the unfortunatefamily of Derwentwater, whose earls were attainted for theirshare in the Pretender’s rebellion, are partly connected with oneof these islands, and the lake itself seems made for a scene ofromance. Windermere is not to be compared with it. I wasrowed to Lodore, and saw “how the water comes down.”Sometimes ’tis a mere burlesque of the poem; but I saw it in fullforce, and entirely justifying all the participles which the geniusof Southey has contrived to set going, like a cataract, out of thefountain of his brain. After this, I swam in the lake, temptedto do so by the double attraction of its pellucid waters, and itsCastalian associations.

I visited Southey’s grave, in Crosthwaite churchyard. ’Twassolemn to see the grass growing, and its tall spears shaking in thebreeze, over the head of that fine genius, and the heart of thatgood and faithful man. In the church, where he so often prayed,a superb statue of the poet lies, at full length, on an altar-tomb.I placed in the marble hand the flowers I had brought from thegrave of Wordsworth, a tribute to their friendship, and a tokenof my homage for both. Great and good men; they were the“lucida sidera” of English literature, in a dark and evil timeand now that their sweet influence has triumphed over theclouds and vapours which obscured their first rising, how calmlythey shine, in heaven, and brighten the scenes they have leftbehind!

Greta Hall, the poet’s late residence, stands a little back fromthe road, in the shadow of Skiddaw. I paid a visit to a daughterof the bard, who loves to linger near her father’s grave; and itwas delightful to observe the simplicity with which she enteredinto the enthusiasm of a pilgrim to that shrine of her affections.The aged Mrs. Lovel, whose name is familiar to the readers ofColeridge, and his contemporaries, also allowed me to be presentedto her. It was affecting to see a group of Southey’s lovelylittle grand-children with her, in mourning for a mother. Theyare richer in the heritage of his name and character than if theywere the heirs of the Derwentwaters, and restored to all theirhonours and estates.

By coach to Penrith, by the vale of St. John, and Huttonmoor.On the moor, I saw a cottage, with an inscription toodeep for me, of which my reader shall have the benefit. It wasthis:—

A Waltonian puzzle in its quaintness, not to speak of the initials!Driving by Graystoke, in which is an old town-cross, we had asight of its church and castle. But two odd-looking farm-houses,which we passed, presenting at a distance the appearance of forts,surprised me more, by their American names, “Mount Putnam,”and “Bunker-hill.” They were built and named soon after thebattle: and the whip laughed as he slyly surmised, that theDuke of Norfolk, to whom they belong, “must have been afraidthe ’Mericans were coming over.” At Penrith, I visited the extraordinarygrave in the churchyard, called the Giant’s. Its historyis lost in the obscure of antiquity; but one Owen is said tolie there, at full length, the head and footstones being fifteen feetapart. The stones are tall needles, of curious form, and coveredwith Runic carvings and unintelligible words. Not far fromPenrith, are some ancient caverns, marked by traces of giganticinhabitants, such as iron-gratings, and other relics worthy of thehabitation of Giant Despair.

Next morning, we were favoured with a brilliant sky and coolbreeze, and I took the top of the coach for a drive across thecountry, through Westmoreland, into Yorkshire. A sweet odourof hay-making filled the air as we started; and soon we had fineviews of Brougham-hall, and castle, with a small adjoining park.A more interesting object to me was a small column, by theroadside, celebrated by Wordsworth, called the Countess of Pembroke’sPillar. It was erected in the evil days of Cromwell, notto celebrate a battle, or a crime, but as a monument of love. Onthat spot, in her better days, the Lady Anne Clifford had parted,for the last time, with her beloved mother, the Countess Dowagerof Pembroke, and she therefore caused this stone to be set as amemorial, and inscribed accordingly. But she did yet more, forhard by is a stone table, on which the anniversary of that partingis annually celebrated by a dole of bread to the poor of theparish of Brougham, to pay for which she left the annual sum offour pounds to the church forever. This is giving a stone tothose who ask bread, in an orthodox way. The inscription endswith Laus Deo; and my heart responded in the manner whichWordsworth suggests. “Many a stranger,” he says, “thoughno clerk, has responded Amen, as he passed by.” Our drive continueda pleasant one till we came to Appleby, an interesting oldtown, through which runs the river Eden. In its church aremonuments of the Lady Anne Clifford and her mother. AtBrough, we came to an old castle, erected before the Conquest.Its church has a pulpit, hewn of a single stone; and they tell agood story of its bells. A worthy drover of the adjoining moors,once brought a fine lot of cattle to market, promising to makethem bellow all together, and to be heard from Brough toAppleby. Accordingly with the money they sold for, he gavethe parish a peal of bells, which constantly fulfils his vow. Hedeserves to be imitated by richer men. At Brough the coachleft me, and I took a post-chaise over the dreary region of Stainmuir;dreary, just then, but not so in the sporting-season, whenthe moor is alive with hunters and fowlers. At Bowes, again,emerging from the moorlands, we came to the remains of a castle,and to the less interesting relics of a school, which had disappearedunder the influence of a general conviction, that it wasthe original “Dotheboys Hall.” A dull place is Bowes; butstriking over a rugged country, northward, I came soon into thecharming valley of the Tees, and so arrived at the secluded churchand parsonage of Romaldkirk, on a visit to a clergyman, who bearingmy maternal name, and deriving from the same lineage, intimes long past, yet claimed me as a relative, and welcomed meas a brother. I found a missionary from India, addressing a few ofhis parishioners, in an adjoining school-house, and there I firstsaw my hospitable friend, and joined with him in the solemnitiesof a missionary meeting, among a few of the neighbouring peasantry.With this estimable clergyman, and his family, I tarried tillthe third day, enjoying greatly their attentive hospitalities, andtrying to catch trout in the Tees. The very sound of this rushingriver recalled the story of Rokeby, and amid its overhangingfoliage, I almost fancied I could see skulking the pirate-figure ofBertram Risingham.

I was not allowed to leave this happy roof unattended. Theeldest son of the family, a young Cantab, took me more thantwenty miles, to Richmond, through a most romantic country,allowing me to visit the ruins, near Rokeby, and to stop at manyinteresting spots. We journeyed through Barnard Castle, and byEgglestone Abbey, and met with several adventures in our“search of the picturesque,” but at last emerged into the surprisingscenery of Richmond, which I found beautiful beyond allthat its name implies, and not unworthy of sharing it with itssouthern namesake, on the Thames. It is the older of the two,and is remarkable for something more than beauty. It hasa touch of grandeur about it, and the ruins of its old historiccastle, on the banks of the Swale, full of traditions of feudalsovereignty, and still massive and venerable in appearance, givean imposing air of majesty to the town. The aspect of the valleyof the Swale is almost American, in its wildness, in manyparts, and I keenly relished even my railway journey througha region so inviting to delay. I made my way to Leeds, where,amid smoke, and much that is disagreeable, stands the interestingChurch of St. Mary’s, lately renewed and beautified by its faithfulvicar, Dr. Hook. I had barely time to visit this sacred place,and contenting myself with having sighted Kirkstall Abbey, inthe vale of Aire, I continued my journey to my first Englishhome, in Warwickshire. The glimpses of Derbyshire scenerywhich I enjoyed, in my rapid journey, were full of beauty: andthe mishap of losing a trunk, gave me the opportunity of puttingto the test the fidelity of the English railway system. As soonas I discovered that some blunder had been committed, I informedthe guard, and at the first station, telegraphic messages weredespatched, and in a short time my trunk followed me to the parsonage,where I passed the Sunday with my friend.

Cowper—Greenwich.

More than once have I betrayed, in the course of my narrative,a strong affection for the name and memory of Cowper.To his poetry and letters, I was introduced in early childhood,by the admiring terms in which a beloved parent often quotedand criticised them; and no subsequent familiarity with them has,in the least, impaired my relish for their peculiar charms. I regardhim as the regenerator of English poetry, and as the morning-starof all that truly illustrates the nineteenth century. Agentle but powerful satirist of the evils of his own times, hewas a noble agent in the hand of God, for removing them, andmaking way for a great restoration. Without dreaming of hismission, he was a prime mover in the great action which hasthrown off the lethargy of Hanoverianism, and awakened theChurch of England to world-wide enterprises of good; andthough the injudicious counsels of good John Newton gave a turnto his piety, which may well be deplored in its consequences uponhimself, it is ground for rejoicing that the influences of the Churchupon his own good taste, were strong enough to rescue his contributionsto literature from the degrading effects of religiousenthusiasm. If any one will take the trouble to compare “theTask” with such a production as Pollok’s “Course of time,” hewill be struck with the force of my remark, for there the sameenthusiasm exhibits itself as developed by sectarianism. I wassurprised to find how many places in England were fraught withrecollections of this retired and sedentary poet. A distant viewof St. Alban’s, the banks of the Ouse, the churchyard of St.Margaret’s, and the school-room, at Westminster, the gardens ofthe Temple, and the little village of St. Neot’s all recalled him tomind, in his various moods, of suffering and dejection. Even theruins of Netley Abbey revived his memory, for there he seems tohave been filled with novel emotions, as an unwonted tourist,with whom romantic scenes were far from familiar. The oppositepole of poetic association became electric in Cheapside, whereso many John Gilpins still keep shop, if they do not “rideabroad.” But I frequently passed, on the railway, a village inHertfordshire, which is invested with memories of a more elevatedand affecting character. It was not only the birth-place ofthe poet, (as well as of Bishop Ken,) but its church-tower is thatfrom which he heard the bell tolled on the burial-day of hismother. Its parsonage was the scene of all those maternal tendernesses,which he has so touchingly celebrated; and who thathas shared the love of a Christian mother, can fail to reverencethe bard, who has so inimitably enshrined, in poetry, the bestand holiest instincts of the human heart, as exhibited in the mutualloves of the mother and her son? I could not leaveEngland without first paying a pilgrimage to those scenes of hismaturer life, which have become classic from their frequent mentionin his poems.

As I was taking my ticket for a second-class passage to thenearest point on the railway to Olney, I happened to meet agentleman who had just bought his, and with whom I had thepleasure of some acquaintance. Knowing him to be connected,by marriage and position, with some of the most aristocraticfamilies in the kingdom, I very naturally said to him—“I’mgoing the same way with you, but shall lose the pleasure of yourcompany, for I’ve only a second-class ticket.” I was amused withhis answer:—“Yes, for I’ve only a third-class ticket.” Hebriefly explained that he was forced to economize, and that,although he did not like it, the inconvenience of a seat among alow-class of people, for a short time, was not so intolerable as acollapsed purse, “especially” he added, “as I am thus enabledto travel in the first-class carriages when I travel with my wife.”Such is the independence as to action, and the freedom as to confessionof economy, which characterize a well-bred man, whoseposition in society is settled; and I could not but think howsnobbish, in the contrast, is the conduct of many of my owncountrymen, who, if they ever use prudence, in their expenses,are afraid to have it known. An aristocracy of money is notonly contemptible in itself, but it curses a land with a universalshame of seeming prudent. It makes the dollared upstart fancyhimself a gentleman, while the true gentleman is degraded in hisown eyes, as well as in the estimation of the vulgar, by the fact,that his house is small, his furniture plain, and his table frugal.Hence so much upholstery in America; so much hotel-life; andsuch a contempt for quiet respectability.

This anecdote is not out of place in a chapter devoted toCowper. The poet was a man of gentle blood, and, in everysense of the word, a gentleman. Many an English nobleman isvastly inferior to him in point of extraction. He was descendedfrom the blood-royal of Henry Third, and in divers ways wasallied to the old aristocracy of England. He used to be visitedat Olney, by persons of quality, in their chariots; and titledladies were glad to accept his hospitalities. But his home at Olney,where he lived for years, was one of the humblest in theplace, and even his darling residence, at Weston, was such a dwellingas most country-parsons would consider barely comfortable.Now, I do not mean to say that John Bull prefers such anestablishment for a gentlemen’s habitation; but I do mean thatnobody in England would be so insane as to think less of agentleman, for living thus humbly, especially if he lived so fromprinciple.

As I came to Newport-Pagnel, a respectable elderly persondrove by, in an open carriage, whom the whip pointed out to meas Mr. Bull; the son of Cowper’s old friend, whom he delightedto call his dear Taurus. Having a few minutes to spare in theplace, and a proper introduction, I called at his house, and was gladto be shown a portrait of the venerable personage himself—the“smoke-inhaling Bull” of the Letters. A lady of the familypolitely gave me all needed directions, but assured me I shouldbe greatly disappointed in Olney, where “there was nothing tosee but old houses, and a general aspect of decay.” I said—‘Yes,but the house is there—and the summer-house—and the spire—andthe bridge?’ I was answered that these were yet remaining,though somewhat the worse for wear and weather; and so, havingsucceeded in hiring a horse, off I went, alone. As I approachedthe neighbourhood of Olney, the first truly Cowperishsight that struck me—and I had never seen such a sight beforein my life—was a living illustration of his lines:—

She little knew how much pleasure the sight of her gave to apassing stranger, with whom her art had been rendered poeticallybeautiful, by the charms of Cowper’s verse. This is, infact, the secret of his spell as a poet, the power of investing evenhomely things, in real life, with a certain fascinating attractiveness.He avoids the romantic and the poetical, in choosing histhemes; but he elevates what is common to a dignity and beautyunknown before. He is the most English of English bards, and Ilove him for teaching me to see a something even in the Englishpoor, which makes them, to me, vastly more interesting than theromantic peasantry of Italy. True, the latter tread the vintage,and the other only stack the corn; but the English cottage hasthe Bible in it, and its children learn the Ten Commandments,and also learn that “cleanliness is next to godliness;” while inItaly, among fleas and other vermin, the idle parents sit lazily inthe sun, and the children run after the traveller’s coach-wheel,lying while they beg, and showing by their religious vocabulary,that Bacchus and Maria are confounded in their imagination assaints of the same calendar.

At length I saw the spire of Olney, and soon I crossed thebridge, over whose “wearisome, but needful length,” used tocome the news from London, to solace Cowper’s winter evenings.I was not long in finding the poet’s most unpoetical home, nowoccupied by a petty shop-keeper, who has turned his parlour intoa stall. Here he lived, however, and here he sang: here, motherlyMrs. Unwin made tea for him, and Lady Austen gave him“the sofa” for his “Task.” Under these stairs once lodged Puss,Tiney, and Bess; those happy hares which, alone of their kind,have had a local habitation, and will always have a name. In thegarden, I saw where the cucumber-vine used to grow, and wherePuss used to ruminate beneath its leaves, like Jonah under hisgourd. An apple-tree was pointed out to me as “set by Mr.Cowper’s own hands.” The garden has been pieced off, and tosee the “summer-house,” I was forced to enter, by a neighbour’sleave, another enclosure. Here is the little nestling-place ofCowper’s poesy—the retreat where his Egeria came to him. Inthe fence, is still the wicket he made, to let him into the parsonage-grounds,when Newton was his confessor. ‘Here, then,’ Isaid, ‘one may fancy the lily and the rose, growing in rivalry;and another rose just washed in a shower; and the sound of thechurch-going bell, and a thousand other minute matters in themselves,all taking their place in the poetic magazine of Cowper,and so coming into verse, through his brain, as the mulberry leafbecomes silk, by another process of spinning.’ It was a smallfield for such a harvest, and yet “the Task” grew here.

And now, another mile brought me to the more agreeableWeston-Underwood, the resort of all his walking days atOlney, and the dear retreat of his later life; the dearer, becausebestowed by the lovely Lady Hesketh. This is, indeed, a residenceworthy of a poet, and though all who once rendered it socharming to Cowper have passed away, I was agreeably surprisedto find no important feature changed. A painful identity belongsto it: you recognize, at every step, the fidelity of the poet’sdescriptive powers, and it seems impossible that he who has madethe scene part of himself, has been for half a century in hisgrave, while all this survives. You enter the desolate park ofthe Throckmortons, and there is “the alcove,” with its commandingview, so dear to the poet’s eye, and Olney spire in the distance.You pass into “the Wilderness,” now a wildernessindeed, for it is neglected and overgrown. Here are a couple ofurns, now green with moss, and lovingly clasped by ivy, but eachmarked with familiar names, and graced by Cowper’s playfulverse. The one adorns the grave of “Neptune,” Sir John Throckmorton’spointer; the other is the monument of “Fop,” hislady’s favourite spaniel. I hailed this memorial of “LadyFrog’s” pet; but was far more moved to descry, before long, atthe end of a flowery alley, the antique bust of Homer, whichCowper so greatly valued, and to which he gave a Greek inscription,which Hayley was proud to do into English:—

Here, then, that “stricken deer that left the herd,” was led toa sweet covert at last, and went in and out, and found pasture,under the guidance of one “who had himself been hurt by thearchers.” With what enchantment these haunts of hallowedgenius inspired me! And yet never felt I so melancholy before.The utter loneliness of the scene; the fact that they who hadbestowed its charm, were all, long ago, dead; and then thatpainful reality—everything else there, as it should be; the Task,no poem, but a verity, and before my eyes; but Cowper, Hayley,Austen, Hesketh, all gone forever; these thoughts were oppressive.I sat down, and almost wept, as I repeated the names ofthose who were so “lovely and pleasant in their lives,” and whonow are undivided in death! It was an hour of deeper feelingthan I had realized before, at any shrine of departed genius, inEngland.

I went to the house, and rejoiced in the comfort it must haveafforded Cowper, in his latter days. It is neat and comfortable,and the village is a pretty one, trim and thrifty in its look, andsufficiently poetical. It has “an air of snug concealment,” whichmust have been most congenial to its gifted inhabitant, and itwas not unsuited to his fondness for receiving his friends asguests. I went into the poet’s chamber, and also into that whichLady Hesketh used to occupy. In the former, there is a sadautograph of the poet, in lead-pencil, behind a window-shutter.The window had been walled up, and only lately re-opened,when the pencilling was found. It is one of the poet’s lastperformances—an adieu to Weston, written there, as he left itforever:—

No wonder he lamented a departure from such a retreat, intonearer proximity to the bad world. Walking in the park,beneath its avenue of ancient limes, I envied the nibbling flocksthat were straying about, and the cattle that were reclining intheir shade. So peaceful! If life were given us for ignobledevotion to self, I know of nothing within reach of a clergyman’shumble fortune to which I should more ardently aspire,than such an abode as Weston, where a golden mean betweenwhat is common and what is poetical in scenery, and situation,still offers every inducement to a man of taste to settle down,and live contentedly; or, like Walton, “to serve God, and go afishing.”

On returning to London, I was rejoiced to meet an old and intimatefriend, from America, whose genius has given him distinction,at home and abroad—Mr. Huntington, the artist. Withhim I, once more, visited the Crystal Palace, and enjoyed thebenefit of his criticisms in surveying the works of art, there displayed.We were interested to observe a constant group of admiringspectators hanging around the Greek Slave, of our countryman,Mr. Powers. Other nude figures, although many of themwere far better calculated to appeal to coarse curiosity, werecomparatively neglected, so that we could not but consider theamount of interest which this work secured, a proof of somethingsuperior, in its character. I own that, for my own part, Ido not like it. The subject is a sensual one, and does not appealto any lofty sentiment. Beauty in chains, and exposed in theshambles, is a loathesome idea, at best.

I went with Mr. Huntington to the rooms of the British Institution,in Pall-Mall, where is a fine collection of paintings, byBritish and foreign masters. It was a great advantage to me tobe prepared by the hints of so eminent an artist, for my continentaltour, and often, in the galleries of Italy, I had occasion tothank my friend for enabling me to appreciate many things whichwould, otherwise, have escaped me. At the exhibition of water-colouredpaintings, I was astonished, by the rich collection, andthe exceeding beauty of many of the pictures. The fruit, andflower pieces, of Hunt, were almost miracles. He paints a bird’snest, with the eggs, and every straw, so perfect, that the birdwould infallibly attempt to sit in it, and he contrives to bestow itin a hedge of hawthorn, so green and white, and so entirely natural,that you would not think of taking the nest, without makingup your mind to be sorely scratched. It would make May-morningof a winter-day, to have a few such paintings to look at,and no one who loves nature could ever be tired of them.

The weather was as hot, at this time, in London, as it is ordinarily,at the same season, in Baltimore or New-York. It wasthe middle of August, and the moon being near the full, thenights were very beautiful; and I observed it the more, becauseneither sun nor moon have much credit for making London attractive.Late at night, I could see the Wellington statue almostas distinctly from the Marble arch, as at Hyde-park corner, andthe scenery of the Park, by moonlight, was enchanting. Whenshall we have such parks in all our large towns?

Next day, with Huntington, and Gray, both of our NationalAcademy, I went out to Greenwich Hospital, to survey theplace, and to enjoy a parting white-bait dinner. We went downin a steamer, enjoying the excursion the more for our comparisonsof all we saw with the Bay of New-York, and the Hudson. Itwas pleasant, now and then, to discern an American vessel, andto know her at once, by her graceful form, amid a forest ofmasts.

Greenwich is the great outside park of London, the resort ofthousands of her pleasure-seekers, of the humble class. TheRoyal Observatory stands on a commanding eminence, and theslope of its hill towards the river, is the favourite sporting placeof mammas and children. As a prime meridian, however, I alwaysregret that it is not deposed, by the religion of England,which ought to take the lead in making Jerusalem the startingpoint for all Christian reckonings. The wings of the morningshould rise every day, from the Holy Sepulchre, and there eveningshould come down to brood, with everything to make it the first,and the last place, in the minds and hearts of a ransomed world.

Greenwich Hospital is, indeed, a palace of the poor. On theterrace, between its wings, one cannot but be impressed with asense of the greatness of a nation which thus lodges the humblestof its worn-out defenders. The old pensioners, hobbling about,in their blue uniforms, and co*cked-hats, move your profound respect.Their wounds, and battered visages, seem to speak ofstorm and shipwreck, and of shell and broadsides, in every climateunder heaven. They can tell wonderful things of Nelsonand of Collingwood; and all seem to address you, like Burns’hero, with the tale,

In “the Painted Hall,” which is full of pictures of naval battles,one sees how terribly their pensions have been earned. There,too, is shown the coat worn by Nelson, when he fell, and it isstained with his blood. It was a comfort to turn from this templeof the Maritime Mars, to that of the Prince of Peace. Theold sailors have a superb chapel, elaborately adorned, and furnishedwith an altar-piece, by West, “the shipwreck of St. Paul.”From a little book which I picked up in Paris, written by aFrenchman, and a Romanist, I gather that the service, in suchplaces, in England, is very impressive, and that the contrast, inFrance, is not in favour of the Romish religion. He describesthe chaunting, and apparent devotion of the soldiers, as verystriking; and he seems to have been especially struck with theirresponses to the Ten Commandments. He adds—“all that wouldmake us laugh in France:” and he goes on to say—“if it beanswered that our soldiers are at liberty to go to mass, I reply,that’s true; but for all that, a young conscript, religiously educatedat home, would be ridiculed so unsparingly for continuing inhis pious habits, that he could not long resist the bad examplesof his comrades.” At Greenwich, the Bible and Prayer-bookare the constant companions of many an old salt; and bad as allarmies and navies must be, I could not but think that there is agreat advantage, in the morale, of Chelsea and Greenwich, ascompared with the Invalides.

We adjourned to our White-bait—a fish, according to the sameFrench authority, most delicate and delicious, and to be eatenonly at Greenwich, because it is necessary to transfer them, instantly,from the water to the frying-pan, and thence to the plate,and because they are fished only in the Thames. I fully agreewith Monsieur, as to the attractions of the plat, especially whenenjoyed in good company. The dinner ended, my friends accompaniedme to the Southwark station, at London, where I had allthings in readiness for a start: and bidding them a warm farewell,I reached Dover in a few hours, and soon embarked forOstend. The sea was calm, and heaving in long, broad, glitteringswells; and as the chalky cliffs of Dover, gleaming in thecloudless moonlight, gradually sank in the distance, I felt that nonative Briton ever waved a more affectionate salute to the brightisle, than that with which I said good-night to Albion.

Return—Conclusion.

It was four months later than the incidents of my last chapter,when after a tour on the Continent, I found myself safely landedat Dover, in the gray dawn of a winter’s morning. I had leftParis, in all the frightful confusion consequent upon the coupd’état of Louis Napoleon. In touching, once more, the free andhappy soil of England, if I could not say—“This is my own,my native land,” I could yet feel that it was the sacred land ofmy religion, of my parentage, and of my mother tongue. I was,once more, at home, and ceased to feel myself a foreigner, as Ihad done in France and Italy. How good and honest, soundedagain in my ears, the language of Englishmen! As “bearer ofdespatches” from Paris, to our ambassador at London, I waslanded with the advantage of precedence, and very rapidly passedthrough the custom-house. The state of things in France,and the feverish anxiety, in England, to learn the changes ofevery hour, invested my trifling diplomatic dignity with amomentary importance, strikingly diverse from its insignificanceat other times: and I was amused to see how much curiosity wasfelt by the officials as to the mighty communications which mightbe going up to London in my portmanteau. Even an old salt,as I stepped ashore, could not forbear accosting me with—“Anynews this morning, yer honour?” ‘Bad news,’ said I, ‘the Frenchmenare going to have a bloody day of it; be thankful you arean Englishman.’ “So I am, your honour,” was his hearty, andmost honest reply.

I had been travelling in Southern Europe, where, to borrow athought of Dr. Arnold’s, no one can be sure that anything isreal, which he seems to see: where Savans are not scholars—wherecaptains are not soldiers—nor judges lawyers—wherenoblemen are not men of honour—where priests are not pure—norwives and matrons chaste. I was, again, in the land of facts,a land deeply involved, indeed, in the sins and miseries of a fallenworld; but still a land, where, for centuries, everything hasbeen steadily advancing towards a high realization of humancapabilities, alike in the physical, and mental, and moral of man’snature. I was once more in a land where it is base to lie; wheredomestic purity and piety find their noblest illustrations, whetherin palaces or cottages; and where not even luxury and pride havebeen able to vitiate the general conviction of all classes, thatrighteousness alone exalteth a nation, and that sin is a reproachto any people.

On arriving in London, my very first employment was to visitthe tomb of the holy Bishop Andrewes, at St. Mary’s, Southwark.The prelate is represented, at full length, stretched upon hissepulchre, and right dear it was, after long tarrying amid themonuments of popes and cardinals, to behold, once more, that ofan honest and true man, and a saint of God, who, in his dayand generation, was “a burning and a shining light.” The tombof the exemplary and amiable poet Gower, is also in this Church,and has often been described.

Attending Evening Service at Westminster Abbey, on the followingSunday, I was so much struck with the effect producedby the light of candles, in the choir, that it seemed to me, I hadnever before fully felt the wonderful impressiveness of thatChurch, nor even of the church service. The surpliced singers,ranged in their stalls—the many faces of the worshippers—andthe lofty arches of the sombre architecture received a new aspect,from the mingled light and shade, and the tones of worship wereimbued, by association, with something strange and solemn.Deep under the vaultings lay the shadows, and here and thereshone out a marble figure, or glimmered a clustered column.When the organ sent its tremulous tide far down the nave, itseemed to come back in echoes, like the waves of the sea—themore effective, because of the distance through which it hadstretched and rolled the surge of sound; and when the responsiveAmens rose, one after the other, from the voices of thesingers, plaintively interrupting the petitions, and marking theimpressive stillness of the intervals between, which were filledonly with the low monotone of prayer, then I felt how amiableare the temples of the Lord of Hosts, and how fair a resemblanceof that temple not made with hands, where they rest not, daynor night, from their hymns, and responsive praises. By thesides of the altar fared two immense wax lights, giving a fineeffect to the sanctuary. After the Second Lesson, the preacher,Canon C——, ascended the pulpit, in his surplice, and preachedthe sermon; after which, the Evening Prayer continued, as aftera baptism, the choir taking up the Nunc dimittis, followed by thecreed, the collects, the anthem, and the prayers, while the organthundered through the lengths and heights of the abbey. I joinedthe throng which passed down the nave, and looking backagain and again, I received such powerful impressions of the sublimityof the place, as had been wholly wanting to the effect bydaylight, as experienced on former occasions. One parting lookthrough the western door, through the dimly illuminated perspective,and then I turned slowly and thoughtfully away. Onthe preceding Sunday, I had left the cathedral service, at Rouen,in circ*mstances precisely similar, and my mind naturally fellinto a comparative train of thought. There was a great similarityin the effects produced on the senses by the two services.A stranger to the Latin and English languages, would have failedto note any marked difference between them. He would haverecognized the Catholic unities of the two rites, and would havefailed to observe their diversities, papal and reformed. TheFrench sermon had been vastly better than the English one: theformer was preached by an orator, the latter by a spiritless andformal favourite of Lord John Russell. Yet, between the twosolemnities, in their entire effect, the disparity was greatly infavour of the English service, which was audibly and reverentlyperformed, while the other was mumbled, and not understood bythe congregation. I felt that the Church of England was strong,if compared with that of France, in her heritage of Catholicand Apostolic truth, as distinguished from the systematic falsehoods,which have made the religion of the other, a mere fable,in the general estimation of the French people.

At a later hour, the same evening, it was my lot to preach inSt. Bartholomew’s, Moor-lane, in the pulpit once filled by theworthy Archbishop Sharpe. The incumbent of this Church hadlately discovered at Sion College a collection of papers andbooks once belonging to the saintly Bishop Wilson; and heplaced in my hands, for that evening, the original Sacra Privataof that holy and venerable prelate. I could not but think howmuch we may owe it to his prayers, that the Church of Englandis now what she is, as compared with what she was in his day;and, in preaching, I took great delight in paying a partingtribute to that Church, as compared with the churches of thecontinent.

I am convinced that the debt which England and the worldowe to the Anglican Reformers of the sixteenth century, hasnever been properly appreciated. Like the air which we breathe,but do not perceive, the spirit with which they have investedthe religion of England, is that of life and health. They banishednothing but the fogs and noxious exhalations of the middleages; and, as the result, we find England hale and hearty, andbearing more fruit in her age, while the churches which allowedthe Tridentine vapours to become their atmosphere, are perishingin the agues and fevers of a long and ghastly decline. Look atSpain and Italy!

And I cannot forbear, in conclusion, to remark, that whenAmerican travellers go to England, and copy the false statisticsof some infidel almanac, to justify their railings against theNational Church, they are about as wise as John Bull is, whenhe takes the statistics of our (immigrant) pauperism and crime, asa test of the true state of American society. It is true thatthere are great abuses connected with the establishment; and itis also true that they are deplored by no class of Englishmen,half so much as they are by the true churchman. If the Churchcould be left to herself, they would be immediately reformed; butthe very creatures who rail at her, because of them, are theywho refuse to give her the freedom which she claims, and who dothe most to enslave her to the State power. I am no friend tothat power in the Church of God; but they who prate againstthe church, because of her misfortunes, deserve the rebuke of allthinking men, whose knowledge of history, and of the existingstate of the world, enables them to compare what has been donefor England, by that church, even in her fetters, with what allother religions put together have done for the residue of the world.When we reflect upon the three great achievements of that Churchfor English liberty—the Reformation, the Restoration of theConstitution and Monarchy, and the repudiation of the PopishStuarts, we may well afford to laugh at such sneers as a Macaulayendeavours to raise against her, on the ground of blemisheswith which his own reckless and treacherous political allies havedeformed and afflicted her. And when we attempt to estimatethe blessings she has diffused through the whole Anglo-Saxon people,and by them through the world, who can refrain from blessingthe dear Church which has placed the English Bible in every cottage,and which, for three centuries, has read the Ten Commandments,every Lord’s day, in the ears of millions of the people? Itis only when we think of what that Church has done, in spite ofthe golden chains which fetter her, and in spite of the politicalmiscreants who have always hung like hounds upon her heelsand hands, that we can rightly estimate her strong vitality, andher vast beneficence.

And let it be remembered, too, that all that is good among Englishdissenters, is sucked from the Church, as the parasite derives itsnourishment from the oak. The dissenters are mainly the small-tradesmenof England, a people intelligent enough to perceive thefaults of their hereditary religion, but not generally enlightenedenough to know its value and its services to themselves. Theyare like the Dutch boors, who thought the sun did no goodamong the Flemings, because they saw it so seldom, and whoconcluded that daylight came from the clouds, which werealways visible. Whoever will take the pains to contrast the dissentersof England with those of Germany, will learn how mucheven they derive from the Church, against which they so ignorantlyrail.

I desire to speak with great respect of many of the dissentersof England, who, like their estimable Doddridge, are such by theforce of circ*mstances only, while they love and revere the Churchof the nation; but I have known even American Presbyterians toexperience the greatest revulsion of feeling against the mass ofEnglish dissenters, after actual contact with their coarse andsemi-political religionism. I was not less surprised than gratified,moreover, to observe very lately, in a widely circulated Americannewspaper, edited by eminent Presbyterians, a full vindication ofthe Church of England from the odious and false views currentamong us in America, with respect to the system of tithes. Thewriter was himself an English or Irish dissenter, and he franklyasserted the fact, that in paying his tithes, he suffered no wrong,and contributed nothing to the establishment, which did not belongto her. “In short,” said he, “the Church owns one-tenthof my rent, and I am quite as willing to pay it to her, as to paythe nine-tenths to my other landlord.” The nine-tenths mightgo to a popish priest; but does he who pays it contribute to upholdPopery? No more than one who hires his house of a play-actor,supports the stage.

But although the decline of dissent, in England, is universallyadmitted, it is generally imagined that Popery is growing. So itis if the immigration from Ireland, of thousands of navvies, whohave built Romish chapels and convents, out of their earningson the railways, be the basis of the remark. But nothing wasever more over-rated than the late Apostacy, which is the fruitof a mere personal influence, over a few young men at Oxford,gained by one brilliant sophist, and perniciously directed by himtowards ultramontane Romanism. It has spent itself already ina spasmodic revolt against common sense, which is breeding a reactiontowards rationalism: but the Church of England is asmuch in danger from Irvingism as from Newmanism; and Wesleyanismwas vastly more energetic against her than either. Thechagrin and disappointment of Mr. Newman himself is most apparent.After numbering the “educated men” whom he had involvedin his own downfall as a hundred, he confesses that theirdefection from the Church has scarcely been felt by her. “Thehuge creature from which they went forth,” he says, “showed noconsciousness of its loss, but shook itself, and went about its work asof old time.” Yes, but with a newer and mightier energy than everbefore, and that in both hemispheres. The unhappy man seemsto have imagined that by getting into a balloon, he could kick theearth from its orbit: but the planet still revolves around the sun,while he dangles in the air, lost in the brilliant clouds of his ownimaginations, and fancying his petty elevation as sublime as herpathway through the skies.

In the same manner, the Dublin reviewers are continually deploringtheir powerless expenditure of vast resources against thereligion of England, which stands in its fortress of Scripturaltruth, more impregnable than Gibraltar. Let the reader reflect,for a minute, on the essential characteristic of the Anglican Reformation,as it began under Wycliff, in a translation of the Scriptures,and then weigh the importance of the following citationfrom a Romish periodical.

“Who will not say,” says the Dublin Review, “that the uncommonbeauty and marvellous English of the Bible is not oneof the great strongholds of heresy in this country. It lives onthe ear like a music that can never be forgotten, like the soundof the church-bell, which the convert hardly knows how he can forego.Its felicities often seem to be almost things rather than merewords. It is part of the national mind, and the anchor ofnational seriousness. The memory of the dead passes into it.The potent traditions of childhood are stereotyped in its verses.The power of all the gifts and trials of a man is hidden beneathits words. It is the representative of his best moments, and allthat there has been about him of soft, and gentle, and pure, andpenitent, and good, speaks to him forever out of the EnglishBible. It is his sacred thing, which doubt has never dimmed,and controversy never soiled. In the length and breadth of theland, there is not a Protestant with one spark of righteousnessabout him, whose spiritual biography is not in his Saxon Bible.”

Action and reaction are always equal; and it is my ownopinion that the hand of God is visible in the permission of thelate scandals, and their sequel will demonstrate that He hasbeen infusing into modern Romanism a spirit which will blow itto atoms. Among the beardless boys, who have swelled thenumerical strength of the apostacy, there are some prodigalswho will yet come to themselves, and remember their father’shouse with penitent tears: and as to their leaders, the ex-JesuitSteinmetz in his narrative of a residence at Stoneyhurst, introducesthe following striking view of the case, which sustainsmy own impressions. “Though the men of Rome,” he says,“exult in this reaction (as they call it) which is making Oscotta refugium peccatorum, perhaps from among the very men whosecaptive chains clank in their triumphal thanksgiving, there willbe shot the lethalis arundo, the deadly arrow that will pierceand cling to the side of their mother church in the appointedtime. It is not children that they are receiving; but full-grownmen, accustomed most pertinaciously to think for themselves.They began with being reformers, and it must be confessedwith some of the boldness of reformers. Will they becontent to change their skins? To become sheep, from havingbeen, as it were, wolves? To smother the cunning and theclever thought, which seems so flattering to one’s own vanity,in the cold, dead ashes of papal infallibility? We shall see.”This is reasonable, and consoling. We may not live to seeit; but a rebellion against Truth must have its rebound, andChurch and State will be stronger for such rebellions in theend.

If then, the decline of English arts and arms be near, ofwhich I am by no means as confident as some, it will be a veryslow decline, and coincident with a new glory, and a brighterone, than England yet has known. Instead of armies, she is nowsending forth soldiers of the Prince of Peace. She has discoveredthat it is cheaper and wiser to sustain missionaries than bayonets.The era of her greatest work is before her. She is to becomethe nursing mother of nations, and in her language, thesound of the Gospel is to go forth into all lands, and unto theend of the world. Hers is the deposit of the faith once deliveredto the saints. The Roman Churches have divorced themselvesfrom the promises, and in the Catholicity of England chiefly isfulfilled the promise of Christ, to be always with His own Apostoliccommission, even to the end of the world. At the sametime, there is a moral life in English society, which must longsalt the State, and preserve it from decay. I appeal to thecommon sense of Christian men, and I ask, in what other countryunder heaven is there such a mass of domestic and socialpurity? Where else is there so large a benevolence, so masculinea religion, so enlightened a conscience, among any people?England has her shame as well as her glory; she is part and parcelof a sinful world; but her light is not hid under a bushel:and if the hope of the world be not in her candle, I am at a lossto know where to find encouragement as a Christian, that theGospel is to become universal. I believe, indeed, that my owncountry is to share, with her, this magnificent career of peacefulconquest. We are bone of her bone, and flesh of her flesh: butI believe, also, that before we can heal the nations, we must firstheal ourselves of the wretched religious anarchy which is thebane of our education, our society, and our National character.

After lingering for a few days in the society of my friends, inLondon and Oxford, I was, once more, for a short time, the guestof the friend to whom this memorial is inscribed, and met at histable, again, the venerable Vicar, who was one of the first towelcome me to England. To part with such friends, and theirfamilies, perhaps forever, was only to become aware how deeplyI had entwined with theirs, my brotherly feelings and Christianregards. But I had been long enough enjoying myself amid thescenes and friendships which even our holy religion, while italone can produce them, forbids to our self-indulgence, in a worldwhere every Christian is called to the work of a missionary.Much as I longed to mingle in the delights of an English Christmas,I felt the call of duty, and the blessedness of giving as greaterthan that of receiving. My own parishioners expected to seeme at the altar, on the approaching feast, and my heart warmedtowards them, as deserving my best endeavours to gratify theirreasonable wishes. Thanks, under God, to the good steamerBaltic, and its skillful commander, I escaped the perils of a wintrysea, and on Christmas-eve, was restored to my flock, andfamily, in Hartford. On the following day, as I celebrated theHoly Eucharist, I trust it was not without befitting gratitude toGod, nor without a new and profound sense of the blessings weowe to him, whose Gospel is the spirit of “peace on earth, andof good-will to men.”

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MEN AND TIMES OF THE REVOLUTION; or, Memoirsof Elkanah Watson; Including Journals ofTravels in Europe and America, from 1777 to 1842,with his Correspondence with Public Men, and Reminiscencesand Incidents of the Revolution. Edited byhis son, Winslow C. Watson. 8vo., 460 pages.

Price, $1.50.

MEN AND TIMES OF THE REVOLUTION; or,Memoirs or Elkanah Watson; Including Journalsof Travels in Europe and America, from 1777 to 1842,with his Correspondence with Public Men, and Reminiscencesand Incidents of the Revolution. Edited byhis son, Winslow C. Watson. 8vo., 460 pages.

Price, $1.50.

Transcriber’s Note:

The book cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Hyphenation and archaic spellings have been retainedas in the original.

Punctuation has been corrected without note. Othererrors have been corrected as noted below: