The Project Gutenberg eBook, Impressions of England, by A. Cleveland (Arthur Cleveland) Coxe This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Impressions of England or Sketches of English Scenery and Society Author: A. Cleveland (Arthur Cleveland) Coxe Release Date: January 13, 2017 [eBook #53952] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND*** E-text prepared by Mardi Desjardins and the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team (http://www.pgdpcanada.net) from page images digitized by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com) and generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages, digitized by Google, are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/impressionsengl02coxegoog IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND; OR, SKETCHES OF ENGLISH SCENERY AND SOCIETY. BY A. CLEVELAND COXE, RECTOR OF GRACE CHURCH, BALTIMORE. When I travelled, I saw many things; and I understand more than I can express. Ecclus. xxxiv. 11. SECOND EDITION. NEW YORK: DANA AND COMPANY, 381 BROADWAY. 1856. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, By DANA & COMPANY, In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. R. C. VALENTINE, Stereotyper and Electrotypist, 17 Dutch-st., cor. Fulton, New York. GEO. RUSSELL & CO., Printers 61 Beekman-street, N. Y. THE REV. JOSEPH OLDKNOW, M. A., OF CHRIST’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, PERPETUAL CURATE OF HOLY TRINITY CHAPEL, BORDESLEY, BIRMINGHAM, IN GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, AND AS A MEMORIAL OF HAPPY DAYS AND NIGHTS AT BORDESLEY I DEDICATE THESE SKETCHES. A. C. C. Baltimore, 1855. PREFACE. The following sketches pre-suppose, on the part of the reader, a familiarity with English subjects, and with the geography, history and literature of England. The writer has endeavored to avoid the common-places of travel, and has made no allusion to topics which are generally understood, such as the petty annoyances one meets at hotels, and the coldness and phlegm of fellow-travellers. He has also forborne to dwell on the greater evils of English society, because these have been thoroughly discussed and exposed, as well by Englishmen as by foreigners. Besides, our countrymen are kept constantly in view of that side of the matter, and there would be no relish of novelty to excuse him for treating them afresh to whole pages made up of the untrustworthy statistics of Dissenting Almanacs, and the rant of Irish members of Parliament. Although English travellers have often dealt unfairly with us, he prefers to show his dislike of such examples, by forbearing to imitate them. Nor does he regard a different course as due to his love of country. A clergyman who devotes his life to the holiest interests of his native land, and who daily thinks, and prays, and toils, and exhorts others, in behalf of her wants—alike those which are purely religious and those which pertain to letters, to education and to society in general —may surely excuse himself from vociferous professions of patriotism. He freely avows his love of country to be consistent with a perception of her faults and deficiencies, and mainly to consist in a high appreciation of her many advantages; in a sense of responsibility for the blessings of which she has made him partaker; and in a studious desire always to remember what is due to her reputation, so far as his humble share in it may be concerned. Whether at home or abroad, he would endeavour so to act as never to disgrace her; but he cannot sympathize with the sort of 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 ourselves with our mother country. If there be Englishmen who take any pleasure in our defects, he is sorry for their narrowness; if any American finds satisfaction in this or that blemish of English society, he cannot comprehend it. He considers a sacred alliance between the two countries eminently important to mankind; and he who would peril such interests, for the sake of some trivial matter of personal pride, must be one of the most pitiable specimens of human nature, be he American or Briton. He has aimed, therefore, to present his countrymen with a record of the pleasures which travel in England may afford to any one pre-disposed to enjoy himself, and able to appreciate what he sees. He confesses, also, that he has though rather confined himself to an exhibition of the bright side of the picture, because he fears that many of his countrymen are sceptical as to its existence. He suspects that Americans too commonly go to England prepared to dislike it, and soon cross the channel determined to be happy in France. As a great measure of his own enjoyment depended upon the fact, that he mingled freely with English society, he thinks it proper to say that he owed his introductions chiefly to a few English friends with whom he had corresponded for years beforehand. He supplied himself with very few introductions from his native land, and even of these he presented only a part; and in accepting civilities he was careful to become indebted for them, only when he had a prospect of being able, in some degree, to return them. As the inter-communion of the Churches tends to make the interchange of hospitalities more frequent, he was the rather desirous in nothing to presume on the good-will at present existing; the abuse of which will certainly defeat the ends for which it has been so generously promoted. Having given years to the study of the British Constitution, and to the Literature and Religion of England, he has for a long time been accustomed to watch its politics, and its public men. He has, therefore, spoken of several public characters, both Whigs and Tories, in a manner which their respective admirers will hardly approve, but, as he believes, without prejudice, and as a foreigner may do, with more freedom than a fellow-subject. In such expressions of personal opinion he has given an independent judgment, and he is very sure that many of his English friends will be sorry to see some of his criticisms on their leading statesmen. It is but just to them to say, that in remarks on the Sovereign, and her amiable Consort, the writer has spoken entirely for himself, and with a freedom, in which their loyalty and affection never allow them to indulge. He believes that an impartial posterity will, nevertheless, sustain the views with respect to political matters which he has expressed, and he considers it part of the duty of a traveller, in detailing his impressions, to be frank on such subjects, in avowing “how it strikes a stranger.” He desires also to confess another purpose, in preparing and publishing this little work. He has aimed to present, prominently, to his readers, the distinguishing and characteristic merits of English civilization. Innumerable causes are now at work to debase the morals of our own countrymen. With the contemporaries of Washington, that high social refinement which was kept up amid all the evils of our colonial position, has well-nigh passed away. The dignity of personal bearing, the careful civility of intercourse, and the delicate sense of propriety which characterized the times of our grandfathers, have disappeared. The vulgarizing influences of a dissocial sectarianism are beginning to be perceived. The degrading effects of sudden wealth; the corruptions bred of luxury; the evils of a vast and mongrel immigration; and not least, the vices communicated to our youth, by contact with the Mexican and half-Spanish populations contiguous to our southern frontier; all these corrosive elements are operating among us with a frightful and rapid result. The contrast with such tendencies, of the sober and comparatively healthful progress of society in our ancestral land, the writer supposes, cannot but be acceptable at least to those of his countrymen who deprecate this deterioration, and who, for themselves and their families, are anxious to cultivate an acquaintance with those domestic, educational and religious institutions which have given to England her moral power and dignity among the nations of the civilized world. These sketches were originally contributed to the New-York Church Journal, but are here given in a revised and complete form. They are a record of the memorable year 1851—a year to which English history will look back as the last, and the full-blown flower of a long peace. The revival of the imperial power in France, at the close of that year, has opened a new era in Europe, the effects of which upon the British Empire can hardly be foreseen. A. C. C. Baltimore, 1855. TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Holyhead—Incidents of the Voyage—Oxford stage-coach and Stratford guide-post—Easter-bells and Easter solemnities—An Elizabethan Mansion—A Roger-de-Coverley picture in real life—A Fancy Chapel—An old fashioned Vicarage. CHAPTER II. Aspect of a Cathedral-town—Lichfield Cathedral, its injuries and restorations—St. Chad, and Stowe- Church—Lord Brooke, his sacrilege and retribution—Dr. Johnson and his penance—The Three-Crowns Inn—Evening Service at the Cathedral—A Midland-county custom. CHAPTER III. Brummagem Bishops—American oak in King Edward’s School—New-England in Deritend—Oscott —Italian Catholicity—Pugin and the Papists—The Oratory and Mr. Newman—An Oratorian Sermon— Romish Methodism. CHAPTER IV. Scene at a London Railway Station—A drive to Pall-Mall—Whitehall and Hungerford Bridge—The new Bishop of Lincoln—The S. P. G. House—Nell Gwynne—Westminster Abbey—The Jerusalem Chamber—Lord John Thynne—The Coronation Vestments. CHAPTER V. Historic Scenes in Westminster Hall—The Scene it presents in our days—The New Palace and Victoria Tower—The silent Highway—Lambeth Palace—Chelsea, and Martin the painter—Whitehall Palace and Garden—Oratorio at Chelsea—Sara Coleridge and other members of the poet’s family. CHAPTER VI. Bury Street, St. James—The Lungs of London—Riding in Rotten-Row—First view of the Crystal- palace—The venerable S. P. G.—The Bishop of Oxford—First glimpse of Oxford—Cuddesdon Palace —A Sermon at St. Ebbe’s—A country Church—Bishop Lowth’s Epitaph on his daughter. CHAPTER VII. Forest-hill—A walk in the country—Miltonian scenery—Mary Powell’s birth-place—A dame’s School—Milton’s Well—A neat-handed Phillis—Elucidations on the spot—Sir William Jones. CHAPTER VIII. Oxford—William of Wykeham—New College and its Gardens—Magdalen—Addison’s Walk— Scene in the Convocation-house—May-morning hymn on Magdalen Tower—Scenery of the surrounding country—Morning-bells and a walk in the College-grounds. CHAPTER IX. The Queen’s Progress to the Crystal-palace—The mob in the Park—The Queen’s return—Her appearance at Buckingham Palace—Americans at a discount—The interior view of the Great Exhibition— A high-priced day and a low-priced day—The end of the bubble—Jack in the Green. CHAPTER X. The Chapel Royal of St. James—The Duke of Wellington at his prayers—The Sermon—The Duke at the Holy Communion—St. Paul’s Cathedral—How it compares with St. Peter’s—Effect of the Choral Service—Dean Milman—St. Barnabas’, Pimlico, and its Mediævalisms—Fashion at St. George’s—The Bishop of Nova-Scotia. CHAPTER XI. Ramblings in London—All-hallows, Barking—First view of the Tower—The Sovereigns on horseback—Historical relics—The Armada and its cargo—The block and the axe—The jewel-room— Laud and Strafford—Prisoners’ inscriptions—The graves in the Tower-Chapel—The Traitors’ gate. CHAPTER XII. House of Commons—Message from the Lords—D’Israeli—Lord John—The Speaker—The Abbey and Whitehall at dead of night—The Papal Aggression—The course of the Whigs with the Papists—The Irish Brigade—Lord John and D’Israeli in a personal debate—Feebleness of Ministerial measures. CHAPTER XIII. Decorations of the House of Lords—Their wholesome moral—The future of the new Chamber—The Aristocracy—Manners in Parliament—The Lord Chancellor Truro—The London Police—Their impartiality. CHAPTER XIV. Exhibitions of Art—Westminster Bridge—Lambeth—A wherry on the River—Temple Gardens and Church—Twelfth-Night—To the ball on the dome of St. Paul’s—Descent to the Crypts—Nelson’s Tomb —The Thames Tunnel—Shipping. CHAPTER XV. The Cries of London—Covent Garden Market—The Savoy—St. Clement Danes and Dr. Johnson— Anecdote of Johnson at Temple-bar—Lincoln’s Inn—Heralds’ College—The Times—The Old Bailey— A Trial for Murder—A Visit to the Dead—Milton’s Grave—Grub-street—Chaucer’s Tabard. CHAPTER XVI. Charms of Society in London—The London Season—Breakfast-parties—Dining out—Children at the Dessert—Evening-parties—Historical Costumes—A literary party at Lady Talfourd’s—Influence of high refinement on individual character—Pronunciation—A breakfast at Samuel Rogers’. CHAPTER XVII. Exeter College, Oxford—A Sunday at Oxford—Common-room of Oriel—Visit to Nuneham Courtenay—Parish-school—Society in Oxford—Life of an Oxonian Fellow—A visit to Dr. Routh— Relics of Laud—Oxford Martyrs—Libraries and Museum—Chapel of Merton—A boat-race. CHAPTER XVIII. Iffley Church—Radley, and a walk through Bagley Wood—Making a Doctor of Divinity—A drive through the country—Parish-stocks—Incidents of the journey—Old villages—Descent into the Vale of Gloucester—A picture in real scenery. CHAPTER XIX. Worcester Cathedral—Coaching to Malvern—Great and Little Malvern—Tewksbury—Wars of the Roses—Bredon—Sunday at Kemerton—May’s Hill—The Cuckoo—Gloucester—The Church at Highnam—Architectural beauty of Gloucester Cathedral—Effect in twilight. CHAPTER XX. The Old Palace of St. James—Preparations for going to Court—The procession of carriages—The Presentation—The Queen and Prince Albert—A drawing-room—The Ladies—Decorations of the royal apartments—Portraits in the Corridor—Reflections. CHAPTER XXI. A visit to Harrow Weald—Ascension Day—Oak-leaves in honor of the Restoration—Cricket— Evening Service, and a remarkable Sermon—Coventry—Peeping Tom and Lady Godiva—Kenilworth— The ruins—Guy’s Cliff—Piers Gaveson—Warwick Castle. CHAPTER XXII. Stratford-upon-Avon—The Red-Horse Inn—Geoffrey Crayon—The Birth-place of Shakspeare— New-Place—Walk to Shottery—The Churchyard—The Church and Tomb—The Epitaph of Shakspeare’s daughter—Influence of the Church on the mind of Shakspeare. CHAPTER XXIII. Nottingham—Lord Byron’s reputation—The Castle—Derby—The Wye—Haddon Hall—Gallery— Chapel—Chatsworth—Matlock-Bath—Shrewsbury—A Sedan-chair—Welsh Emigrants—Chester— Eaton-Hall. CHAPTER XXIV. St. Winifred’s Well—The Vale of Clwyd—Rhuddlan—St. Asaph—A Welsh Inn—Welsh hospitality —The Welsh service in a rural Church—The Holy Clerk of Llanerch—Mrs. Hemans—St. Mary’s Well— Conway Castle. CHAPTER XXV. Bangor—Menai Straits, and a Trip to Caernarvon—Llanberis and Dolbardan—Caernarvon Castle— The Eagle tower—Nant Ffrancon—Capel Curig—Corwen—Valle Crucis—Llangollen—Miss Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler. CHAPTER XXVI. Gypsies—The Man of Ross—Market day—Monmouth—Tintern Abbey in a storm—A Vicar’s children—The Wind-cliff—Tintern in sunshine—The Severn—Clifton, Bristol and St. Mary Redcliffe— Chatterton—Bristol Cathedral—Mrs. Mason’s tomb—A dissenting minister—His charity. CHAPTER XXVII. Glastonbury—King Arthur’s coffin—Restorations at Wells—Ordination at Bradfield—Solemnities of the Jubilee—Willis’s Rooms—A Centenarian—Speeches at St. Martin’s Hall—The Archbishop in his Study—The Jubilee Sermons—Samuel Warren. CHAPTER XXVIII. Jubilee-service at the Cathedral—A Lord Mayor’s Feast—Lord Glenelg—Eton College—St. George’s Chapel and Windsor Castle—A Dame’s House—A swim in the Thames—Hampton Court— Pictures and Cartoons—Hursley Church, and the Poet Keble—Winchester School—St. Cross Hospital —Relics. CHAPTER XXIX. Winchester Cathedral—Wykeham and Wayneflete—Cardinal Beaufort—Bishop Fox—Stephen Gardiner—The Altar—Reliquary chests—Izaak Walton—An American Vicar—His ingenuities— Salisbury Plain and Stonehenge—George Herbert—Netley Abbey—The Isle of Wight—Portsmouth— Chichester—Brighton. CHAPTER XXX. St. Augustine’s, Canterbury—Queen Bertha’s Church—The Patriarchal Cathedral—Becket—The Black Prince—Archbishop Howley—The Dane John—Drive to Borne—The Judicious Hooker—One of the Squirearchy—Rochester—Westminster Archives—Chapel of Henry VII.—Grave of Addison— British Museum—Richmond Hill—Thomson’s grave—Pope’s skull. CHAPTER XXXI. The Encænia at Oxford—The uproar—Bedford and John Bunyan—Fourth of July—The gates of Caius—Comparison of the two Universities—Chancellor Albert—Old Hobson—The Isthmus of Sues— Milton’s Mulberry—The small Colleges—The Fitzwilliam—King’s College—Trinity. CHAPTER XXXII. Ely Cathedral—Its beautiful restorations—Peterborough—The graves of two Queens—A King of Spades—Lincoln and Bishop Grostete—The Cathedral—Jews’ House—The City of Constantine—York Minster—Ripon—Fountains’ Abbey—Durham—The Bishop of Exeter—The University—Newcastle— Amen Corner. CHAPTER XXXIII. Return from Scotland—Gretna Green—Carlisle—The Lakes—Windermere—Dr. Arnold’s enthusiasm—An American Sunday and an English one—Grassmere—A Poet’s Widow—A walk to Keswick—Cockney rhetoric—Derwentwater—A Poet’s Sepulchre—Penrith—The Countess’ Pillar— Dotheboys Hall—Rokeby—Kirkstall Abbey. CHAPTER XXXIV. A pilgrimage to Olney—Cowper’s services to Literature—Anti-Snobbery—Cowper’s pedigree—A lace-maker—Olney bridge—The Summer-house—Weston-Underwood—The Wilderness—Cowper’s Autograph and Adieu—The Greek Slave—White-bait at Greenwich—The Prime Meridian—The pensioners—Good-night. CHAPTER XXXV. Return from the Continent—Despatches—England and Southern Europe—The Sepulchre of Andrewes—Westminster by Candlelight—St. Bartholomew’s, Moor-lane—The Anglican Reformers— Superficial views of travellers—Dissent in England—Tithes—The late Recusancy—Newman and the Dublin Review—The English Bible—Conclusion. IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND. CHAPTER I. First and Second Thoughts—A Warwickshire Welcome. About noon, one hazy April day, I found myself approaching the British coast, and was informed by the Captain of our gallant steamer, that in a few minutes we should gain a glimpse of the mountains of Wales. Instead of rushing to the upper- deck, I found myself forced by a strange impulse to retire to my state-room. For nearly thirty years had my imagination been fed with tales of the noble island over the sea; and for no small portion of that period, its history and its institutions had been a favorite subject of study. To exchange, forever, the England of my 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 and reviewed the conceptions of childhood; and then betook myself, solemnly, to the reality of seeing, with my own eyes, the land of my ancestors, in a spirit of thankfulness for so great a privilege. I went on deck. There was a faint outline of Snowdon in the misty distance; and before long, as the mist dispersed, there, just before 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 thought that 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 leaving one’s home, and committing one’s self to such a symbol of Eternity as the Ocean, and then, after long days and nights, beholding the reality of things unknown before, and entering upon new scenes, with a sense of immense separation from one’s former self. Oppressive thoughts of the final emigration from this world, and descrying, at last, “the land that is very far off,” were forced upon me. We doubled the dangerous rocks of Skerries, and began to coast along the northern shore of Anglesea: and then, with my perspective-glass, I amused myself contentedly, for hours, as I picked out 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 interesting one. Extraordinary icebergs had been visible for several successive days, and had given us enough of excitement to relieve the tediousness of the mid-passage. Our two Sundays had been sanctified by the solemnities of worship; and the only mishap of our voyage had been such as to draw forth much good feeling, and to leave a very deep impression. One of the hands had been killed by accidental contact with the engine, and had been committed to the deep with the Burial Service of the Church, in the presence of all on board. A handsome purse was immediately made up for the surviving mother of the deceased; and the painful event tended greatly to the diffusion of a fraternal sympathy among the entire company. We became as one family: and now, before retiring for the night, I was requested, by those who remained on board, to offer a solemn thanksgiving to Almighty God, for our safe deliverance from the perils of the sea. This it gave me pleasure to do; and the words of the Psalmist rose in our evening devotions, “Then are they glad because they are at rest; and so he bringeth them unto the haven where they would be.” The noble vessel in which we had accomplished our voyage now lies many fathoms deep in the sea. It was the Arctic. On landing, in the morning, I inwardly saluted the dear soil, on which I was permitted at last to place my feet, and on which I could not feel, altogether, a foreigner. I ran the gauntlet of tide-waiters, and the like, without anything to complain of, and, after a bath at the Adelphi, made my way to St. George’s Church. Here, for the first time, I joined in the worship of our English Mother; though it was difficult to conceive myself a stranger, until the expression—“Victoria, our Queen and Governor”—recalled the fact that I was worshipping with the subjects of an earthly Sovereign, as well as among my brethren of the glorious City of God. A letter awaited me at the Post Office, which invited me to spend my rest-days with a dear friend. So, after a hasty survey of Liverpool, which I did not care to inspect minutely, I took an early evening train for Warwickshire, and was soon speeding athwart highways, and through hedges, towards my friend’s abode. Even my glimpses of England, from the flying carriage, were enough to occupy my mind delightfully: and often did some scene upon the road-side, or in the sprouting fields, recall incidents of history, or passages of poetic description, which filled me with emotion, and greatly heightened my preconceptions of the pleasures before me, in the tour which I thus began. So it happened that my first night on shore was passed beneath the 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 been prepared for me, and furnished with such things, in the way of books and the like, as, it was fancied, would suit my tastes. One window 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 bell for early prayers. The Bishop of W—— had sent me his permission to officiate, and when I went to Church, it was always as a priest of the One Communion. I was at home: as much so 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 to pleasant and somewhat professional walks. We visited, for example, a parochial establishment, in which some twenty widows were lodged, by the benevolent charity of an individual. Every widow had her own little cottage, and the entire buildings enclosed a square, in which was their common garden. There was also a small chapel; and in each little home there was a text inscribed over the fire-place, encouraging charity, forbearance, and love to God. Here was a quiet Beguinage, built many years ago, and never heard of: but there are many such, in England, dear to God, and the fruits of his Church. I visited also a school founded by King Edward Sixth; and having, on my first landing at Liverpool, paid a visit to its Blue Coat Hospital, founded by a prosperous seaman of the port, and furnishing a noble example to all sea-port cities, I had seen not a little to charm me with the religion of England, before I had been a week on her shores. Our quiet walks through lanes and by-paths, were not less gratifying in their way. The hedges and the fields, gardens and residences, the farms and the very highways, were full of attractions to my eye, and the more so, because my companion seemed to think he could find nothing to show me! He knew not the heart of an American, fond of his mother country, and for the first 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 enough to 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,” only twenty miles off, I could almost have bowed to it. A stage coach came along, bearing “Oxford” on its panels; and the thought that it had started that very morning from the seat of the University, and had raised the dust of Stratford-on-Avon, made its wheels look dignified. To enjoy England one must be an American, and a hearty and earnest member of the Anglican Church. Even the cry of “hot cross buns,” which waked me on Good Friday morning, reviving the song of the nursery, and many more sacred associations with the day, made me thankful that I was no alien to the spirit of the solemnities, which even a traditionary cry in the streets tends to fasten upon the heart and conscience of a nation. Easter morning came at last, and I was up with the sun, and out for a walk. It came with a bright sunrise, and many cheerful notes from morning birds. I was confident I heard a lark singing high up in the air, for though I could not see the little fellow, I could not mistake the aspiring voice. His Easter Carol was a joyous one, and I set it to the familiar words— Christ, our Lord, is risen to-day, Sons of men and angels say! The hedges were just in leaf: here and there the hawthorn had blossomed, but the weather was too cold for its silvery beauty; and one almost pitied the few adventurous flowers, that, like good Churchmen, seemed only to have come out in conscientious regard to the day. I finished my morning walk by a turn or two through the church-yard, every grave of which was sparkling with dews, illuminated by the Easter sun. How forcibly the scene represented the resurrection: “The dew of thy birth is of the womb of the morning.” As I entered the parsonage, I heard the bells chiming from a distant parish church. My reverend friend met me with the salutation—“the Lord is risen;” to which I could not but fervently respond in the same primitive spirit. We had a festal breakfast, after family prayers, and soon it was time for service. I could willingly have been a worshipper in private, but submitted to the authority of the parson, and became one of his curates for the day. We emerged from the Vestry in due order of the Psalmist—“the singers going before,” men and boys alike in surplices; the latter with red cheeks, and white ribbons to tie their collars, looking like little chubby cherubs, and when they lifted their voices, sounding still more like them. The chancel was neatly decorated; a few flowers placed over the altar, and an inscription on its cloth, “I am the Bread of Life.” With the choral parts of the service I was surprised, as well as delighted. Boys and men all did their parts, in a manner which would have done honor to the authorities of a Cathedral, and I observed that the congregation generally accompanied the choir, especially the children in the galleries. I had never before heard the Athanasian Hymn as part of the regular Service, and I was greatly impressed by its majestic effect. After the Nicene Creed, I ascended the pulpit, and preached “Jesus and the Resurrection,” and then, returning to the Altar, celebrated the Holy Eucharist, according to the English rite, administering to my reverend brethren and the lay-communicants. To this high privilege I was pressingly invited by the pastor himself, in token of entire communion with the Church in America; and thus I was able to join my personal thanksgivings for the mercies of a voyage, and my prayers for my absent flock and family, to a public exercise of the highest functions of my priesthood, at the altar of an English Church. The many incidents of the day, which afforded me ever fresh delight, might lose their charm, if reduced to narration, or might strike the reader as proofs of my facility to be gratified. But I cannot but mention that, strolling away, in the afternoon, to see how service was performed at another Church, I was gratified to find it filled with devout worshippers of the plainer sort, attentively listening to a very excellent sermon, appropriate to the day. While the preacher was warmly enlarging upon the promise of a glorious resurrection, and I was quite absorbed in his suggestions, I suddenly caught a glimpse, among the crowd of worshippers, of a figure which startled me, as forcibly illustrative of the words of the preacher, “thy dead men shall live.” It was the recumbent effigy of an old ecclesiastic of the fifteenth century, which I had not observed before. As if listening to the preacher, in joyful hope, there it lay upon the tomb, hands clasped placidly together, and looking steadfastly towards heaven! How it seemed to join the hopes of the dead with those of the living, and to give force to every word which fell from the pulpit concerning the glory which shall be revealed in all those who sleep in Jesus! With Easter-Monday our holidays, in the school-boy sense, began. My reverend friend proposed a visit to the Vicar, to whose patronage he owed his own incumbency of the Chapel of the Holy Trinity, in B——. Off we started on foot, passing through the suburbs of a populous town, and finally emerging into the open country. We came suddenly in sight of the old Church of A——; its beautiful spire and gables admirably harmonizing with the surrounding view, and telling a silent story of long past years. Beyond it, a majestic avenue of elms disclosed at its extremity a mansion of Elizabethan architecture and date; not the less reverend in my associations for the fact that Charles the First slept in it just before Edgehill fight, and that a cannon-ball, still lodged in the stair-case, attests the perilous honor which his Sacred Majesty was thus pleased to bestow on its occupant. The solemn dignity of an old English residence of this kind, had heretofore been to me a thing of imagination; now it was before my eye, not a whit less pleasing in its reality. The rooks were chattering in its venerable trees, which seemed to divide their predilections about equally with the steeple; and I am told that they are such knowing birds, that whenever you see a rookery, you may be sure that there is both orthodox faith, and at least one sort of good-living in the neighborhood. Had I challenged my friend to show me a genuine Roger-de-Coverley picture 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, corn sprouting, and hedges looking freshly green; but when I entered the church-yard gate, lo! a rustic party, in holiday trim, were hanging about the old porch, awaiting the re-appearance of a bridal train, which had just gone in. It wanted but the old Knight himself and his friend the Spectator, to make the whole scene worthy of the seventeenth century. I entered the church, and found it in all respects just such an interior as I had longed to see; apparently the original of many a pleasing print, illustrating Irving’s “Sketch-Book” and similar works, the delight of my childhood, and still affording pleasure in recollection. Its ample nave, widened by rows of aisles, terminated in the arch of a long chancel, at the altar of which stood 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 passed into the vestry to register their names, and one of the curates coming to the door of the church, found another group of villagers, at the font, presenting a child for baptism. Following my friend into the vestry, I was presented to the Vicar himself, who seemed the genius loci in all respects; a venerable gray-haired old gentleman, in his surplice, full six feet in stature, and worthy to sit for a portrait of Dr. Rochecliffe, in Woodstock. It was now time for service, and I was desired to robe myself, and accompany him into the chancel, two curates, the clerk, and some singers leading the way. I was put into a stall, marked with the name of some outlying chapelry of the parish, and appropriate to its incumbent when present. The chancel was filled with monuments, of divers ages and styles. At my left hand lay the effigies of a knight and his good dame, in Elizabethan costume; beyond were a pair of Edward III.’s time; opposite were figures of the period of Henry VI. and much earlier; the knights all in armor, and some with crossed legs, as a token that they had fought in Palestine. The service was intoned by one of the curates, in a severe old tone, authorized in Archbishop Cranmer’s time, which the Vicar afterwards assured me was very ancient, and the only genuine music of the Church of England. When the service was concluded, there was a churching to be attended to, at the south porch of the church, and to this duty one of the curates was deputed, while the Vicar himself detained us in the chancel with an enthusiastic antiquarian illustration of the monuments, to which I was a most willing listener. Here slept the de Erdingtons, and there the Ardens: such and such was their story; and such and such were the merits of the sculpture. Chantrey had visited these figures, and assured him that they were 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 with such things inclines me to believe the sculptor was sincere. On the walls were the heavy tablets of the Hanoverian period, and our attention was directed to the marked decline of art, from the period of the Crusades down to the Georges, growing worse and worse till George Fourth’s time, which improved the existing style, and was succeeded by a period of rapid return to correct taste and principle. Of all this the Church itself bore witness. Here the worthy man pointed out marks of its various stages of decline: here were barbarous repairs; there a sad blunder of old Church- wardens; here a wanton mutilation of Hanoverianism in 1790, when the very worst things happened to the holy and beautiful house; and there, at last, was a fine restoration of our own times. We were next conducted to the church-yard, the Vicar having doffed his surplice, and assumed his usual habit, which partook of the dignity and taste of its wearer in a pleasing degree. His hat was specially ecclesiastical, and turned up at the sides, and over his cassock and bands he wore a clerical surtout, so that as he strode over the graves, in his small-clothes, displaying a finely proportioned leg, his entire figure might have been thought contemporary with that of his brother of Wakefield. We now learned the history of the Church, its great tithe, and its various plunderings under successive bad kings. We viewed the tower and spire from every possible point of vantage, and then went round the walls to see where a window had been blocked up, or a doorway broken through, or a pointed arch displaced for a square-headed debasement of the Tudor period. I never found before so good a “sermon in stones.” An ancient yew-tree was pointed out as having afforded boughs, before the reformation, for the celebration of Palm-Sunday. We adjourned to the Vicarage, where luncheon was served in the Library, a room filled with the choicest volumes; and then we were dismissed for a walk, promising to return, for our dinner, at five o’clock. Our road soon brought us to E ——, where a Romish Chapel had been lately erected, by a man of fortune, in minute and extravagant reproduction of Mediævalism. It was a thing for a glass case; a piece of admirable art; a complete Pugin; and no doubt in the middle ages would have been a very suitable thing for its purposes; but, in our day, it seemed as little suited to Rome as to Canterbury. The Pope himself never saw such a place of worship, and would scarcely know how to use it; and it was chiefly interesting to me as enabling me to see, at a glance, what the finest old Parish Churches of England had been in the days of the Plantagenets. At any rate, they were never Tridentine, and they were always Anglican. This beautiful toy had a frightful Calvary in the church-yard; but the interior was adorned with the finest carvings in Caen stone, and brilliant colorings and gildings à la Froissart. The pulpit was adorned with the story of Becket, in very delicate sculpture, and around the Church were stations, or representations of the different stages of the 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 the creature more than the Creator.” I turned away heart-sick, that such unrealities of a dead antiquity could be employing the whole soul of any Englishman, and even tempting some into apostacy from the simple but always dignified Church of their ancestors. 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 a complete circuit, crossing green fields, leaping ditches, and breaking through hedges. Up hill and down dell, and through fragrant country lanes; here a river, and there a pool; now a farm, and then a mill. Yellow gorse was in flower by the road-sides. We met many parties of village people enjoying their Easter sports, and dressed in holiday attire. This day, at least, it seemed merry England still. We came to Witton Manor-house, and thence caught a distant view of the spire, towards which it grew time to return. Immense elms, of darker look than those of New-England, beautified the view in every direction; and the landscape was diversified by many smaller trees, marking the water-courses. We came out, at last, by the old Hall, the exterior of which we closely examined, imagining the scene around its gates when the royal Stuart came to be its guest. Like many other mansions of the olden time, it is deserted now; and the deepening twilight in which we viewed it, harmonized entirely with the thoughts which it inspired. So we returned to the Vicarage, and again were warmly welcomed. At dinner we were presented to Mrs. ——, the Vicar’s wife, who seemed to take the liveliest interest in my country and its Church, and kindly to appreciate my own enjoyment of the events of the day. After dinner the Vicar lighted his long pipe, and continued his exceedingly interesting discourse about the olden time. I could see that he was no admirer of the Crystal Palace, and all that sort of thing. I had met a laudator temporis acti, whose character and venerable appearance gave him a right to lament the follies of our own age; and seldom have I enjoyed more keenly any intellectual treat than I did his arm-chair illustrations of past and present, as compared together. On his favorite topics of Church-music and Architecture he was very earnest and intelligent. The Northamptonshire Churches, he assured me, were the finest in England; and kindly introducing me to the summa fastigia rerum, he took me to the very garret, to hunt up some superb plates of his favorite localities. When I bade adieu to this Vicarage, it was as one leaves an old friend. Such hospitality, and such heart afforded to a stranger! Thus early had I found that old English manners are not yet extinct, and that the fellowship of the Church admits even a foreigner to their fullest enjoyment. It was eleven o’clock when we reached the no less hospitable home from which I started in the morning. CHAPTER II. Easter Holidays—Lichfield and Dr. Johnson. My reverend friend accompanied me to Lichfield, as our occupation for Easter-Tuesday; kindly expressing his desire to have a share in the enthusiasm, with which he justly imagined the first sight of an ancient cathedral would inspire a visiter from America. And although Lichfield is by no means one of the most impressive specimens of English cathedral architecture, as it is small, and not very well kept, I was very glad to begin my pilgrimage to the cathedrals with this venerable Church, the see of the primitive and apostolic St. Chad; the scene of some of the most severe and melancholy outrages of the Great Rebellion; and the sacred spot, in which some of the earliest and most durable impressions were made upon the character of the truly great Dr. Johnson. Familiar with all I expected to see, so far as books and engravings could make me so, it was thrilling to set out for my first visit to such a place, and I was obliged to smother something like anxiety lest the reality should fall far below anticipation. How would it strike me, after all? I was to tread, at last, the hallowed pavement of an ancient minster, in which the sacrifices of religion had been offered for centuries, and occupying a spot which had been drenched with the blood of primitive martyrs; I was to join in the solemn chant of its perpetual services; I was to go round about its walls, and mark well its bulwarks, and survey its towers, and to trace the tokens of those who had once set up their banners there, and broken down its carved work with axes and hammers, and defiled the place of its sanctuary. No English mind, to which ancient things have been familiar from birth, could possibly have appreciated my inward agitation at the prospect of such a day; and, as I took my seat in the train, I could not but wonder at the indifference of my fellow-passengers, to whom booking for Lichfield was an every-day affair, and whose associations 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 clustered the humbler roofs of the town. How like a hen gathering her chickens under her wings, is a true cathedral amid the dwellings which it overshadows, and how completely is its true intent set forth by this natural suggestion of its architecture! I had never, before, seen a city purely religious in its prestige, and I felt, as soon as my eyes saw it, the moral worth to a nation of many 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 generally so,” he answered, “with our cathedral towns; they are unlike all other places.” This is their reproach in the eyes of the economist; but such men never seem to reflect that the cathedral towns owe their existence to the fact they are such, and would, generally, have no population at all, but for their ecclesiastical character. Why can they not see, besides, that such a place as Lichfield is as necessary to a great empire, as a Sheffield? It bred a Johnson—and that was a better product for England than ever came out of a manufactory of cotton or hardware. Probably, just such a mind could have been reared only in just such a place. “You are an idle set of people,” said Boswell to his master, as they entered Lichfield together. “Sir,” replied the despot, “we are a city of philosophers: we work with our heads, and make the boobies of Birmingham work for us with their hands.” But here at length is the cathedral, and service is going on! A moment’s survey of its western front, so old, so enriched with carvings and figures, so defiant of casual observation, and so worthy of careful study—and we pass inside—and here is the nave, and the massive and dim effect of the interior—somehow not all realized at once, and yet overpowering. We reach the choir, and a verger quietly smuggles us within. After a moment’s kneeling, we observe that the Epistle is reading, and the service about to close. In a few minutes my first impressions of worship in a cathedral are complete, and they are very unsatisfactory. I had reached the sanctuary too late for the musical parts of the solemnity, and there was rather a deficiency than an excess of ceremonial, in the parts I saw. A moment’s inspection convinced me that Lichfield Cathedral is, by no means, over-worked by its Dean and Chapter. Alas! I said to myself, what we 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 in all the land: we would make it the life of the place; the seat of perpetual preachings, and prayers, and catechizings, and councils; a citadel of power to the faith, and a magazine of holy armor and defences for the Church. Why do not these worthy Canons wake up, and go to work, like genuine sons and successors of St. Chad? We now went the rounds of the Church, with the stupid verger for our orator, and I began to experience the intolerable annoyance complained of by all travellers. “Oh, that he might hold 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 detailing the exploits of the Puritans: here they hacked, and there they hewed; this was done by Cromwell’s men—when they broke into the old Bishops’ sepulchres; and that, when they hunted a cat, with the hounds, through the nave and aisles. Here they tooted with the broken organ pipes, and there the soldiers mounted the pulpit, and preached à la Woodstock. They went so far as to cut up their rations of flesh meat on the altar, and they baptised a calf at the font; but, enough; mine eyes have seen that there were such men in England two hundred years ago, and oh, let us pray that we may not deserve such judgments again. It was refreshing to stop before the tomb of Bishop Hacket, and to thank God, who put it into his heart to be a repairer of the breach. The Bishop had his failings, but what he did for his cathedral 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 desisted from the prayers which he was then offering, in the Church of St. Giles, Holborn, and who answered, calmly, “you do what becomes a soldier, but I shall do as becomes a priest,” and so went on with the service. At the Restoration, being already three-score and ten, he was appointed to this See. He found the cathedral almost a ruin; thousands of round shot, and hand-grenades had been fired upon it; the pinnacles were battered to pieces, and the walls and spires seemed ready to fall, while the interior was a mass of filth and desolation. The very next day after his arrival, he set his own horses to work in clearing away the 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, which he thus accomplished. Finally he reconciled the holy place by a solemn ceremonial, and re-instituted the services. When he heard the bells ring, for the first time, being then confined to his bed-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 his knell, and so, soon after, died like old Simeon. We paused before the busts of Johnson and Garrick, and the monuments of Miss Seward and Lady M. W. Montague, and also before a monument lately erected to some soldiers who perished in India, over which the flags of their victories were displayed. The kneeling figure of the late Bishop Ryder is pleasing and appropriate; but the object of universal attraction is the monument of two children, by Chantrey, so generally known and admired in prints and engravings. I cannot say that the style of this monument comports well with the surrounding architecture, but in itself it is beautiful, and bespeaks that sentimental love of c...