Part 3
The first prominent clergyman whom we knew was that strange creature Bellew, first as the Reverend J. M. Bellew, when he preached at a church in Bloomsbury and drew large congregations, having previously enjoyed great popularity at St. Mark's, Hamilton Terrace. He was gifted with an exceptionally fine voice and a striking appearance. I never heard the death chapter from the Corinthians better read than by him--it was dramatic without being theatrical. There was, however, a pitfall into which he used to stumble when he attacked the Commandments--in the Fifth {39} he thundered out the first three words "Honour thy father," then dropped his voice to its softest tones, quietly murmuring, "and thy mother."
Later on, he became both friend and neighbour.
I will repeat a story he told of another neighbour, a canon of the Church, who wore the most palpable of wigs, which took every shade of colour in the sunlight, but was blindly convinced in his own mind that no one shared his secret. Bellew met this friend one morning as he was leaving his house, and suggested their proceeding together. "Delighted," said the owner of the many-coloured "jasey"; "I am going to Bond Street _to get my hair cut_." The pretender went so far as to have various wigs of different lengths to aid the evident deception.
In middle life Bellew appeared as a public reader and reciter here and in America, having left the Church of England, and become a devout Roman Catholic, in which faith he died.
Henry White, the Chaplain of the Chapel Royal, Savoy, as it then was, was many a time a welcome Sunday guest, almost invariably punctual, though always begging to be forgiven should he not be. His letters, carefully {40} sealed with the Savoy arms, were full of quotations, such as, "I cannot tell you how much I value the friendship you have allowed me to enjoy so long: 'my love's more richer than my tongue,'" while his interesting sermons were often described as "elegant extracts." His reading of the Litany was peculiarly impressive. The Baroness Burdett-Coutts was a frequent member of his restricted congregation. I left an evening party in his company long years ago, when we walked together towards our different homes. On the way I put a straight question to him on a sacred subject. His answer was frank enough: "If it is in my power to be of use to you, or indeed to any man, it can only be from my pulpit." He tried his utmost to persuade me to read the Lessons in the Chapel Royal. I firmly declined, adding that if I consented I should ask to be allowed to select them. "Even that," he said, "might be arranged."
An old, and to us, dearly-loved friend who also enjoyed his Sunday visits, was the Sub-Dean of the Chapels Royal, Canon Edgar Sheppard. Our hospitality was returned by him and Mrs. Sheppard at their quaint old home adjoining Marlborough House Chapel: and I also knew the Canon in his other home, {41} so picturesque, in the precincts of Windsor Castle. One of his last public services was held for me when my sorrow came. His friendship had so long been valued by my wife; the kindness shown to me then, as well as by his son, the present vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, dwells sacredly in my memory, and will be referred to in the final chapter of this book.
[Sidenote: Archdeacon Wilberforce]
Archdeacon Wilberforce--who belonged to the 1841 "Vintage"--was also our friend. He drew large congregations to the church of St. John the Evangelist, Westminster--that odd-looking building which looks rather like an elephant sprawling on his back with his short legs in the air. I recall an afternoon when we were the guests of Mrs. Wilberforce and himself in Dean's Yard; he took us aside and said they were asking some of their friends to linger when the party broke up, as they had a treat to follow. We gladly did so, and were well repaid, being conducted to the Abbey by the Archdeacon, and seated in the choir. Presently Sir Frederick Bridge--("Westminster Bridge ")--another old friend who has left an empty chair--broke the silence--the tones of the organ swelled out--when, from by his side in the loft and out of sight, the wonderful voice of Clara Butt {42} sang "Abide with Me." There are moments in life, and that was one, the remembrance of which can never fade; this we felt, as afterwards we went from the Abbey in the falling light.
I recall an occasion when both Bishop Ellicott and Archdeacon Wilberforce were staying at Birchington. The Bishop was gravely ill. We had known him in the Engadine and at the Bel Alp, and had also been to those musical parties in Great Cumberland Place, to which Mrs. Ellicott and all her family were so passionately and unceasingly devoted that they seemed to fill their lives. The Bishop was always expected to be a listener. My wife drove to the bungalow where the Bishop was, to ask after him, and, to her delight, was told he would like to see her. She found the Archdeacon by his side, and as she approached his chair the Bishop was thanking him for "kind and comforting words," adding: "I hope, my dear friend, when it shall please God to take me, He will graciously grant me a little niche--and _not too near the music!_"
The Archdeacon's love of animals is well known. He adored his dogs, and at a garden-party showed us the graves of little lost friends by the Cloisters, dwelling in a {43} most interesting way on his belief in their after-life. In support of this, I recall an incident told by my old comrade, John Hare, when he had a seaside home at Overstrand. The Archdeacon visited him one day: and Hare, who was never without a dog, put a question to him.
"Do you really believe, Archdeacon," he asked, "in a hereafter for our dogs?"
"Indeed I do."
"But do you mean that I shall meet my dog again?"
"Undoubtedly--if you are good enough!"
[Sidenote: Father Bernard Vaughan]
A friend whom it was always a pleasure to welcome or to meet was Father Bernard Vaughan. We became acquainted many years ago at Manchester, where my wife and I were acting. He was then the rector of a church there, and would come and see us at our hotel, and tell us Lancashire stories. From time to time he visited us in London, and later on at our seaside home.
He never spoke a word to me on religious subjects, knowing, I suppose, that I did not chance to belong to the beautiful faith which he and his many brothers and sisters so devoutly served as priests and nuns, beginning with the eminent Cardinal. Father Bernard Vaughan attracted crowded congregations, {44} drawn from all degrees of creed, to Farm Street, there to listen to his outspoken sermons on the Sins of Society. They were both romantic and emotional, with sentences to the effect that unless England fed the fires of religion with the fuel of faith she might wake one day to the sound of a passing bell tolling her soul's death.
The circumstances in which I first saw Dr. Boyd-Carpenter, then the Bishop of Ripon, were comical, although the scene of them was a place of worship. I have a predilection for a good sermon, and at one period made a practice of hearing the best English preachers of the day, no matter what their particular aspect of the Faith might be. On a Saturday I read in _The Times_ that the Bishop of Ripon was to preach at the Chapel Royal, Whitehall; so I determined to go and listen.
The Chapel Royal, Whitehall, exists no more, but at that time it occupied the first floor of the old banqueting hall (from one of the windows of which King Charles I stepped forth to his execution), since given over to the Royal United Services Institution. The hall was not, from the clergy's point of view, well adapted to its sacred purpose, for there was no vestry, or, at any rate, no separate entrance for the officiating minister, who could only {45} enter the chapel by the staircase in the same way as the general public.
[Sidenote: The verger's mistake]
Presenting myself on a wintry morning, some time before the appointed hour, after fighting my way up the crowded staircase, I found the chapel already full, when the verger, catching sight of and recognising me, whispered that if I waited a moment he would find a seat for me among the front rows. Just then I felt someone trying to push past me, and looking down saw a small and energetic figure, the head swathed in a large white muffler, eagerly struggling to make towards the altar. The verger, prompt but polite, attempted to stop the vigorous little man. "You really can't, sir; there isn't another empty place."
What was the good man's surprise and confusion to receive the answer, in a telling stage whisper: "But I've come to preach!"
The intruder was no other than the Bishop, then in the prime of life. When at last he reached the pulpit, he preached so fine a sermon that though my watch told me it lasted only five minutes short of an hour, it seemed to occupy less than the half of one.
Another trenchant and dramatic sermon I recall was preached by Boyd-Carpenter in the Abbey soon after the death of Tennyson, {46} when the Bishop shattered an idea which had got abroad that the great poet had no faith in an after-life. Who, I wonder, could have attributed such thoughts to the man who wrote: "I hope to meet my Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar"? The only time I saw the Victorian Poet Laureate, a picturesque figure, was on board a Channel steamer. He passed the time between Calais and Dover on the bridge, talking with the captain and smoking a short clay pipe.
Acquaintance with the Bishop soon followed the episode at the Chapel Royal, and, I rejoice to add, warm friendship with my wife and myself both in London and at our seaside home, which lasted until his death.
There is a story told of the Bishop--which may or may not be true--of his being rudely interrupted at a public meeting by the query if he believed Jonah was really swallowed by the whale. The Bishop said that if he got to heaven he would try to find out. The man in the crowd answered loudly: "But suppose he is not there?" The Bishop at once replied: "Then you'll have to ask him." For my own part, I have always thought that Jonah's condition was like that of a vulgar tourist--he travelled much and saw little.
[Sidenote: Speaking and reading]
I remember well a happy week-end passed {47} with the Bishop at his palace, and a delightful drive in the snow to Fountains Abbey. It was then that he persuaded me to undertake the difficult task of saying something at a forthcoming Church Congress on "The Art of Speaking and Reading," and I devoted time and thought to so important a subject.
I began by saying that it was customary for a clergyman to preface his sermon by a text from the Bible, but that I, as an actor, would begin my address with a quotation from Shakespeare to be found in the comedy of _Much Ado About Nothing_: "Happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending."
This text, if I may so call it, led to some remarks on the affinity between the words of Shakespeare and the pages of Holy Writ. The same inspired truths so abound throughout them both as to prove that the poet was a student of the Scriptures. There could be no firmer bond between Church and Stage; it must, for all time, be the strongest link, for both books are eternal.
I called to mind the care and cost lavished upon choral services in our cathedrals, the pains taken to acquire the skill melodiously to chant the Litany: why were not the same labour, the like devotion bestowed upon the {48} teaching of young clergymen to speak audibly and to control a congregation? One could not but be amazed at glaring instances of false emphasis in the dull recital of the Order for Morning Prayer: surely such a monument of learning and piety should be spared such treatment.
I dared to add that I had heard the Bible read--now and then very beautifully, often very vilely. That I had listened to such extracts as tell of the death of Absalom, of the death of Jezebel, of Daniel in the Den, of the Prodigal's Return, read as though the moving stories were little more dramatic than so many stale problems in Euclid; and had heard St. Paul's funeral chapter so droned as to make the hallowed bones of the Apostle who bequeathed it to humanity turn in their resting-place. On the other hand, I had heard the same words read so truthfully by men who are living and men who are dead, as to be a lasting memory.
[Sidenote: The actor and the bishop]
It was natural on my part to draw attention to the resemblance which exists between the great preacher and the famous player, not only for the mighty sermons he can preach, but because, when his work is done, when he has for ever left the pulpit or the stage, the "divine spark" is extinguished; his voice, {49} his fascination, his originality, are soon but memories; while his renown too often rests upon the imperfect records of tradition. The personality of John Knox must remain a mystery; the tragic tones of Sarah Siddons can be heard no more. What would the young parson not give to hear Martin Luther preach? What would I not give to see David Garrick act? "Into the night go one and all."
I reminded my listeners of the answer David Garrick gave to the bishop who asked him this question: "Can you tell me, sir, why it is that you players, who deal with romance, can yet profoundly move an audience, while we preachers, who deal with reality, fail to do so?" "Yes, my lord, I can. It is because we players act fiction as if it were the truth; while you preachers too often speak of truth as though it were but fiction."
Thackeray wrote: "There is an examiner of plays, and there ought to be an examiner of sermons." I would go further, and urge that every curate should pass an examination in the art of preaching before he is allowed to mount a pulpit. A bad preacher will empty a church more easily than a good preacher will fill one. It was well said, also, by an eminent {50} minister in the Nonconformist Church, the late Dr. Parker:
"To-day the man who would preach with true and lasting effect must be sincere, intelligent, and sympathetic--in a word, he must be a man, a teacher, a friend. Preaching is the most impertinent of all impertinences if there is not behind it and round about it a sense of authority other and better than human."
The best advice I can remember was once given by my wife, in a single sentence, to a public speaker who consulted her on the subject; she said simply: "Don't be afraid of opening your mouth, and don't forget that the roof of it is Nature's sounding-board."
Bishop Boyd-Carpenter, as some may still recollect, was honoured with the personal friendship of the late Empress Frederick of Germany. In connection with that unhappy lady, the eldest daughter of Queen Victoria, and our Princess Royal, he told me an interesting story, the point of which was to be proved tragically true in later years.
The Bishop was summoned to Germany to give the Empress the consolations of religion in a grave illness. The Prince of Wales, who had hastened to the bedside of his favourite {51} sister, in the kindness of his peace-loving heart was attempting to smooth over the notorious differences between the suffering lady and her son, the ex-Kaiser, who, as is well-known, had treated her with unfilial harshness. But the Empress knew Wilhelm too well to hope for reconciliation. She laid her hand on her brother's arm, saying sadly and earnestly: "Bertie, your country has no greater enemy than my son."
[Sidenote: A Mohammedan legend]
Among my papers I find a letter from Boyd-Carpenter, redeeming a promise which he had made over the dinner-table to look up for me a Mohammedan legend upon which he had preached a remarkable sermon:
"When God made the earth it shook to and fro till He put the mountains on it to keep it firm.
"Then the angels asked: 'O God, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than those mountains?'
"And God replied: 'Iron is stronger than the mountains, for it breaks them.'
"'And is there anything in Thy creation stronger than iron?'
"'Yes, fire is stronger than iron, because it melts it.'
"'Is there anything stronger than fire?'
"'Yes, water, for it quenches fire.'
"'Is there anything stronger than water?'
{52}
"'Yes, wind, for it puts water in motion.'
"'O, our Sustainer, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than wind?'
"'Yes, a good man giving alms: if he give with his right hand and conceal it from his left he overcomes all things.'"
[Sidenote: The wrong train]
I may here relate an unaccountable blunder I committed when on my way to do a little service for the Bishop at Bradford. At that time there were two express trains to the North, one from Euston, the other from King's Cross; both started at 1.30. Full of thought, I drove to Euston instead of to King's Cross. When I asked for a ticket there was some delay; at last it was given to me with the name of my destination written upon it in ink. I thought it strange that tickets for so important a place should be out of print, but took my seat in the train; and it was only when well beyond Rugby that I realised what I had done. Eventually, after hurried, anxious talk with the authorities at Stafford, I got out at Stockport. There, in great excitement, I ordered a special train and telegraphed home to allay anxiety. Some difficulties about the special were overcome by earnest appeals to disregard cost, as I was prepared to pay anything demanded of me, for never in my life had I failed to keep an {53} appointment with the public, and should have been doubly distressed at breaking an engagement in which I was doing the work without any question of a fee. Eventually I reached Bradford five minutes before the time fixed for the entertainment. To add to my troubles, the confusion had driven out of my head the name of the hall where I was to appear. Fortunately, one of the flymen on the station rank remembered it, and drove me quickly to its doors as the audience was pouring in. After inquiry at an hotel hard by--the same hotel in which a few years later Irving stumbled in the hall and then fell dead--I found the Bishop. He had telegraphed to London for the cause of my absence, and, receiving no explanation, had settled to fill my place by giving his lecture on Dante; but on my appearance he drove to the hall, asked for a short delay, explained the reason, and then returned to fetch me. I dressed as if by magic, swallowed some soup, and, appearing on the platform only fifteen minutes late, was greeted with great warmth. I had never felt so pleased to face my audience.
The Bishop of Ripon, like myself, was born in the year 1841, and, like myself, was proud to belong to that fine "vintage."
I am not likely to forget a dinner-party he {54} gave at his home in the Abbey Cloisters in 1916 to a select band of "75's," or "soixante-quinzes," as he called us.
The company included the Bishop of Chichester (Dr. Ridgeway), Field-Marshal Lord Grenfell, Admiral Fisher, Lord Sanderson, Sir Frank Lascelles, Sir Walter Parratt, Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace and myself. The late Lord Cromer was invited, but was prevented by illness from being present. Our host had not only prepared for us a delightful evening, but had composed some appropriate verses for the occasion, of which each guest was presented with a copy. This is how they ran:
"1841-1916
"The Fairies stood and watched the years 'Till forth came Forty-one, The Fairies smiled and then they gave Their kiss to Forty-one. The vintage ripened well and good, That year must ever famous be, Because it brought forth you and me, The men of Forty-one.
"The Fairies watch where kisses go In hope that they survive; Lo! great in arms by land[1] and sea[2] Their sons in valour thrive; {55} In Russian lore[3], in minstrelsy[4], In mock[5] and true[6] diplomacy, Till brave in toil they came to be The men of Seventy-five.
"Great William said 'Ripeness is all,' And we are Seventy-five, Old dogs are more than lions dead, And we are still alive! We need not fear age or mischance, In good we may and will advance, Like _soixante-quinzes_ in war-tossed France Our guns are good at Seventy-five."
[1] Lord Grenfell. [2] Lord Fisher. [3] Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace. [4] Sir Walter Parratt. [5] Sir Squire Bancroft. [6] Sir Frank Lascelles.
The good Bishop did not live to see the return of Peace which followed the triumphant victory of the _soixante-quinzes_ and their Allies. In the month before the Armistice was declared, he was laid in his grave. But he had not forgotten the happy gathering of 1916, as is proved by the following treasured letter, which I received from his son, Major Boyd-Carpenter:
"6 LITTLE CLOISTERS, "WESTMINSTER, "_October_ 26, 1918.
"DEAR SIR SQUIRE BANCROFT,
"Shortly before my father's death he asked that 'a message of greeting be sent to all the 77's.' As you were one of those {56} who joined him at the gathering he always remembered with such pleasure, I am sending you this, his message.
"Believe me, "Yours sincerely, "A. BOYD-CARPENTER."
More recently we lost another honoured friend in that remarkable and distinguished man, Dr. Wace, the Dean of Canterbury. When we had a home by Folkestone he was often our guest, while we have enjoyed the hospitality of himself and Mrs. Wace at the Deanery. Their kindness at all times to my wife is a happy remembrance. The Dean loved a good story: he told many and was an appreciative listener.
I always read the powerful letters which he wrote to _The Times_, and could not but admire the strenuous blows he dealt with dauntless courage on matters which were too profound for the likes of me. Shortly before his lamented death I met the Dean at the Athenæum and, during our talk, had more than one proof of the undiminished power of his great memory.
[Sidenote: A disreputable trio]
As an end to this chapter I quote the most startling words I ever heard from a pulpit, uttered by a prominent dignitary of the Church, {57} in referring to the first chapter of Genesis, which had been the lesson of the day: "Adam was a cad; Eve, I am afraid, was no better than she should be; and for my part, I have long since regarded the silent serpent as the most respectable of a disreputable trio."
{58}
IV
THE LAW
"For pity is the virtue of the law, And none but tyrants use it cruelly."