“I have the honour to be,
“Your most obedient servant,
“H. Wheatley.”
This letter was conveyed to me by the person addressed, who added the following note:—
“I wrote to Sir H. Wheatley about a donation from the Queen to the Bible Society. I have received a satisfactory answer, and a draft for twenty guineas. If it meets your approbation, I would wish that the fact should not be known to any but ourselves just now. At the present moment the country is so party-mad, and there is such a determination to catch at anything for party purposes, that I am anxious to avoid giving a handle of any sort to either side in a matter which has no real reference to politics. I only wrote last week from Wales, and got an immediate answer, which I have acknowledged, saying, at the same time, that at the anniversary meeting a more official acknowledgment will be sent.
“I remain,
“Yours truly,
“Godolphin Osborne.”
This letter sheds light on the state of public feeling existing at that day.
In connection with the town of Windsor, let me mention two or three traditions I received from the lips of my beloved wife, who became the light of my dwelling on May 12th, 1835. Her good old father, Mr. George Cooper, had long been a sort of Christian Gaius, receiving as guests under his hospitable roof several men and women of renown. Often would she speak of Rowland Hill, who repeatedly visited her home on his way to Wotton-under-Edge, where he spent the summer months. He delighted to preach in our little chapel in High Street, where the Eton boys would attend to see and hear the eccentric old clergyman, who in his youth had been one of their predecessors as a schoolboy. He would tell Mr. Cooper how he used sometimes to steal at eventide beyond Eton bounds, to attend a prayer-meeting in a cottage, which he could reach only by leaping over a ditch with the help of a long pole. He allowed the good woman who lived there an annuity, which Mr. Cooper used to convey as long as she lived. Rowland Hill liked to hear at High Street Chapel the Hundredth Psalm in Watts’s Hymn-book, and the youngsters who came used to alter the last verse, shouting: “When Rowland Hill shall cease to move.”
I remember hearing how Charles Wesley, the son of the great hymn-writer, visited the town, accompanied by his sister, and spent an evening in Mr. Cooper’s house, greatly to the joy of my wife as a girl. They arrived in a sedan chair, dressed in Court costume. His execution on the piano was surprising; and those who watched his thick, short fingers, as they swept over the keys, said it was miraculous how he played.
Before I conclude what I have to say of my life in Windsor, let me advert to attempts I made to promote intellectual and literary improvement, according to methods then beginning to be popular. There was an Institute formed in the adjoining town of Eton for the encouragement of reading amongst such as had not enjoyed the advantages of early education. A room was opened, furnished with a few books, where inducements to what is termed mutual improvement were provided, and there the famous astronomer Sir J. F. W. Herschell delivered an inaugural lecture, which gave it at once a character of distinguished respectability. I was invited to join in the infant enterprise, which I did with pleasure and satisfaction, and felt it an honour to become one of its lecturers. The effort made at Eton was followed at Windsor. I threw myself into the enterprise, and worked on its behalf as long as I remained in the town. The committee honoured me with an invitation to lecture in the Town Hall, where my effort was kindly accepted by a large audience; a short course on the History of the Castle and Town followed. This, by request, was published in a volume dedicated, by permission, to the Prince Consort. In its preparation assistance had been furnished through books, documents, and advice, by residents in the town, and by officials in the castle.
In concluding this chapter, I am constrained to notice some friendships which were enjoyed by me during my Windsor residence. Poyle is a small hamlet on the Great Western road not far from Windsor, near Colnbrook. Sixty years ago a long line of mail coaches passed every night the turnpike-gate, as cottagers heard the blast of the guard’s horn, and stepped out to see the coachmen, in like livery, handling the reins which guided their teams. Hard by the spot there was a paper mill, spanning a pretty little river, the Coln, which kept the machinery in motion. The whole formed a picture common in the early part of this century, not so common now. Close to the mill were two goodly residences, occupied by two brothers named Ibotson, of an old Nonconformist stock, who could trace back religious ancestors to Puritan days. What pleasant gatherings of congenial friends I met with at Poyle!—neighbouring pastors, and the Rev. Joshua Clarkson Harrison, born not far off, and at the time building up a goodly reputation in London and its environs, were of the number.
In contrast with these bright circumstances, I must notice incidents of a far different kind. My dear wife lost about that time two brothers in early life by what we call accidents; but, worse still, while I was from home one summer, my beloved mother, who lived with me, set fire to her muslin dress, while the servant was absent, and immediately became enveloped in flames. Some one passing by endeavoured to render assistance, but it was too late, and the next morning she expired. Bright summer weather was for a long time after that, to my eyes, covered with a pall of darkness; and to look on the blue sky and the gay summer flowers only made me more sad.