In 1859 a friend accompanied me to the Pyrenees. Travelling by French railways, we reached Bayonne at the end of August, and then crossed the Spanish frontier in a Spanish diligence, which had all the lumber and shabby trappings of French ones. We reached San Sebastian at night, and next morning took a walk on the promenade, where the ladies in mantillas and veils flourished their fans with grace and dignity; and if there be something gay in French solemnity, there is something grave in the gaiety of Spaniards. We again climbed up a diligence, and travelled through the Lower Pyrenees to Pau, where, from the Grand Terrace, we saw peering out from the haze of a hot summer sky the mountain range—not near, as many imagine, but many miles off. Of course we saw the old palace where Henri IV. was born and wrapped up in his shell cradle. Along roads bordered by woods and hills, reminding one of Wharfedale, we reached an elevation at Sevignac, overlooking the valley of the Gave, with magnificent mountains in front, Pic du Midi coming into full view. Eaux Bonnes, with all the luxuries of a French watering-place, was then reached, whence we proceeded to Eaux Chaudes, where the mountains become awfully precipitous. We looked down from zigzag roads, cut out of declivities buttressed by rocks and embankments, with boiling torrents at the foot, roaring like thunder. The Pic du Midi, streaked with snow, rises up so as to remind one of an Egyptian pyramid.
We determined to visit Pantacosa, and passed through a romantic defile, crossed the Spanish frontier again, and halted at a village, where the houses seemed walls without windows, the outlook being altogether from the back. Glimpses of Aragon’s broad plain were caught, as we looked south, and crowds of Spanish muleteers passed us, laden with merchandise. The baths of Pantacosa occupy a gloomy region, shut in by rocks, and there I spent the Sunday as an invalid, my strength being overtaxed; but next day I rose in the enjoyment of health and vigour. Then we made our way to Luz. The church of the Templars built there is half fortress and half sanctuary. You enter through a machicolated gateway, into a church, the gloomiest I ever saw. Through a little door, the Cagots, a proverbial race weak both in body and mind, used to enter for worship.
Near to Luz is St. Sauveur, a narrow valley, richly wooded, with a tiny village jammed in among the rocks. At the time of our visit, the Emperor Napoleon and the Empress Eugenie were staying there. The house they occupied was small and plain; nothing distinguished it but the two sentinels at the door. All was silent and solitary, and nobody seemed to notice the royal residence, besides ourselves. In the afternoon, we saw their Majesties returning from a drive in open carriages with outriders. Napoleon sat on the box, Eugenie was chatting with her lady attendants. On alighting she remained at the door of the house, playing with her walking stick, and receiving a letter-bag. The Emperor came out, lighted a cigar, smoked and then walked on to inspect some men at work on a new road.
We made an excursion to Gavarnie—a shady defile with precipitous rocks, overhanging woods, and a river foaming and roaring four hundred feet below. Beyond is the Cirque, a basin-shaped valley of semicircular rocks, with steps and stages, whilst a drapery of water fringes them all round. We ascended the Pic de Bergons, tarried a day at Bagnères de Bigorre, a central spot for tourists, with the usual appurtenances of such places. We proceeded to Bagnères de Luchon, by a romantic drive, commanding a view of the Maladetta with its snows and glaciers.
In the course of our rambles in the Pyrenees we were struck with Eastern customs. An unmuzzled ox went round a heap of corn. Sheep were not driven but led, and wine was kept in leathern bottles.
CHAPTER VIII
1862–1865
The year 1862, being the Bicentenary of the Bartholomew ejectment, was largely given by English Nonconformists to a remembrance of the confessorship and heroism which marked the ejectment of ministers in 1662. A meeting was held in the spring at St. James’s Hall, Piccadilly, when papers were read, bearing on the commemoration. The preparation of one of them fell to my lot; but I was taken ill at the time for its delivery, and it had to be read by my friend, the Rev. Joshua Clarkson Harrison. A story is told of Garrick’s reading a poem of Hannah More’s, before a party of friends, when the effect produced was by Garrick attributed to the lady’s composition, and by the lady to the reader’s elocution. Whatever might be the impression made at St. James’s Hall on the reading of the paper, it was divided between my friend and me, after the same fashion. In this address I advocated a Bartholomew celebration, on the ground, that it was good to remember sacrifices made for conscience’ sake, and therefore professed my readiness to honour Jeremy Taylor as well as Richard Baxter. This brought a letter from the Bishop of Down and Connor testing my sincerity by an appeal on behalf of an Irish cathedral restoration in memory of Jeremy Taylor. I sent a small contribution, which brought back a pleasant response, such as I highly valued. Afterwards I met him at the Athenæum, when he invited me to visit him, with a view to Christian union in Ireland. I should add that the Bishop’s scheme for the cathedral restoration failed, and he politely returned my small contribution.
In the autumn of 1862, I read a paper to the Congregational Assembly, in which I advocated certain methods of improvement. This subject I took up afterwards, with no result, however, that I could discover. The faults of other systems are always more welcome than the reformation of our own.
In 1863 we were visited by a family bereavement which was one of the heaviest sorrows of my life. John Howard Stoughton, born at Windsor in 1842, was a lad of extraordinary character, witty and artistic beyond his brothers and sisters, who loved him with no ordinary love. His love of art led us to place the youth under Mr. Thomas, a distinguished sculptor and decorator, largely employed in works at Windsor Castle. Our boy devoted himself to his pursuits with an assiduity which created much anxiety in his mother and in me, for it evidently injured his health. In the spring of 1861 we took him to Hastings, and Dr. Moore, an eminent physician there, carefully studied his case, and, as the result, advised that his artistic pursuits should be for awhile suspended, and that he should travel abroad, where he would see and learn much, without tasking his physical power. Accordingly, in the summer of 1861, he visited the Continent with his elder brother and me, went up and down the Rhine, and saw pictures, statues, and decorations, which interested his mind without overtasking his bodily strength. In the following autumn he was better, and under medical advice we arranged that, in company with one of his sisters, he should spend the winter in Rome. They did so accordingly, and our hopes were raised; but in the spring he had an attack, which rendered it advisable that he should remove from Rome to some other part of Italy. He did so, and paid a visit to friends in Leghorn. I left home with another of my daughters and two nieces, joining my children where they were staying; thence I accompanied them, on a pleasant tour through Florence, over the Apennines, and, by way of Bologna, Milan, and the Alps, to Geneva. Thence we came home through France. We returned in good spirits; but, as winter approached, fears reawakened. Gradually the invalid became weaker; but faith in the Invisible and Divine Father grew stronger and stronger. The youth spent with us a cheerful Christmas; but in spring it was obvious he was not long for this world. As the end approached he talked calmly on the subject with his beloved brother, the two being united in bonds of Christian faith, as well as natural affection. I can never forget the Holy Communion we—mother, father, brother, and sisters—enjoyed in a room overlooking our garden, when bursting buds told of nature’s returning life, and the dear sufferer bore unmistakable signs of approaching death. But he was calm and cheerful, and took deep interest in the gracious ordinance. It was administered with solemnity by our dear friend Harrison, who loved Howard as though he had been his own son. He expired on March 31st, 1863, and on the following Sunday evening my brother just named preached a memorable funeral sermon in Kensington Chapel.
In 1864 Dr. Stanley became Dean of Westminster, and on his expressing a wish to be introduced to some Nonconformist brethren, Dr. William Smith—editor of so many valuable dictionaries, and with whom I was then associated in the business of New College—kindly gave a dinner party to which he invited me. The Dean afterwards finding there was between us some similarity of taste in literature, and sympathy in desires for union, invited me to the Deanery; and so began a friendship with him and Lady Augusta, which lasted as long as they lived, and proved one of the most precious privileges vouchsafed to me, by the providence of our Heavenly Father. On December 28th, 1865, “the Feast of the Holy Innocents”—the Dean preached a sermon in Westminster Abbey. The sermon was in commemoration of the Abbey’s foundation by Edward the Confessor eight hundred years before. The text was felicitously chosen from John x. 22, 23,—“It was the feast of the Dedication, and it was winter, and Jesus walked in the temple in Solomon’s porch.” “Feast of the Dedication” corresponded with the character of the service; “winter” was the season of both celebrations; the northern porch—a main entrance to the Abbey—is called “Solomon’s porch.” The sermon was not less appropriate than the text. It sketched the history of the venerable edifice, and contained marked allusions to Nonconformist ministrations within its walls during the Commonwealth. Being present on the occasion, I wrote to the Dean afterwards in reference to his allusions, when, in reply, he said, “It gave me additional pleasure to deliver them, from the reflection that there was at least one person present capable of entering into them.” In the sermon, as delivered, he spoke of the Westminster Confession as the only one ever imposed in the whole Island, and on my calling his attention to this statement, and pointing out the distinction between the doctrinal and ecclesiastical part of the Confession, he answered, “I was not ignorant of the distinction, nor did I mean to say it was imposed in any offensive sense. For I was anxious not to say a word that could be offensive to any of my brethren, and merely wished to call attention to the fact, that a document, which had received in part a wider legal recognition than any other since the Reformation, came from Westminster Abbey.” In the sermon, as printed, are the words “sanctioned by law for the whole Island,” and in a note, “The doctrinal Articles of the Westminster Confession of Faith (were) sanctioned by the English Parliament in 1647, and the whole Confession by the Scottish Parliament in 1648.”