Let me add in closing this part of my story, that the banks of the Bosphorus on which I gazed, as I left Constantinople, surpassed previous imagination. The gardens and kiosks by the waterside, looked paradisaical; and as we steamed along I was enchanted, one instant after another, by objects on the shore. All the way to the Black Sea was delightful. Then surroundings changed. Travellers, landed to find themselves amidst indescribable confusion. Thence we proceeded by rail across a dreary district, without trees, and abounding in shallow sheets of stagnant water, with plenty of storks, Egyptian geese, and other wild birds. Still, within the region crossed, there were fields of grain. We reached our steamer on the Danube, between six and seven o’clock on Friday evening.
We found the great river improve as we ascended it. At first we had low banks dotted with mosques and minarets, showing we were still in Turkey. On board the boat I was treated as an invalid, and the attention shown by captain, crew, and servants, was such as to inspire the warmest gratitude on my part.
The scenery on the banks of the Danube, in the earlier part of our voyage up the river, was very magnificent—rocks rising loftily from the water’s edge on one bank, but low on the other. We passed richly wooded scenery, and caught glimpses of pleasant glens, with running streams and picturesque bridges. Further on were comfortable farm-houses and smiling villages. We reached Pesth on Tuesday, travelling by rail, and then proceeded, in the same way, to Vienna, where I tarried for a couple of days—seeing the magnificent cathedral, the vaults of the Capuchin Church, the Prater, the Royal Palace, and the Picture Galleries. Travelling across Germany by rail I reached the Rhine, thence to Brussels, where I was entertained by my nieces then on a visit there. At last I found two dear daughters waiting at the Victoria Station, and at Fairlawn House, Hammersmith, there was a loving welcome.
At the conclusion of my narrative of Eastern travel, let me remark. What one sees in travelling through Palestine gives vividness to the narrative—makes what before were pale outlines, pictures of glowing colour and dazzling light. I do not forget the danger there is of being too much engaged with what is outward in Biblical studies—tarrying in the porch instead of worshipping in the temple—lingering by the hedge to gather flowers instead of pressing into the field to cut down corn—playing the geologist, instead of working as spiritual miners—finding out what is curious as to literature, instead of appropriating “the unsearchable riches of Christ.” But still, what I gathered in the East is precious, and may minister to spiritual edification, as well as to mental enjoyment. How marvellous it is that whilst the Bible is so Eastern—while Oriental manners, customs, and scenery are photographed there, it is nevertheless an universal book! The Koran is not so Eastern as the Bible; at least, so it struck me, as I read it in the East; yet the Bible is the Englishman’s book as the Koran could not be, even if we were all Mussulmans.
Specially forcible and beautiful were the impressions we derived touching the life of Christ; we felt how toilsome were his journeys as He walked along the rough and rugged pathways from Jericho to Jerusalem, over which we rode. How humiliating must have been his intercourse with the poor, who, no doubt, then lived in wretched mud hovels, such as we saw, not only in Palestine, but in Egypt; types of domestic habitation for the lower classes in ages past! We thought: Through such collections of “houses of clay” did He pass! Here did He tarry, and within such abodes! Not one of them was His own; He had not where to lay His head.
CHAPTER IX
1865–1872
In the year 1867 I published the first volumes of my “Ecclesiastical History of England”; this calls for explanation of what preceded and prepared for it.
Immediately after I left college, and settled at Windsor, I commenced the study of Church history with much earnestness; and the first fruit was a course of lectures on the subject to my congregation, delivered on week evenings. When I had completed them they were sent by me to my revered tutor, Dr. Henderson, for criticism and advice. He encouraged me to pursue my studies in that direction, with the hope and intention of making use of them in after life. I followed his advice, and during the remainder of my Windsor ministry devoted all the time I could spare from pulpit and pastoral duties to researches into early annals of Christendom. In my investigations I was kindly allowed to use the Dean and Chapter’s library. After I left Windsor, I turned attention to ecclesiastical affairs during the Puritan period. This happened just as I was about to pay a visit to my native county—Norfolk—where I commenced studying original records in Norwich. Proceedings against Nonconformity and other records there came within my reach, that part of England being somewhat rich in this department of history. “Spiritual Heroes” was the title of my first volume, which not long after was revised and enlarged in a second edition. The Congregational lecture on “The Ages of Christendom,” was delivered and published in 1856. This led, in 1867, to the “Ecclesiastical History of England, from the Opening of the Long Parliament to the Death of Oliver Cromwell.” “The Church of the Restoration,” forming two volumes, appeared in 1870, and “The Church of the Revolution” in 1874. To complete the list of works on English Ecclesiasticism, there followed other volumes on the reigns of Queen Anne and the Three Georges. Afterwards came “Religion in England from 1800 to 1851.” I state all this, because some confusion has arisen from a fragmentary publication of the original works and of successive editions.
In 1867 correspondence and personal intercourse commenced between a distinguished Episcopalian and myself, of an interesting character. In that year I received an invitation to Chichester from Dean Hook. He was much talked of, on account of his High Churchmanship, and his pre-eminent activity as Vicar of Leeds. Dissenters counted him amongst their bitter foes; and I should have been much surprised, years earlier, had I been told I was to be a guest at his house. Yet so it was. Historical sympathies brought us together, and each found that the other wished to be fair in dealing with men who held opposite opinions. Both believed in a spiritual brotherhood reaching beyond denominational bounds. Soon after my arrival at Chichester he asked: “What shall we talk about? If I thought I could make you a Churchman, I would try to do so; and if you thought you could make a Dissenter of me, you would make the attempt.” I replied: “Nothing of the kind; let us leave out ecclesiastical controversy, and talk of literary and religious matters, on which we are pretty well agreed; and when we have exhausted them we will take up points of difference.” He went on to say, that his great friend Lord Hatherley, then High Chancellor, differed from him politically, and yet they had walked up together to the polling booth to record opposite votes, without any breach of friendship. “And so,” he said, “you and I can unite to a certain extent; and when we come to the parting of the way, we can each take our own course, with mutual good will.” I entered into the compact. On historical and social subjects, and as to religion in its spiritual and experimental aspects, we were of one accord, and felt no inclination to unsheath swords.
We had pleasant drives in the country and cheerful chat at the dinner-table, when he included within his party members of the cathedral body. Plenty of anecdotes were related, some about Dr. Wilberforce, when Bishop of Oxford. The Bishop, I heard, used to tell a story, which showed how a man might, unconsciously, make a good pun. He had engaged to dine with somebody whose name was Hunter, a cattle grazier, and on his way, as was his wont, the Bishop bethought himself: “What topic of talk can we have together?” At the railway-station his eye caught an advertisement of “Thorley’s Food for Cattle.” That would suit very well. So the bishop asked the grazier his opinion of such provision for beasts of the field. The host replied: “It might do very well for Oxen, but not for a Hunter.” He did not know he was quoting the diocesan name of his right-reverend guest (Oxon.), and forgot at the moment he was also repeating his own. The Dean gave a conundrum, invented by the Bishop, for the amusement of a young lady:—