“In the Peninsular War the pickets of the two armies were accustomed often to meet on the most friendly terms, and enjoy each other’s conversation. But when the trumpet sounded each man was at his post, ready to do his duty. So it is with us. I have always acted on this principle of refusing to admit the assertion, that our differences are on nonessentials—and of offering, nevertheless, the right hand of friendship in private to those whom in public I might oppose, or rather by whom I was myself opposed. I was freely censured at one time for this; but when I left Leeds my Nonconformist friends rallied round me to bid me farewell, and several of them saw I had pursued the right course.”
“The great thing which you and I have to do is to guard against the deadly sin of too many of our contemporaries—imputing motives. If we can discover a good motive, we may rejoice, even though we condemn the action to which it may have led. But no words can express, or thought conceive, the indignation I experience, when men seek to attribute good actions to bad motives.”
The Dean was not one of your modern correspondents. The last of these extracts is from a letter on quarto sheets, which covers sixteen closely written pages.
Dr. Hook was a delightful talker, English to the backbone—“a thorough John Bull,” as an Oxford don once said to me. There was a strong dash of humour in his constitution, and he was ready to tell amusing anecdotes of himself. He was no ritualist, no Puritan, certainly no Erastian; but a godly, warm-hearted, Christian man, whom it was a privilege to know.
During visits to Chichester I became acquainted with one of the canons, Dr. Swainson, then Norrisian Professor at Cambridge, afterwards Master of Christ’s College in that University. He rendered me essential service whilst I was writing my volumes on “The Church of the Restoration.” Some of the books and MSS. in the library of the cathedral were of great use; and when I visited him afterwards at Cambridge he rendered me further valuable aid. I had the pleasure of meeting some Cambridge dons at his dinner table, and I remember being interested and instructed by a long conversation on the rendering of names given in our version of the Bible to ancient instruments of music. In 1869 I was present at the announcement of wranglers for that year. I stood side by side with my friend in the gallery, close to the gentleman who held in his hand a paper big with the fates of university competitors. It was a dark morning, and at eight o’clock, amidst breathless silence, the personal secrets so many waited to learn, were publicly proclaimed. It was a grand piece of living mosaic which lay before me, as upturned eager countenances were fixed on the spot where I was standing; and the announcement of the new senior wrangler raised applause which seemed enough to lift the roof.
My friendly relations with Dr. Swainson continued through after-years; and his laborious investigations into Church creeds were frequent topics in our conversation. His inquiries into the date of the Utrecht MS. containing the “Quicunque vult,” etc., were extraordinarily extensive, minute, and careful, as I can bear testimony from repeated accounts he gave of Continental journeys and inquiries. I apprehend that nobody ever spent so much time and labour on the inquiry, as he did; therefore his conclusions ought to carry much weight in the settlement of a controversy touching historical theology, as well as an archæological question.
On the occasion of my visit to Cambridge I went to see my friend, Mr. Fordham of Melbourne, who possessed a valuable collection of paintings; and I mention him here, for the sake of what he related respecting Lord Beaconsfield, who had been a schoolfellow with Mr. Fordham’s brother-in-law, the Right Honourable Russell Gurney, Recorder of London.
They were educated at an academy in Walthamstow, kept by Mr. Cogan, a Presbyterian minister, whose son I knew well. Young Dizzy, as people called the politician, was famous at school for two things. He delighted in forming parties and getting up cabals—there was an embryo politician; next he excelled in telling stories, and would keep the boys awake at night by his romantic inventions—there was an embryo novelist. He had early dreams of future greatness, I think; and my friend informed me that he had talked to his schoolmates of being one day Prime Minister of England.
In the winter of 1867–68, Dr. Alford, Dean of Canterbury, delivered and printed a lecture on “The Christian Conscience,” which was followed up, in The Contemporary by an article expressive of kindly feelings towards Nonconformists, and a desire for more friendly intercourse with them. I felt it a duty to respond to this overture, and did so, both privately and publicly. This prepared for a friendship which I highly valued. About the same time, Archdeacon Sandford, father of the Bishop of Gibraltar, made a move in the same direction. I spoke to brethren in sympathy with myself, as regards union, and we thought of inviting a few clergymen to meet us—when, on my acquainting Dean Stanley with what we had in our minds, he expressed a wish to take the lead by getting several friends on both sides to dine with him at Westminster. Accordingly Dean Alford, Archdeacon Sandford, Prebendary Humphreys, and other clergymen, met my friends Binney, Allon, and others, at our good friend’s hospitable board; and the party proved most agreeable. Other gatherings of the same kind followed, and at Fairlawn, where I lived, a long conversation took place, when, in addition to those just mentioned, Lord Ebury, Henry Winterbotham, M.P., Dr. Angus, Dr. Rigg, Dr. Roberts, and my intimate friend, Joshua Harrison, interchanged views in reference to Catholic intercourse. Dr. Alford, the Dean of Canterbury, afterwards invited Mr. Binney and myself to one of his garden parties, and soon afterwards he presided at the Cheshunt College Anniversary, when he uttered sentiments which were followed by a pleasant response from ministers of different denominations. On another occasion he met the Professors of New College, by invitation from the Coward Trustees; thus, and in other and similar ways, brotherly intercourse was considerably advanced.
If I may be permitted to trespass a little on what was at the time in futurity, I will, for the sake of preserving connection between incidents at that period, mention other circumstances which brought together, in a friendly way, members of different religious bodies. The first was of no great importance. I think it was in 1870, the Archbishop of Syra visited England, and made some little stir. Dr. Stanley entertained him in the Jerusalem Chamber, and invited a larger party to meet him afterwards. The host was not likely to lose such an opportunity for bringing together people of different opinions. Several were introduced to this stranger, who occupied during his visit, perhaps, a position above his usual one. The simple fact of this introduction was magnified, by newspapers, even the Times, into a sort of submission to Greek Archiepiscopal superiority; for the few whose names were mentioned were represented as receiving his formal benediction, and I wrote to explain the nature of the interview, which really amounted to nothing more than a respectful bow on the part of an Englishman to a foreigner, and the return on the foreigner’s part of an accustomed Greek salutation. The intended effect of private civil reciprocities is often spoiled, by attributing to them meanings never intended and utterly absurd. Reports of them in quite a ridiculous way get into newspapers.
It was owing to the circumstance of my being “capped” in Edinburgh at the same time with Matthew Arnold, that I became acquainted with that remarkable man. He was by no means popular with Dissenters, owing to what, in some of his books, he said with reference to them. They appreciated his ability, but censured the spirit which appeared in some of his criticisms. My acquaintance with him convinced me that in some respects he was misjudged. When I came to know him pretty well, I playfully referred to some things he had written, which stung people whom I knew. “But I am not such a bad fellow,” he rejoined, “as Dissenters think.” “No,” I replied, “but Dissenters look at you through your books; I look at your books through you—and that makes a great difference.” I always found him kind, gentle, tender-hearted. He sympathised with me in domestic sorrows, and was pleased with some things I had written.