When we separated, gratification was expressed by those who were present. Some Nonconformists did not enter into the movement; others did, and that most heartily. From several Episcopalian friends we received assurances of approval and sympathy. It issued in no united action; no fresh organisation had, as far as I know, ever been intended. The purpose designed was accomplished by interchanging thought, collecting information, and encouraging one another in ministerial work.
For Archbishop Tait I had great respect and affection. He was singularly kind and conversable, without affecting any official superiority. Under his grave countenance, and habitually serious demeanour, as one who lived ever “in his Great Taskmaster’s eye,” there were veins of cheerfulness and humour in his familiar intercourse—I felt deeply, his gentle sympathy, expressed in a letter of condolence, on my dear wife’s death; and the last time we talked together, being interrupted by another person, he broke off in the opening of what seemed an amusing tale. He appreciated the relative position of Church and Dissent, better than any other dignitary I have met with. He would say that Nonconformists had their traditions, organisations, endowments, and influence, which gave them a status they were not likely to surrender by bringing over what belonged to them, into an Episcopalian organisation. A fraternal modus vivendi, he regarded as the object to be aimed at, not an absorption of Dissenting bodies into the Establishment. He, no doubt, would have preferred to see One Great Church in England, under a moderate Episcopacy; but he seemed to cherish little hope of any such object being accomplished.
On a former page allusion was made to Mr. Bagster, of Polyglot fame. In the year (1877) his venerable wife, at the age of 100 within a few hours, died at Old Windsor; and her accumulated years attracted the notice of Her Majesty, who honoured her with a visit just before her decease. I called at the cottage in which she expired, after the royal visitor had been there, and there heard the particulars of the interview. Her Majesty I was informed, brought with her the Princess Beatrice; and, on their entrance into the bedroom, where the old lady was lying, she at once expressed her gratitude for the signal favour bestowed by her Sovereign, saying that “she was looking forward to her own speedy dismissal to the immediate presence of the Saviour, where she hoped hereafter to meet Her Majesty.” Pleasant conversation followed, in which Mrs. B., at the Queen’s request, related her memories of George III., Queen Charlotte, and the Royal Family, as they used to walk on the Castle terrace, in the presence of a large number of loyal spectators. The Queen manifested interest in particulars respecting the good old lady, related by her daughter; and in consequence of the report she gave on her return home, Prince Leopold, as I was told soon afterwards, paid a visit to Old Windsor, and wished for a rehearsal of what had been communicated by his Royal Mother. Repeated gracious inquiries from the Castle followed. At the funeral service a note was put into my hands, written by the Duchess of Roxburgh to Miss Bagster, tenderly touching on that lady’s sorrow, for her late bereavement; and concluding with the words: “The Queen begs you to convey to all the members of your venerable mother’s family, the assurance of Her Majesty’s condolence.” This note was read to the mourners.
In 1877 I made two pilgrimages which left memorable impressions. All my life I have been an enthusiastic shrine-seeker, loving to trace out spots sanctified by footsteps of heroic and holy men. I heartily adopt the words of Dr. Martineau, “No material interests, no common welfare, can so bind a community together, and make it strong of heart, as a history of rights maintained and virtues uncorrupted and freedom won; and one legend of conscience is worth more to a country than hidden gold and fertile plains.”
At different periods I have visited the birthplaces of Shakespeare and of Raleigh, of Cromwell and of Wesley; the homes of Knox, Hampden, Milton, Baxter, and Howard; the haunts of Johnson, Goldsmith, Watts, and Cowper; the graves of Bunyan, Burns, Scott, and Chalmers have all had attractions for me.
The pilgrimages I made in 1877 were the following:—
The first to the Vosges district in France, searching for Ban de la Roche, the scene of Oberlin’s labours, and the resting place of his remains. [268] From Strassburg my daughter and I went to Mutzig, situated amidst a theatre of red sandstone hills mantled with woods and vineyards. Then from Mutzig we proceeded to Fouday, through valley after valley, if not exactly picturesque, yet really pictorial, and finally approached the parish of the model pastor. In the heart of the village of Ban de la Roche, are the church hallowed by his preaching, and the grave where he sleeps. Three broad slabs lie on the green turf, side by side, the middle one inscribed with the words, “Il fut 60 ans père de ce canton.—‘La Mémoire du juste sera en benediction.’” An iron cross bears the name “Papa Oberlin.” We were surprised to find the spot, though highly situated, so rich in beauty as summer waned; an afternoon sun warming the crisp air, and lighting up objects with varied tints. At Walderbach, a Swiss-like village, full of cottages and fruit trees, we found the parsonage house in which the good man lived and died. We were welcomed by the present clergyman’s wife, whom we had met before, without knowing her. The good lady took us over the rooms associated with her husband’s predecessor. There was the study where he worked, and the bedroom in which he slept. Some of his furniture is preserved, with a collection of toys he made for children, and a large jar full of still fragrant rose leaves, a few of which were gratefully accepted as a memento of the visit.
The other pilgrimage was in England to Broad Oak, Shropshire, where Philip Henry resided and where his son Matthew was born. It stands where the Wrexham Road is intersected by a lane leading to Whitwell Church. It is a small farmhouse, part of a larger one, with heavy beams, and a broad chimney corner, like what one sees in Anne Hathaway’s cottage near Stratford-on-Avon. When in its primitive state, it must have been spacious, for, says the famous Puritan, “I have room for twelve friends in my beds, a hundred in my barn, and a thousand in my heart.” Here he resembled “Abraham sitting at his tent door, in quest of opportunities to do good. If he met with any poor near his house, and gave them alms in money, he would, besides, bid them go to his door for relief. He was very tender and compassionate towards poor strangers, and travellers, though his candour and charity were often imposed upon by cheats and pretenders.”
The mention of Broad Oak occurs repeatedly in the Life of the father, written by his affectionate son. The latter tells of his father’s removal to Broad Oak, and the providences concerning him there, of “the rebukes he lay under at Broad Oak,” and of the last nine years of his life, in “liberty and enlargement at Broad Oak.” At a time when ministerial engagements were by no means so numerous and diversified as they are at present; when habits of home study, quiet visitation of the flock, and catechising the children, rather than preaching on public occasions, attending large meetings, and travelling to and fro along the length and breadth of the land, distinguished both town and country clergymen; when those who were connected with the Established Church, and had no restraints put upon their activity, spent what would be now considered very retired and monotonous lives; what must have been the secluded and stationary position of an ejected minister between the Restoration and the Revolution! No wonder, then, that almost every incident and effort belonging to Philip Henry’s career belonged to the farm at Broad Oak, where he lived and died, and wrote and suffered, and walked and taught, bringing up his children, and receiving his friends, and paying visits to his neighbours, under the shadow of the umbrageous trees which gave a name to his pleasant homestead.
I drove over to the house, or rather that part of it which still remains, a part of the kitchen, as I suppose, in which the good man used to preach. The people of the house showed me some relics—the pulpit cushion, and, I think, the pulpit itself, or some portion of it; also some buttons which belonged to Philip Henry’s coat.