Having been so long away from England, everything peculiarly English struck me with almost as much force as it would a native American. Hence, my feelings revolted at the sight of the innumerable beggars and vagrants, who crowded the streets. Italians, with their organs, white mice, or monkeys; poor barefooted children, with their baskets of matches; and, worse than either, houseless families imploring a crust for their half-naked little ones, with many a tale of sorrow and woe, were sights which greeted my eye and pained my heart every day. A sad spectacle indeed, and one which robs the lustre of the British crown of many a brilliant ray. The true glory of a people is their internal prosperity, and not the extension of their territory.
The fifth of July renewed the excitement of the day I arrived. It was the time appointed for the county election. Similar scenes to those before described took place, accompanied with excessive drunkenness. Every tavern, and the number seemed endless, was crowded, mostly with the laboring classes, who were spending their hard-earned pence, for foaming tankards of English ale, the favorite beverage of John Bull, and one of the greatest hindrances to the progress of the temperance cause in that country; though it is hoped that the triumphs of tee-totalism will ultimately overcome this national love for John Barleycorn, as beer is humorously called in the old song.
After spending an extremely pleasant week in Stafford, we bade adieu to my affectionate sister and her husband, and, aided by omnipotent steam, we soon reached the great manufactory of Britain—Birmingham. From thence we took stage for Woodstock, subject, however, to the incessant exactions of the host of waiters, guards and coachmen, that constantly assail the traveller in England, with a request to be “remembered” for every little service rendered. The country through which we rode was delightful; all nature wore her greenest, brightest garments; the roads were level, and as smooth as the most thorough Macadamizing could make them. Soon after seven in the evening, the stage drew up at the Marlborough Arms, the very hotel from whence I started thirty years since to go to sea. The first object that arrested my eye, was the revered form of my mother, waiting on the sidewalk, eager to embrace her much-loved, but long-absent son. Springing to the ground, I felt myself locked in her fond embrace. That was a moment of exquisite enjoyment, both to me and to my mother. Though deeply moved, she maintained a calm dignity of manner. In a few moments, she was showing the way, with the agility of a young woman, leading a new-found grand-child in each hand, to her residence, which was close at hand. Very soon we were all seated round the well-loaded board, the happiest family party in the world.
Though it afforded me and my family great pleasure to visit scenes round Woodstock and Bladen, which had been familiar to me in my boyhood, yet, as the description would only prove tedious to the reader, it is omitted. A brief account of our visit to Oxford, so celebrated for its university and colleges, may not be uninteresting.
Oxford contains nineteen colleges and five halls. Of these, we visited only Christ Church and Lincoln colleges. Christ Church is the largest college in Oxford. We were forcibly struck with the magnificence of the octagonal tower, which is over the principal gateway. It has a dome top, and is ornamented in the Gothic style, from designs by that renowned architect, Sir Christopher Wren. It is also remarkable as containing the celebrated bell, known by the familiar name of “Great Tom,” and weighing 17,000 pounds. It is 7 feet 1 inch in diameter, 6 feet 9 inches high, 6⅛ inches in thickness. I got under this massive piece of metal, and found abundant room to move about; by standing on the clapper I could reach the top over my head. This is the largest bell in England; though Russia contains several of a much larger size. I also gratified myself by a survey of the splendid picture galleries and the spacious library, the former containing some of the finest specimens of painting in the country, and the latter a large and valuable collection of books, manuscripts, prints, coins, &c.
I made inquiries of our attendant for the room in which Charles Wesley studied while a member of this college; but, although quite communicative on other subjects, he manifested a peculiar sensitiveness on this; and I declined pressing the question. After quitting the college, happening to pass the residence of the Wesleyan minister, Mr. Rodgers, I called upon him, and related to him how the porter avoided my questions. He smiled, and said that they regarded the Wesleys as dissenters, and would therefore do them no honor. Mr. Rodgers was extremely obliging; he conducted us over his beautiful chapel, and then bore us company to Lincoln college, where he pointed out the room in which John Wesley studied when a member of this institution. He also showed us the other localities of Oxford, made sacred to me by their association with the person of Wesley’s grandfather, the preaching of the Wesleys themselves, and the studies of Dr. Coke, the great missionary hero of the Methodist church.
He then led us into Broad street, to the consecrated spot where Latimer, Ridley and Cranmer sealed their faith by enduring a martyr’s death. Three stones mark the spot where their ashes fell; and never did I feel a holier feeling than that which thrilled my heart, while I and my family stood on those time-worn stones: the spirits of the martyrs seemed to hover around us, breathing the same high, religious determination into our minds that filled their own bold and daring spirits. That moment amply repaid us for all the toil of our journey home.
The following Sabbath I attended the chapels of the Wesleyans at Woodstock and Bladen, and in the evening had the pleasure of saying a word to my old Bladen associates, in the prayer-meeting.
After receiving the utmost kindness, hospitality and evidences of friendship from my family and friends, I took leave of them forever. Many of the neighbors, with my mother, accompanied me to Woodstock. There I wished her adieu, and when the coach whirled away, she stood following us with her eyes, the last of the company, until a projection of the park wall hid us from each other. Who could forbear a tear in such a moment? I could not, and therefore suffered the big drops to roll down my cheeks at will. There is a luxury in such grief.
That evening beheld us rolling through Hyde Park into the city of London, where I tarried a few days with my brother, by whom I was very cordially entertained. Here also I found several cousins, in prosperous circumstances whose kindness contributed not a little to my enjoyment. Having visited St. Paul’s, the Museum, Madame Tussaud’s magnificent collection of wax figures, and other curious and remarkable places, I took a trip to Walthamstow, the former residence of my aunt Turner. This good lady was dead, and almost forgotten by the people; her twenty-two children were all either dead or wandering, the neighbors knew not whither. Alas for the mutations of time!