"There is, I know not how, in the minds of men, a certain presage, as it were, of a future existence; and this takes the deepest root, and is most discoverable in the greatest geniuses and most exalted souls."—CICERO.
We have not been honoured with the friendship of distinguished members of the Church so intimately as to leave many empty chairs once filled by them, but I can write something in affectionate remembrance of a few.
J. M. Bellew
The first prominent clergyman whom we knew was that strange creature Bellew, first as the Reverend J. M. Bellew, when he preached at a church in Bloomsbury and drew large congregations, having previously enjoyed great popularity at St. Mark's, Hamilton Terrace. He was gifted with an exceptionally fine voice and a striking appearance. I never heard the death chapter from the Corinthians better read than by him—it was dramatic without being theatrical. There was, however, a pitfall into which he used to stumble when he attacked the Commandments—in the Fifth he thundered out the first three words "Honour thy father," then dropped his voice to its softest tones, quietly murmuring, "and thy mother."
Later on, he became both friend and neighbour.
I will repeat a story he told of another neighbour, a canon of the Church, who wore the most palpable of wigs, which took every shade of colour in the sunlight, but was blindly convinced in his own mind that no one shared his secret. Bellew met this friend one morning as he was leaving his house, and suggested their proceeding together. "Delighted," said the owner of the many-coloured "jasey"; "I am going to Bond Street to get my hair cut." The pretender went so far as to have various wigs of different lengths to aid the evident deception.
In middle life Bellew appeared as a public reader and reciter here and in America, having left the Church of England, and become a devout Roman Catholic, in which faith he died.
Henry White, the Chaplain of the Chapel Royal, Savoy, as it then was, was many a time a welcome Sunday guest, almost invariably punctual, though always begging to be forgiven should he not be. His letters, carefully sealed with the Savoy arms, were full of quotations, such as, "I cannot tell you how much I value the friendship you have allowed me to enjoy so long: 'my love's more richer than my tongue,'" while his interesting sermons were often described as "elegant extracts." His reading of the Litany was peculiarly impressive. The Baroness Burdett-Coutts was a frequent member of his restricted congregation. I left an evening party in his company long years ago, when we walked together towards our different homes. On the way I put a straight question to him on a sacred subject. His answer was frank enough: "If it is in my power to be of use to you, or indeed to any man, it can only be from my pulpit." He tried his utmost to persuade me to read the Lessons in the Chapel Royal. I firmly declined, adding that if I consented I should ask to be allowed to select them. "Even that," he said, "might be arranged."
An old, and to us, dearly-loved friend who also enjoyed his Sunday visits, was the Sub-Dean of the Chapels Royal, Canon Edgar Sheppard. Our hospitality was returned by him and Mrs. Sheppard at their quaint old home adjoining Marlborough House Chapel: and I also knew the Canon in his other home, so picturesque, in the precincts of Windsor Castle. One of his last public services was held for me when my sorrow came. His friendship had so long been valued by my wife; the kindness shown to me then, as well as by his son, the present vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, dwells sacredly in my memory, and will be referred to in the final chapter of this book.
Archdeacon Wilberforce