Archdeacon Wilberforce—who belonged to the 1841 "Vintage"—was also our friend. He drew large congregations to the church of St. John the Evangelist, Westminster—that odd-looking building which looks rather like an elephant sprawling on his back with his short legs in the air. I recall an afternoon when we were the guests of Mrs. Wilberforce and himself in Dean's Yard; he took us aside and said they were asking some of their friends to linger when the party broke up, as they had a treat to follow. We gladly did so, and were well repaid, being conducted to the Abbey by the Archdeacon, and seated in the choir. Presently Sir Frederick Bridge—("Westminster Bridge ")—another old friend who has left an empty chair—broke the silence—the tones of the organ swelled out—when, from by his side in the loft and out of sight, the wonderful voice of Clara Butt sang "Abide with Me." There are moments in life, and that was one, the remembrance of which can never fade; this we felt, as afterwards we went from the Abbey in the falling light.
I recall an occasion when both Bishop Ellicott and Archdeacon Wilberforce were staying at Birchington. The Bishop was gravely ill. We had known him in the Engadine and at the Bel Alp, and had also been to those musical parties in Great Cumberland Place, to which Mrs. Ellicott and all her family were so passionately and unceasingly devoted that they seemed to fill their lives. The Bishop was always expected to be a listener. My wife drove to the bungalow where the Bishop was, to ask after him, and, to her delight, was told he would like to see her. She found the Archdeacon by his side, and as she approached his chair the Bishop was thanking him for "kind and comforting words," adding: "I hope, my dear friend, when it shall please God to take me, He will graciously grant me a little niche—and not too near the music!"
The Archdeacon's love of animals is well known. He adored his dogs, and at a garden-party showed us the graves of little lost friends by the Cloisters, dwelling in a most interesting way on his belief in their after-life. In support of this, I recall an incident told by my old comrade, John Hare, when he had a seaside home at Overstrand. The Archdeacon visited him one day: and Hare, who was never without a dog, put a question to him.
"Do you really believe, Archdeacon," he asked, "in a hereafter for our dogs?"
"Indeed I do."
"But do you mean that I shall meet my dog again?"
"Undoubtedly—if you are good enough!"
Father Bernard Vaughan
A friend whom it was always a pleasure to welcome or to meet was Father Bernard Vaughan. We became acquainted many years ago at Manchester, where my wife and I were acting. He was then the rector of a church there, and would come and see us at our hotel, and tell us Lancashire stories. From time to time he visited us in London, and later on at our seaside home.
He never spoke a word to me on religious subjects, knowing, I suppose, that I did not chance to belong to the beautiful faith which he and his many brothers and sisters so devoutly served as priests and nuns, beginning with the eminent Cardinal. Father Bernard Vaughan attracted crowded congregations, drawn from all degrees of creed, to Farm Street, there to listen to his outspoken sermons on the Sins of Society. They were both romantic and emotional, with sentences to the effect that unless England fed the fires of religion with the fuel of faith she might wake one day to the sound of a passing bell tolling her soul's death.