The circumstances in which I first saw Dr. Boyd-Carpenter, then the Bishop of Ripon, were comical, although the scene of them was a place of worship. I have a predilection for a good sermon, and at one period made a practice of hearing the best English preachers of the day, no matter what their particular aspect of the Faith might be. On a Saturday I read in The Times that the Bishop of Ripon was to preach at the Chapel Royal, Whitehall; so I determined to go and listen.
The Chapel Royal, Whitehall, exists no more, but at that time it occupied the first floor of the old banqueting hall (from one of the windows of which King Charles I stepped forth to his execution), since given over to the Royal United Services Institution. The hall was not, from the clergy's point of view, well adapted to its sacred purpose, for there was no vestry, or, at any rate, no separate entrance for the officiating minister, who could only enter the chapel by the staircase in the same way as the general public.
The verger's mistake
Presenting myself on a wintry morning, some time before the appointed hour, after fighting my way up the crowded staircase, I found the chapel already full, when the verger, catching sight of and recognising me, whispered that if I waited a moment he would find a seat for me among the front rows. Just then I felt someone trying to push past me, and looking down saw a small and energetic figure, the head swathed in a large white muffler, eagerly struggling to make towards the altar. The verger, prompt but polite, attempted to stop the vigorous little man. "You really can't, sir; there isn't another empty place."
What was the good man's surprise and confusion to receive the answer, in a telling stage whisper: "But I've come to preach!"
The intruder was no other than the Bishop, then in the prime of life. When at last he reached the pulpit, he preached so fine a sermon that though my watch told me it lasted only five minutes short of an hour, it seemed to occupy less than the half of one.
Another trenchant and dramatic sermon I recall was preached by Boyd-Carpenter in the Abbey soon after the death of Tennyson, when the Bishop shattered an idea which had got abroad that the great poet had no faith in an after-life. Who, I wonder, could have attributed such thoughts to the man who wrote: "I hope to meet my Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar"? The only time I saw the Victorian Poet Laureate, a picturesque figure, was on board a Channel steamer. He passed the time between Calais and Dover on the bridge, talking with the captain and smoking a short clay pipe.
Acquaintance with the Bishop soon followed the episode at the Chapel Royal, and, I rejoice to add, warm friendship with my wife and myself both in London and at our seaside home, which lasted until his death.
There is a story told of the Bishop—which may or may not be true—of his being rudely interrupted at a public meeting by the query if he believed Jonah was really swallowed by the whale. The Bishop said that if he got to heaven he would try to find out. The man in the crowd answered loudly: "But suppose he is not there?" The Bishop at once replied: "Then you'll have to ask him." For my own part, I have always thought that Jonah's condition was like that of a vulgar tourist—he travelled much and saw little.
Speaking and reading