Of the many other noted and eminent men of Canterbury's almost interminable list, we take but one, and that was the second Protestant bishop, Matthew Parker. He was eminent as a churchman, as much so as Laud, but was a man of good judgment, and more than any other person gave the character of worship which the Established Church of England now has. He was born at Norwich, Aug. 6, 1504, and entered Corpus Christi College at Cambridge in 1520; in 1533 was licensed to preach, and soon was made Chaplain to Anne Boleyn. He was Dean of Clare College in 1535; chaplain to Henry VIII. in 1537; Master of Corpus Christi College in 1544; and Dean of Lincoln Cathedral in 1552. Having married in 1547, on the accession of Queen Mary he was deprived of his office, and obliged to remain in obscurity. He then translated the Psalms into English verse, and wrote a treatise entitled "A Defense of Priests' Marriages."
His fortune at length turned, for on the accession of Queen Elizabeth, and a reform in the religion, he was chosen Archbishop of Canterbury, and Dec. 17, 1559, was consecrated in the chapel at Lambeth. He was successful in dispelling the Queen's lingering affection for images, and he filled all the vacant Sees with decided Protestants, and did all in his power to render the rites and ceremonies of the church uniform. He founded schools, made valuable presents to the colleges at Cambridge, was one of the first chosen to review the Book of Common Prayer; and was employed in the revision of the Bishop's Bible, which passed under his inspection, and was published at his own expense in 1568. He was the author of several other standard works, and at last, after a life of remarkable activity and usefulness, he died at London, May 17, 1575, at the age of seventy-one, deeply lamented.
1575! 200 years before the declaration of our American Independence, and almost half a century before the Pilgrims set sail for America! He did much towards establishing Protestantism, and making Puritanism possible; and so he was the John the Baptist to prepare for the bad work of Laud and his coadjutors,—which caused the persecution of the non-conformists, and, indirectly, the emigration to the New World, and the great good which is its outcome. Laud, thunder-storm-like, induced a clearer theologic atmosphere.
There is a thing yet untouched we would speak of, but must forbear a long recital. In speaking of the crypt, we strangely forgot to mention that, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, there were a company of French silk-weavers, who were driven from their native land, and sought refuge in England. They were called Walloons, and the crypt of the cathedral was granted them by the Queen as a place of worship. In the time of Charles II., who died in 1688, they were the most noted silk-weavers in England. The blood was strong; and, strange to tell, to this day the humble remnant, after the lapse of centuries, still claim and use this room as their place of worship. There is a tinge of melancholy that comes over one as he thinks of their devotion and humble sanctuary, but it is Sabbath home to them, and so is at once cathedral and gate of heaven.
At the Altar of Martyrdom, where Becket died, in 1170 was that appalling scene of riot, distress, and death. 129 years gone, and how changed! Then was gathered another crowd, and all was peace, happiness, and life, for Edward I. and Margaret were there to be married in 1299.
On the 8th of June, 1376, great commotion was in the Episcopal Palace near by, for there lay in the agonies of death their great-grandson, Edward the Black Prince, who was so called from the color of his armor. Two days after he was buried in the cathedral; and now, after 500 years, we look upon his effigy in bronze, old and black, but highly wrought, and once and for years of rich gilt. Above his tomb are suspended the helm, surcoat, shield, and gauntlet he wore on the field of Cressy. In this cathedral is the ancient chair in which all the old kings of Kent were crowned.
And so we might go on; and when many pages had been written, the door would but be opened, and an inexhaustible store of things of inexpressible interest present themselves, and be in waiting for consideration.
We must now begin to think of parting companionship with these cathedral towns, for we are to move on yet more southerly till Dover is reached; and so for a time is to end our good stay in historic Old England, the mother country of us all. We confess to a feeling of dislike, and at the same time to a consciousness of grand satisfaction of what we have enjoyed, and so that feeling, if permitted to prevail, would neutralize the anticipation of good to come.
We now, at 6 p. m., take cars for Dover. The ride is like that before it, very much like one over lands in New England, on the South Shore Road, towards Hingham and Cohasset. There are rocks, and even ledges, increasing as we advance. There are grand fields of hops, an incredible number of them, and gardens with the new vegetables of all kinds, as in our Old Colony at that time of the year.
Now at 7.30, after a ride of an hour and a half, we come in sight of the bluffs and chalk-cliffs and abrupt hills—a wonder to us indeed. "How extensive, how white!" we say.