A scrap from one of his letters to a little niece will serve also as an example of the poetry, which he usually attributed to the Judicious poet, for whose collected works the children vainly searched the library.
"Michaelmas will, I hope, find us all at Clapham over a noble goose. Do you remember the beautiful Puseyette hymn on Michaelmas day? It is a great favorite with all the Tractarians. You and Alice should learn it. It begins:
'Though Quakers scowl and Baptists howl,
Though Plymouth Brethren rage,
We churchmen gay will wallow today
In apple sauce, onions and sage.
Ply knife and fork, and draw the cork,
And have the bottle handy;
For each slice of goose we'll introduce
A thimbleful of brandy.'
Is it not good? I wonder who the author can be? Not Newman, I think. It is above him. Perhaps it is Bishop Wilberforce."
The Macaulays and the Wilberforces living at Clapham Common are very real people to me, and my firm allegiance to Trinity College, Cambridge, has never wavered since Macaulay's undergraduate days, not even when Samuel Wilberforce, the future bishop, went up to Oriel College, Oxford.
And how doubly precious is a book-friendship, whose introduction claims a personal touch; as when, with the same friend who bought the photograph in Rome, I afterwards visited Winchester Cathedral and standing beside the chantry tomb of Bishop Wilberforce she said, "When you go home, read his life. He was a great and good man," and I have continued reading it for nearly thirty years. Wilberforce was undoubtedly for twenty-five years the greatest figure in the English Church. His great sorrows made him tender and tolerant, and many who saw only the brilliant man little dreamed of the causes and depth of his power. He was made Bishop of Oxford in the troublous times of the Tractarian Movement, and so great was the work he accomplished and so devoted to him were his clergy that when translated to Winchester, Bishop Stubbs, who succeeded him, coming from quiet Chester, where his history was his chief occupation, ruefully asked, "Why am I like the Witch of Endor? Because I am tormented by the spirit of Samuel." His quickness and humor flashed an unexpected light on many a question, as when asked why he was called Soapy Sam he answered it was probably because he was always in hot water and always came out with hands clean. And his whimsical reply to "Who are the greatest preachers in England?"—is one of those comical self-evaluations which it is generally most hard to give—"I must refer you to an article on a lady's dress—Hook and I." His absolute freedom from personal animosity shows itself in the story I like best of all. During a stormy committee meeting in which he and the Bishop of London were violently opposed to each other, he threw a note across the table. Supposing it to be some point on the business in hand, the Bishop of London read, "My dear Bishop: You really should not wear such boots. Your life is too precious and valuable to us all to allow such carelessness."
Nothing could more touchingly express the devoted and loving esteem in which he was held than these words written at the time of his death: "With others who loved him, kneeling reverently beside the body, was Mr. Gladstone, whose sobs attested how deeply his feelings were moved by the sudden loss of his long-tried friend."
The last time I was in England I made a Sussex pilgrimage to his old home at Lavington. It was in June, and my companion smiled as I exclaimed with enthusiasm, "St. Barnabas day, the eleventh of June—the Bishop's wedding day!" We saw the trees he had planted and loved, the spot whence he would turn for a last homeward look, saying he was as proud of being a Sussex squire as a bishop; and best of all the great clumps of rhododendron which he planted with his own hands.
Since so many librarians are gardening as a favorite recreation, why not have a friendly corner in the garden, where we may "Consider the lilies of the field," as we are bidden in that dearest of all books, and where each mood, whether gay or somber, would find echo from the "eternal passion" of the poets—"Rosemary for remembrance, or pray you love, remember there's pansies, they're for thoughts." Growing next to these in my own garden is the fragrant Carolina allspice, because it was the best loved of flowers by Henry Bradshaw.