own; a voice and not an echo. It was himself, his own personality, that told on others. He possessed in an unusual degree that kind of magnetism which makes those who are in company with its owner always conscious of what he is doing, and instinctively disposed to follow his lead. (Except Bishop Samuel Wilberforce, I never knew a man who possessed this quality to a greater extent than your father, but in the Bishop's case it was, I think, more consciously exerted.) You could not be with him for three minutes without feeling he was no common man. "There's that man Benson taking it all in," was the ejaculation, in half-comic, half-despairing tones, of a candidate who had come to Lincoln for ordination and was exploring the Cathedral with a party headed by the future Archbishop under the guidance of some habitué of the place. It was this power of taking things in which always struck you when you were with him. We had a most delightful combination-holiday once at Whitby, and his intelligent knowledge of the whole district added greatly to our pleasure. I think I can see him now in his old flannel coat and black felt hat hammering away with you and Martin for geological specimens in the Whitby cliffs (three ammonite brooches, much treasured by my sisters and myself, were a precious record of St Hilda): or carrying over his arm the brown rug striped with blue, his mother's gift when he went to school, and settling down for a good read upon the sands. Certainly in all that part of Yorkshire his foot was metaphorically at least "on his native heath." The long out-door walks were good for him physically, and there was that background of ecclesiastical antiquity typified in the fine old Abbey which dominated the headland above the fishing village-alas, rapidly turning into a modern watering-place !—which exactly suited his mind. A record of one or two of these Yorkshire walks from a journal kept at the time may stand for a specimen of many others. Saturday, Sep. 4, 1869. Walked with Dr Benson and John to Sleights moor, close by railway. Splendid walk over sandy heather. Beautiful distance, tumuli and hills. Feet sank deep into heather, and nothing between you and the sky. It seemed a place for extremes meeting. Turned past a railway cutting to the left. On our right a rich hill side, mountain ash, I think, and bracken-a dell between. What a wilderness of purple flowers! and woods beyond, which we had not time to visit. Talked about Christian Year. How much of the classical element. Dr Benson regrets "sister nymph beside her urn1." Why has Christianity no Homer? Round by Littlebeck. Much struck by the windings of the stream which we followed closely. One grand beach overhung by cliffs. Longed for a figure of St John the Baptist preaching to a group of people beneath their shadow. Passed close to the Throstle's Nest. Had a race for the train, quite needless, and after all waited half an hour at the station discussing Hymnology. Dr Benson repeating "When I survey &c." Subjectivity in hymns. Thursday, Sep. 9. Went up in evening with Dr Benson and others to finish sketch of dear old Abbey, which seems to have been part of ourselves. Walked about, watching the beautiful sky behind the old lancet window. Presently and joined us, and we all walked about together arm in arm saying the Heydour Psalms (iv. and v.), the Magnificat, and Psalm xxiii. It was an evening none of us will, I think, ever forget. Walked quietly to the gate of our Paradise, feeling, as E. W. B. said, "Resigno quae dedit." Down the steps-across the harbour in a ferry boat. Some one playing "There's no place like home." Friday, Sep. 10. To Lincoln. In afternoon to Cathedral, E. W. B. with us; beautiful anthem of Hayes, "He maketh peace in thy borders." A happy welcome at home. New dish. The Laudum of Bishop Alnwick. It was delightful to pass from the picturesque ruins of Whitby 1 The allusion is to the Poem for Monday in Easter Week: Or canst thou guess how far away Some sister nymph, beside her urn 'Mid reeds and mountain fern, Nurses her store with thine to blend? 2 This alludes to the fact that at Riseholme, the residence of the Bishops of Lincoln, on the visit described, a covered dish was placed before my father by the Bishop's orders, which, when the cover was removed, was seen to contain the original copy of Bishop Alnwick's Laudum, which had just been discovered in the Muniment Room. My father had asked the Bishop what was the Laudum of Alnwick which as Prebendary he had sworn to obey. The Bishop could not tell him, but caused a search to be instituted with successful results. The Laudum was the written award made by Bishop Alnwick as arbitrator (in 1439) upon the fierce altercation between the Dean (Mackworth) and the Canons of Lincoln. He afterwards drew up new statutes (Novum Registrum) for the Cathedral which were never enforced. See p. 326, note. to the living splendours of Lincoln, in that happy September of 1869 which nearly closing, as it did, the first year of our father's Episcopate, seems to me as I look back upon it, almost the high-water mark of our enthusiasm. I should perhaps say that Dr Benson's enthusiasm for the Cathedral and City life, and it would be unfair not to add for the Bishop, had a reflex action upon ourselves. We viewed the life there in the light of his vivid and poetical imagination. I can see now the irradiation of our own dear father's face at some outburst of zeal, assumed petulance, and humorous irritation, or effusive and characteristically expressed gratitude on some occasion that awakened the easily roused feelings of his chaplain. When he first appeared in his chaplain's scarf in the Chapel at Wellington College it was popularly supposed by the 4th form boys that Mrs Benson had died in the night and that he had promptly adopted this method of going into mourning for her. So at least the story runs (ben trovato). The following is an extract from Miss Wordsworth's Diary a little later: Sunday, Sep. 2, 1871. Wellington College. Morning, all but Mary to Sandhurst Church. After dinner E. W. B. read Pilgrim's Progress to us and the children out in the garden. Evening, walked to Sandhurst Church and back. Father and E. W. B. talked on classical subjects. Aeneas leaving Creusa (à propos of my mother dropping behind and telling them not to wait for her!), her appearance to her husband afterwards, and saying he had been quite right-subjection of women in heathen times—the good laws of Augustus Caesar concerning marriage &c. preparing the way for Christianity-the extraordinary change in the character of Tiberius --beginning so well—to be traced (E. W. B. suggested) from the time of his enforced divorce from his wife and marriage with his wicked niece Julia, after which he lived in a kind of voluntary exile, and emerged from it like a madman. To Miss Wordsworth. MASTER'S LODGE, WELLINGTON COLLEGE MY DEAR ELIZABETH, Don't think me ungrateful for a letter for which I was impelled to write off a thousand thanks that minute. But I'm really delightfully busy. It would do your heart good to see how good tempered the Pickering Moors' have made me in spite of neuralgia. I have seen 17 people in the way of interviews since 12 o'clock, and I assure you I'm not discomposed. It's amusing to tell you what a heap of work has to be done, but it will not be at all amusing if you take that to mean that I am too busy to delight in letters. The expectation of letters from you has changed my views with regard to the post, and the wondering Porter (whose crimson countenance is so badly matched with his scarlet waistcoat that if Mary saw it, it would put her at once out of conceit with my hood-would it be right to dismiss on that account an otherwise satisfactory man? I wish you would tell me)-well, he wonders to behold me about Post time advancing to meet him, instead of disappearing round the Chapel at his approach. 9 p.m. There is the most beautiful sheet lightning flashing every instant in the North as we come in from Chapel. It is the flashing of Michael's sword. I seem to see Wellington College 400 years hence, a graceful ruin with a happy party spelling out the E. . . and the W. . . and the B. . . and the M . . . gister of an old stone in the day when parents having recognised their own duties to their children, marvel that ever they could have been sent to herd in the masses of a public school, and then they will vilify those who strove to inspire and purify them, as some dear friends of mine are content to accept the tales of enemies about the old men who kept society sweeter until very near the end, when society's own evils burst in upon them. But oh, what sorrow it is to think that Lincoln and Lichfield and Winchester and all the rest may pass out of our hands with all their capacities undeveloped ! You will all shudder at the Post-bag, as I did at Whitby. But it is all your faults: I never talked so long in my life as I did about Cyprian that night, and never wrote such letters before, so your fault it must be. CHAPTER VIII. PROSE AND VERSE. "The milky way, the bird of Paradise, Church bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood, GEO. HERBERT. I WILL here give two or three specimens of his literary style at this period, both in prose and verse; they reveal his mind very clearly, both its strength and weaknessthe rare beauty, fervency and originality of his thoughts, and the over-elaboration and quaintness of diction that obscure the lucidity of the thought, and divert instead of concentrating attention. The first is a mystical discourse on a verse of Scripture, written on St Cyprian's Day (26th Sep.) 1869, apparently at the end of the Summer Holidays, and addressed to three of the Miss Wordsworths. It has never been published. Its quaint mediaeval title is "Concio habita in spiritu Tres Sorores de Prato Resurrectionis (Riseholme) Die Dom. Natali autem S. Cypriani A.D. 1869. Habuit Macarophylax Albius Benedicti F." [A speech made in the Spirit to the three sisters of Riseholme, on the Lord's Day, also the birthday of St Cyprian, A.D. 1869. Edward White Benson made it.] |