Lectures Delivered in America in 1874 - Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley

Lectures Delivered in America in 1874

Byfleet: August 1875.

LECTURE I

WESTMINSTER ABBEY

Reverence for age, at least so it has long seemed to me, reverence for age, I say, is a fair test of the vigour of youth; and, conversely, insolence toward the old and the past, whether in individuals or in nations, is a sign rather of weakness than of strength.  And the cause, I think, is this.  The rich and strong young natures, which feel themselves capable of original thought and work, have a corresponding respect for those who, in the generations gone by, have thought and worked as they hope to do hereafter.  And this temper, understand me, so far from being servile, or even merely conservative, usually accompanies true independence of spirit.  The young athlete, like the young race-horse, does not despise, but emulate, his sire; even though the old victor be long past his prime.  The young soldier admires the old general; the young midshipman the old admiral, just in proportion as he himself is likely to be a daring and able officer hereafter.  The son, when grown to mans estate, may say to his father, I look on you still with all respect and admiration.  I have learnt, and desire always, to learn from you.  But you must be to me now, not a dictator, but an example.  You became what you are by following your own line; and you must let me rival you, and do you honour, by following mine.

This, I believe, is true of nations as well as of individuals.  I do not hesitate to say that, paradoxical as it may seem, the most original racesthose who have succeeded best and left their stamp most broadly and permanently on the human racehave also been the most teachable, provided they were allowed to learn in their own way and to adapt to their own purposes any higher ancient civilisation with which they came in contact.  What more striking instances of this truthfor truth it isthan the reverence of the free Republican Greek for the old despotic civilisation of Egypt? and of the free Norseman, our own ancestor, for the old and equally despotic civilisation of Rome?

Thesethe two most originative and most progressive races of Europehad a faith in, an awe of, the supposed or real wisdom of the men of old time, which was often exaggerated into a superstition; but neverthanks to their own innate forcedegenerated into a bondage.

Pardon me this somewhat dry proœmium; and pardon me, too, if it leads me on to a compliment to the American people, which I trust you will not think impertinent.

For I have seen, and seen with joy, a like spirit in those Americans whom it has been my good fortune to meet in my own land.  I mean this:That I found in them, however self-teaching and self-determining they might be, that genial reverence for antiquity which I hold to be the sign of a truly generousthat is in the right sense of the grand old worda truly high-bred, nature.  I have been touched, and deeply touched, at finding so many of them, on landing for the first time at Liverpool, hurrying off to our quaint old city of Chester to gaze on its old girdle of walls and towers; Roman, Mediæval, Caroline; its curious Rows of overhanging houses; its fragments of Roman baths and inscriptions; its modest little Cathedral; and thereally very fewrelics of English history which it contains.  Even two banners of an old Cheshire regiment which had been in the Peninsular war were almost as interesting, to some, as an illuminated Bible of the early Middle Age.  More than once have I had to repress the enthusiasm of some charming lady and say, But this is nothing.  Do not waste your admiration here.  Go on.  See the British Museum, its marbles and its manuscriptsSee the French Cathedrals; the ruins of Provence and Italy; the galleries of Florence, Naples, Rome.

Ah, but you must remember, was the answer, these are the first old things I ever saw.

A mere sentiment?  Yes: but as poets know, and statesmen ought to know, it is by sentiment, when well directedas by sorrow, when well usedby sentiment, I say, great nations live.  When sentiment dies out, and mere prosaic calculation of loss and profit takes its place, then comes a Byzantine epoch, a Chinese epoch, decrepitude, and slow decay.

And so the eagerness of those generous young souls was to me a good augury for the future, of them, and of their native land.  They seemed to meand I say again it touched me, often deeplyto be realising to themselves their rightful place in the community of the civilised nations of all lands, and of all timesrealising to themselves that they were indeed

and minded, therefore, like wise and noble heirs, not to despise and squander, but to treasure and to use that inheritance, and the accumulated labours of the mighty dead.

I saw this, I say, at Chester.  And therefore I was not surprised to find the pleasant experience repeated, and to even a higher degree, at Westminster.  A pleasant experience, I say.  I know few more agreeable occupations than showing a party of Americans round our own great Abbey; and sentimentalising, if you will, in sympathy with them, over Englands Pantheon.

I pause to confess once more that it is almost an impertinence in me to pay you such a compliment.  You have a right to answer meHow could it be otherwise?Are we not educated people?  Has not our taste been trained by native authors, who were at least civilised enough to value the great past, without the need of any European crossing the seas to tell us of its wealth?

If you reprove me thus, I can but say that the reproof is just, and will remain just, as long as your poets are what they are; and as long, above all, as you reverence as much in America as we do in England, the poetry of Mr. Longfellow.  He has not, if I recollect aright, ever employed his muse in commemorating our great Abbey; but that muse is instinct with all those lofty and yet tender emotions which the sight of that great Abbey should call out.  He knows, as few know on our side of the wide water, the effect, chastening and yet ennobling, of such architecture, consecrated by such associations.  He has not only perceived and drank in all that is purest and noblest in the now sleeping last ten centuries: but he has combined it, again and again, with that which is purest and noblest in the waking and yearning present; and combined it organically and livingly, as leaf and stem combines with flower and fruit.  Yes; as long as the poet who could write both the Belfry of Bruges and The Village Blacksmith is read among you, there is no need for me to bid you reverence the past; and little need, I trust, for me to tell those whom I leave at home to reverence the present.  For it is a factof which some Americans may not be as well aware as they should bethat your exquisite poet has exercised an influence in Britain it may be as great as, and certainly more varied than, that which he has exercised in his native land.  With usas, I presume, with youhe has penetrated into thousands of Puritan homes, and awakened tens of thousands of young hearts to the beauty and the nobleness of the old pre-Reformation age, and of that romance and art from which their too exclusive hereditary training had, until his time, shut them out.  And he has thus, truly, done a sacred deed in turning the hearts of the children to their fathers.  That was enough: but that is not the whole.  He has, conversely, turned the hearts of the fathers to the children.  The world-wide humanity of his poems, and, to be just, of all your American poets who have studied in his school, has produced throughout Great Britain a just reverence and affection for the American mind which will havewhich has had alreadylarge social and political results.  Be sure, be sure, that in spite of passing jars, our empire will never be long unjust to yours, while Mr. Longfellow and Mr. Lowell remain not merely the household bardsthough that is muchbut counsellors, comforters, and trusted friends to hundreds of thousands of gentle and earnest souls; from the palace to the parsonage, from the little village shop to the farm-house on the lonely down.

But there is another American authorwho was the delight of my own youth, and who should have been my teacher also, for he was a master of our common tongue, and his prose is as graceful and felicitous as poor Elias own, and it is certainly more manlyanother American author, I say, who, with that high-bred reverence for what is old, has told you already more about Westminster Abbey, and told it better, than I am likely to tell it.  Need I say that I mean the lamented Washington Irving?  Ah, that our authors had always been as just to you as he was just to us; and indeed more than just; for in his courtesy and geniality he saw us somewhat en beau, and treated old John Bull too much as the poet advises us to treat young and fair ladies

But what a charming book is that old Sketch-book.  And what a charming essay that on our great Abbey, set with such gems of prose as these,

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters, beaming upon a scanty spot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusty splendour.  From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky, or a passing cloud, and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the Abbey towering into the azure heaven.

Or this again, describing the general effect of Henry the Sevenths unrivalled chapel,The very walls are wrought into universal ornament; encrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs.  Stone seems, by the cunning labour of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density; suspended aloft as if by magic; and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.

Dusty splendour, airy security, epithets so unexpected, and yet so felicitous, as to be seemingly accidental.  Such are the tokens of that highest art, which isto conceal its own existence.  After such speech as that, what have I to tell you of the great old Abbey?

Yet there are one or two things, I dare to say, which Washington Irving would have written differently had he visited Westminster, not forty years ago, but now.

I think, in the first place, that if he visited the great Abbey now, he would not have noticed that look of dilapidation at which he hintsand perhaps had a right to hintsome forty years ago.  Dilapidation, dirt, and negligence are as hateful to us now, as to the builder of the newest house outside.  We too, for more than a generation past, have felt, in common with the rest of England and with all the nations of Northern Europe, that awakened reverence for Mediæval Art and Mediæval History, which isfor good and for evilthe special social phenomenon of our times; the natural and, on the whole, useful countercheck to that extreme of revolutionary feeling which issuesas it did in Paris but three years agoin utter hatred and renunciation of the past, and destruction of its monuments.

To preserve, to restore, and, if not, to copy, as a sort of filial duty, the buildings which our forefathers have left us, is now held to be the very mark of cultivation and good taste in Britain.  It may be that we carry it too far; that by a servile and Chinese exactness of imitation we are crippling what originality of genius may exist among our draughtsmen, sculptors, architects.  But we at least confess thereby that we cannot invent and create as could our ancestors five hundred years ago; and as long as that is the case it is more wise in usas in any peopleto exhaust the signification and power of the past, and to learn all we can from older schools of art and thought ere we attempt novelties of our own which, I confess freely, usually issue in the ugly and the ludicrous.

Be that as it may, we of Westminster Abbey have become, like other Englishmen, repairers and restorers.  Had we not so become, the nation would have demanded an account of us, as guardians of its national mausoleum, the building of which our illustrious Dean has so well said

Of all the characteristics of Westminster Abbey, that which most endears it to the nation and gives most force to its namewhich has, more than anything else, made it the home of the people of England and the most venerated fabric of the English Churchis not so much its glory as the seat of the coronations, or as the sepulchre of the kings; not so much its school, or its monastery, or its chapter, or its sanctuary, as the fact that it is the resting-place of famous Englishmen, from every rank and creed, and every form of genius.  It is not only Reims Cathedral and St. Denys both in one; but it is what the Pantheon was intended to be to Francewhat the Valhalla is to Germanywhat Santa Croce is to Italy. . . It is this which inspired the saying of NelsonVictory or Westminster Abbey.  It is this which has intertwined it with so many eloquent passages of Macaulay.  It is this which gives point to the allusions of recent Nonconformist statesmen, least inclined to draw illustrations from ecclesiastical buildings.  It is this which gives most promise of vitality to the whole institution.  Kings are no longer buried within its walls; even the splendour of pageants has ceased to attract.  But the desire to be buried in Westminster Abbey is as strong as ever.

This sprang, in the first instance, as a natural off-shoot from the coronations and interments of the kings.  Had they, like those of France, of Spain, of Austria, of Russiabeen buried far away in some secluded spot, or had the English nation stood aloof from the English monarchy, it might have been otherwise.  The sepulchral chapels built by Henry the Third and Henry the Seventh might have stood alone in their glory.  No meaner dust need ever have mingled with the dust of Plantagenets, Tudors, Stuarts, and Guelphs. . . .  But it has been the peculiar privilege of the kings of England that neither in life nor in death have they been parted from their people.  As the Council of the Nation and the Courts of Law have pressed into the Palace of Westminster, and engirdled the very throne itself, so the ashes of the great citizens of England have pressed into the sepulchre of the kings, and surrounded them as with a guard of honour after their death.  We are sometimes inclined bitterly to contrast the placid dignity of our recumbent kings, with Chatham gesticulating from the northern transept, or Pitt from the western door, or Shakspeare leaning on his column in Poets Corner, or Wolfe expiring by the chapel of St. John.  But, in fact, they are, in their different ways, keeping guard over the shrine of our monarchs and our laws; and their very incongruity and variety become symbols of that harmonious diversity in unity which pervades our whole commonwealth.

Honoured by such a trust, we who serve God daily in the great Abbey are not unmindful of the duty which lies on us to preserve and to restore, to the best of our power, the general fabric; and to call on government and on private persons to preserve and restore those monuments, for which they, not we, are responsible.  A stranger will not often enter our Abbey without finding somewhere or other among its vast arcades, skilled workmen busy over mosaic, marble, bronze, or storied window richly dight; and the very cloisters, which to Washington Irvings eye were discoloured with damp, crumbling with age, and crusted with a coat of hoary moss, are being repaired till that rich tracery of the arches, and that leafy beauty of the roses which adorn the keystonesof which he tellsshall be as sharp and bright as they were first, 500 years ago.

One sentiment, again, which was called up in the mind of your charming essayist, at the sight of Westminster Abbey, I have not felt myself: I mean its sadness.  What, says he, is this vast assembly of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation? a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion.