Chapter XXXII: The Chaplain to the Queen

Our journey led us now to Chester, whence we started on a little trip through Northern Wales. I was not very keen for it, for I feared it might prove too "post-cardy!" But it did not.

If your memory fails you, you may turn again to your "Baedeker," for I do not intend to bore you with descriptions of scenery.

At Betts-y-Coed we stopped at the "Waterloo," and took as many photos of the brawling brook as Mr. Pecksniff's pupils made elevations of Salisbury Cathedral.

But far more interesting to me than any landscape was the porter of the hotel--John. You recall Oliver Wendell Holmes's description of the "Two Voices"--if not look it up in your "Autocrat," mine is in the trunk at Chester. One of these voices, I remember, was that of a German chambermaid in a hotel at Buffalo, and the other--I have forgotten where! Well, John's voice is more beautiful than theirs, I am sure. Indeed, I think it the most beautiful speaking voice I have ever heard--as more musical than the English voice than that is more musical than the Philadelphian's--at which you never tire of girding! The _timbre_ is exquisite, and there is a caressing quality in it which belongs to the Celt alone. Motorists, dusty, tired, hungry, and cross drove up hour after hour, and John's greeting was as comfortable as a warm bath. And when I say bath, I mean a wallow in a tub and not a wash in a tin basin--but I forgot. Ruth asked me not to mention "baths" again until we passed Sandy Hook. I do not know why. Perhaps you do?

What is it makes the Celt so much more lovable than the Saxon? Some of their qualities are not sterling. Some of them are not quite honest in small matters, and their standard of truth is not ours. They used to tell us in the seminary that the elder brother in the parable stood for the Jew, and the prodigal for the Gentile. Why does not some man who does not wish to be a bishop or to go to the General Convention, say that they are types of the Saxon and the Celt? It has the advantage of a "modern instance," and is probably quite as true!

At any rate, it is the Celt who is lovable, though the Saxon may be admirable. Well, perhaps that means that the Saxon has arrived, and that the future belongs to the Celt. This, at any rate, is my feeling as I think of the Welsh. Perhaps my feelings may undergo a change when I cross to Ireland! In the meantime, I am sure the Welshman would object to be called a prodigal, as who would not!

The average American returns from England declaring that the climate is wretched, and I have often shared that opinion myself, but, after all, where can one enjoy the twilight as in the British Isles? We do not know what it means, at home. But here from eight to ten in the evening is the most enjoyable part of the day. We were sitting in the garden of the hotel in this pleasant time, I smoking and Ruth thinking--I wonder of what? There was a far-away look in her eyes--when a man came out of the dining-room and settled himself in one of the basket chairs on the lawn, not far from us and, drawing out a dainty case, lit a small cigar, whose aroma floated to us. I glanced at him indifferently, but when Ruth said, "That is an interesting face," looked at him more carefully. He was evidently a clergyman, but his dress was not that of the conventional parson, with the rigid "dog collar." He wore a waistcoat which buttoned to the throat, but was open enough to show a lawn cravat and a shirt of fine linen, which softened his somewhat formal costume. He looked not unlike the portrait of Dean Stanley which hangs in your study, and evidently belonged to the same period or a little later. His face showed breeding and was one that would attract attention. It lacked, however, the high intelligence of Stanley, being rather weak--indeed almost self-indulgent--in a refined way. Suddenly I recalled him. It was the Rev. Henry Waitland, rector of a fashionable West-end "Chapel of Ease." I had last seen him when I was in college, at one of John Ropes's Sunday dinners. I remembered that I had been told that he was a well-known man in London, a friend of Ellen Terry's and other celebrities. Indeed, he had the reputation of being more interested in the drama than in divinity! I thought it might please Ruth to meet him, so I strolled over and introduced myself, reminding him of our last meeting.

He was polite, but not enthusiastic. Indeed I was reminded of the remark of the "con man" on the steamer! However, when he caught a glimpse of Ruth, and learned she was my wife, he seemed to think better of us, and asked to be presented.

When we had talked a little about Boston and he found that Ruth knew the right people, he thawed out and began to talk about London and the distinguished people he had known. It was most interesting to hear about the people one knew from books and get the impressions of an eye-witness.

Ruth asked him what a "Queen's chaplain" was? He laughed and said it was a man who had to leave his own congregation and go to Windsor to preach before the Queen whenever "commanded." Ruth remarked that she should think that would be a bore. But he said it was an honor. This sounded like a snub, but was evidently intended only as a statement of fact.

"Still," he added, "I will not deny that it is sometimes inconvenient. For instance: A few years ago I was summoned to preach the Easter sermon before her Majesty, and would much have preferred to stop at home for that day. However, I went to Windsor, and found that my old friend Ponsonby was to take the service, but as I was to preach he suggested that I read the gospel. But imagine my surprise when, instead of saying the collect for Easter, he said a collect which for the life of me I could not recall, or rather could not tell to what Sunday it belonged! You may imagine my embarrassment! I said to myself: 'Whatever shall I do? Shall I read the Gospel for Easter, or shall I match Ponsonby?' It seemed the decent thing to stand by him, but then I said to myself, 'How can I match Ponsonby, when I don't know this minute what Epistle he is now reading?' And then I said to myself: 'You have nothing to do with Ponsonby. You have been commanded to preach before her Majesty on Easter Day, and your business is to read the service appointed for that day!' And that is what I did.

"After service the Queen sent for me, and after saying a few pleasant things, added: 'I was both astonished and annoyed that Mr. Ponsonby should not have read the Collect for Easter.' I didn't want to be unfair to Ponsonby, but I said: 'You may imagine my feeling, ma'am, when I heard a collect for I did not know what day, and though I said to myself "Shall I match Ponsonby?" I did think it best to read the collect appointed for the day.'

"'You were quite right,' said the Queen, 'and I shal1 tell Mr. Ponsonby how much I dislike any deviation from the appointed service.'

"So you see," he added, "that honors have their burdens."

Now I ask you, has Trollope any clerical story to equal this?