But my Pakefield curacy was soon to terminate. Whether it was the cold, or whether it was the pressure of ministerial interest, which I have often known to break down young men in the outset of their ministry, or whether it was the death of my dearest mother, or the three together, I cannot say; but I had a bad cough, and I went away for a time to my father’s home to nurse it. I had no idea at the time of leaving Pakefield, but my kind and valued friend the Rev. J. W. Cunningham, brother to my Rector, recommended me, without my knowledge, to the curacy of Richmond, Surrey.

He was a true friend to me and to my family. He was a very different man to his brother; he had taken a high degree at Cambridge, and he was a polished scholar, one of the best writers of the English language that I ever met with, an admirable friend as a scholarly critic to a young man entering the ministry. I am much indebted to his advice, and only wish I had followed it more carefully. It was his doing that introduced me to the Rev. W. Gandy, Vicar of Kingston and Richmond; and through him the curacy was proposed to me.

I must say that it was a desperate experiment on his part, for there were peculiar circumstances connected with the position, and I had never run alone in the ministry, but always had the friendship and counsel of my beloved Rector.

The position of the parish was this. There were four parishes lying together along the banks of the Thames—Kingston, Petersham, Richmond, Kew—all in the gift of King’s College, Cambridge. It had been thought desirable that there should be only two Vicars instead of four, and therefore it had been arranged to group them, two and two. Of course the most natural arrangement would have been to have put together the small parish of Petersham and the large parish of Kingston to which it was adjacent, and the small parish of Kew and the large parish of Richmond which also adjoined. But in those days there used to be a good deal of jobbery, and, for some reason or other which I never could explain, it had been decided to unite together the two large parishes, Kingston and Richmond, skipping over Petersham; and the two small parishes, Petersham and Kew, skipping over Richmond; so that the Rev. Mr. Gandy was Vicar of Kingston and Richmond, while another gentleman was Vicar of the other two smaller ones.

Mr. Gandy was a man altogether incompetent to have the charge. He was a most interesting man, and a deep student of Scripture—a man of heavenly mind, one in fact who seemed so occupied with heavenly views that he was unfitted for the practical business of this lower world. Mr. Simeon once said of him, “All of us are going stumping along on the surface of earth, but Mr. Gandy rises right into Heaven!”

It may easily be imagined that he found his great double charge far too much for him, so Mr. Cunningham advised him practically to give up Richmond into the hands of some trustworthy curate, who should find his own assistant, and undertake the entire responsibility of the work. This was the charge to which I was called by the providence of God in those early days of my ministry. I have just said it was a desperate experiment, and looking back to that time I can see plenty of mistakes, and I learn from my own experience that it is a possible thing to mistake the irritation produced by our own blunders for opposition to the Gospel which we preach; a man may be true to the Gospel, but he may not infrequently make very great mistakes in his mode of putting it forth.

In looking back to those days I am thankful to believe that I went to Richmond true to my Master, and I am profoundly thankful for the help given me; but I should make a great mistake if I were to lead anybody to suppose that, in my earnest desire to exalt my Saviour, I never did anything to irritate. At one time I had great difficulty with one of the churchwardens, which led to a considerable correspondence. I kept that correspondence carefully, and after ten years I looked it over. That revision taught me a great lesson, for I found that in the heat of the controversy I had written very differently to what I should have done in the calmer review of ten years afterwards. That was one of the lessons I learnt at Richmond.

That which I look back upon with the greatest thankfulness is a confirmation by my Richmond experience of the great lesson I learnt at Pakefield respecting the results to be expected from the ministry. Mr. Gandy had been Vicar for some twenty-five years, during which time he had appointed a series of curates, the first of whom was the Rev. Stephen Langston, who resigned the curacy about twenty years before I was appointed. But when I set to work in the parish, the first thing that met my observation was a body of Christian men and women who owed their conversion, through God, to Mr. Langston’s ministry. There they were living consistent lives and most truly glorifying God, in some cases under sharp opposition, and the twenty years that had elapsed since Mr. Langston left only tended to confirm their faith and establish their character.

Both in Pakefield and Richmond, therefore, it was my unspeakable privilege to see the effects produced by the faithful ministry of the Word of God. And yet the two cases were entirely different. Mr. Cunningham was an admirable pastor, but not a particularly interesting preacher; Mr. Langston was a poor pastor, but the grandest preacher I ever heard. I have heard many able men preach many excellent sermons, but there was a richness, a fulness, a power about Mr. Langston’s such as I never met with in any other to whom I have listened. The two instruments, therefore, were entirely different, but God made use of them both. They were both blessed by Him; and it taught me the lesson that I must be prepared to meet with great differences of administration, but in the midst of those differences it is our privilege to look for a blessing. God did not withhold from Mr. Cunningham His blessing, because he had not the preaching power of Mr. Langston; nor did He withhold His blessing from Mr. Langston, because he had not the pastoral zeal of Mr. Cunningham.

The lesson taught me was not the only blessing bestowed upon me through the friendship of those excellent people. I had in it the enormous advantage of the ripened experience and tried wisdom of some of the most excellent Christian people living. Never can I forget the friendship of Sir Henry and Lady Baker, of Dr. Julius and of Mrs. Delafosse, to whose loving sympathy and Christian counsel I used continually to resort; and amongst the humbler classes there was Mrs. Abbott, a grand old Christian who had loved the Lord before she heard the preaching of the Gospel, and the moulding of whose faith was drawn from the Prayer-Book. She often used to express to me her astonishment that when people were brought to Christ it did not make them love their Prayer-Book more.

And down a row of cottages at the bottom of Water Lane there lived a blind woman named Mrs. Woodrow, whom I shall ever regard as one of the best of my many friends. I had been preaching one day on the importance of praying for the ministry, and when visiting her a few days afterwards I said, “I’m sure you pray for me.” “Indeed I do,” she replied with great emphasis, “morning, noon, and night.” She spoke with such earnestness that I could not refrain from asking her what she prayed for, when she said, “They tell me you’re a very young man, so I pray that you may be kept from the sins of young men.” How much do I owe to the prayers of that blind widow!

In addition to these advantages I enjoyed the intimate friendship of my beloved and honoured friend the Rev. James Hough, founder of the Tinnevelly Mission. After his return from India he had settled in the incumbency of Ham, and I never can forget his first visit to me. I had taken a lodging just beyond the bridge, and I had scarcely finished my breakfast on the first day after my arrival when the venerable man entered the room. He spoke very kindly to me, and before he would say a word upon any other subject, he told me that many Christian friends had been praying that the right appointment might be made, and afterwards for me when they heard that I was appointed, and that he had come on the first possible occasion to commend me solemnly to the Lord. He then fell on his knees and pleaded for me before God that I might have grace and wisdom for the difficult post to which I had been called. His subsequent intercourse with me was in harmony with that beginning. His house was always open to me, and whenever I wanted counsel I always used to go to him, as I never failed to find in him one who seemed to bring his wisdom fresh from the throne of grace.

With these advantages I set to work. I wonder at the grace of God that kept me from making more blunders than I did; for having had no experience I had not the slightest fear of difficulty. Things in those days were very different to what they are now. Ritualism had not then been invented, nor had that loose vague system now so popular under the name of Undenominationalism.

Among those who professed to be Churchmen there were only two classes—those whose Churchmanship consisted in maintaining things as they were, who were living for the world; who, if they cared for their own souls, were utterly unconcerned about the souls of others; who showed not the slightest sympathy in any Christian object, and who seemed to consider that anything that disturbed them must of necessity be unorthodox. To avoid such disturbance one of those gentlemen stumped out of church every Sunday morning as I went up to the pulpit, and others used to take refuge in the chapel of Archdeacon Cambridge on the other side of the river.

On the other hand, there was a body of people, drawn from all classes of society, who “had passed from death unto life,” who had been quickened by the Spirit of God, and who were taking their stand nobly on the side of their Saviour. Thus there was a much wider line of demarcation between the converted and the unconverted than we meet with in modern times, and a clergyman’s work was simpler than it is now, inasmuch as there was much less to entangle and confuse the application of the message to individual souls.

But there was in some cases sharp opposition. It may seem extraordinary to some that at the visitation of the late Bishop of Winchester, [77] then Archdeacon of Surrey, I was publicly presented before the Archdeacon by one of the churchwardens for having been guilty of giving a Wednesday evening lecture in the infant schoolroom! What was more extraordinary still was that, when I was called up before the Archdeacon and all the clergy to answer for my fault, the Archdeacon said with great solemnity that it was an important matter, and he must refer it to the Bishop. And what is more wonderful still, in consequence of that reference I had to give up the lecture.

The Bishop was in a great difficulty. He thoroughly approved of such lectures, and had advocated them in a charge recently delivered, but he believed that they were not strictly in accordance with the Act of Uniformity, so that he felt it impossible to support me, while at the same time he did not at all wish to have the responsibility of stopping me. This led to a somewhat painful correspondence with that excellent man, and after full consultation with my dear friend Mr. Hough, I thought it best to give up the lecture, stating that I did so in obedience to the Bishop’s wish. One blessed result of that whole transaction was that a bill was carried through Parliament distinctly legalising all such services.

But of all those whom God raised up as counsellors and friends, there was no one to be compared to the beloved one whom God gave me to be my loving wife, [78] on July 10th, 1839. She combined the ability of her father with the devotedness of her mother, and it is perfectly impossible for me to say what she was to me in the parish, in her home, and our own private intercourse. One thing only I would especially mention respecting her, viz. that it was to her that I owe what I believe to be the most useful characteristic of my ministry—I am thankful to say that from the very beginning I always quoted a great deal of Scripture in my sermons, but I used to do so interweaving those texts with my own composition. But she taught me the use of proof texts—she said that my preaching was not so profitable as that of the Rev. H. H. Beamish, to which she had been accustomed, and instead of merely quoting a passage, he used to give a chapter and verse, and allow the people time to look it out in their Bibles.

As he was constantly engaged in the exposition of the Word of God, and laid a solid foundation of the truth taught, I was thoroughly convinced of the wisdom of her words; and for the last fifty years I have systematically acted on her advice, so that, although I never heard Mr. Beamish in my life, I have always regarded his ministry as the model on which my own has been formed; and when I have seen the blessing which the exposition of Scripture has been made to very many souls, I have never ceased to thank God for that dear young wife who did not shrink from pointing out to her husband his defects.

It was during the period of my Richmond curacy that I had the high honour of being invited by my dear friend the Rev. Henry Venn to become a member of the Committee of Correspondence of the Church Missionary Society. I think it was in the year 1844. I am not quite sure respecting the date, but I have no hesitation in expressing my thankfulness to our Heavenly Father for the wisdom, the fidelity, for the true missionary spirit with which the affairs of that great society have been conducted during the many years of my intimate acquaintance with its business and its leaders.

My love for it when I was at Richmond once brought me into a serious difficulty with the late Bishop Wilberforce, and taught me his marvellous power in controlling the minds of men. He was at that time Archdeacon of Surrey, and as such he proposed a scheme for doing away with all especial interest in particular societies, and to raise one general fund to be laid “at the feet of the Apostles,” and divided by them according to their discretion.

We did not exactly know who the Apostles were. We thought that probably they were to be the Archdeacon and the Bishop, as they were to be the distributors.

Against this scheme the friends of the Church Missionary Society rose as one man. We held a meeting to consider what should be done. We decided that we would all attend the Archdeacon’s meeting in order to oppose the plan, and engaged conveyances accordingly. When the morning came I had such a headache as I never remember to have suffered from, either before or since, and I was utterly unable to leave my bed, so off drove the others, full of zeal and holy courage. But what was my astonishment when they returned in the afternoon, and one of the most faithful, earnest, and trustworthy of the whole party came to tell me the result. He said they had found the plan was not so objectionable as they had thought, and at length reluctantly acknowledged that the Archdeacon had not allowed them to separate till he had made every one of them, dear old Mr. Hough included, sign a paper agreeing to the introduction into their own parishes of the Archdeacon’s scheme.

So then I stood alone, and thanked God for the headache which had saved me from the fascination.

But Richmond was the parish that was doing more than any other in the rural deanery for Missions, and it was most important for the success of the plan that Richmond should be included. So nothing was left undone that could induce me to join the others. But I was still free, as all my other brethren began to wish they were, and I stuck to my point. I was invited in the most cordial manner for a visit, with my dearest wife, first to Alvenstoke and then to Farnham Castle. I was addressed in the language of warm affection, not only towards myself, but to my beloved mother. But I considered that by the Providence of God I had been preserved from the fascinating power, and that my only wisdom was to keep clear of it when I was free; so we went on independently till the next visitation of the Bishop. My heart was filled with thankfulness when I heard him announce in his charge that he had advised his beloved friend, the Archdeacon, to give up his scheme.

This curacy I held for more than nine years, for seven of which I had the unspeakable help of my dearly beloved, most faithful, and most able wife. During the time I had different livings offered to me, and I believe that, if I had regarded my worldly interest, I should have accepted some of them. But I had a great conviction of the importance of my position, and strong belief that the Lord had called me to it. So we both agreed that we were most likely to do His will if we persevered in the curacy.

To Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham at Lowestoft Rectory:—

“Richmond, February 19th, 1837.

“My dearest Uncle and Aunt,—You will be glad to hear that I am myself very comfortable. Of course there is a large field of enjoyment from which I am wholly excluded; I am no longer a social being. In all the difficulties and responsibilities of this place I am absolutely alone. I have no dear Rector within two miles, whom I may consult over all my affairs and discouragements. I compare myself to a ship finding its way alone across the ocean, and sometimes well-buffeted in the journey. I certainly miss friendship wonderfully, and I cannot say how greatly I long after you all. My heart this day has been full of tenderness to Pakefield. I think of that attentive congregation at Kirkley, of the prayer-meeting, of the schoolroom lecture, and of that close and, I trust, heavenly bond of union which God permitted us to enjoy, and I know not how to bear the thought that we are separated. However, the more I look at my present position, the more am I satisfied that the change is of the Lord. The need of this place is grievous. The little flock is scattered and disheartened; the poor have been totally neglected, the sick unvisited, and the societies are all fallen to decay. The short time that I have been here has not been without its encouragements. Our tender Father has been pleased to favour me with some cases in which my private ministry has been greatly valued, and I hope blessed. I think also He is with me in the pulpit; the evening congregation is rapidly increasing, and we have had some very solemn occasions. All this is encouraging, but I desire not to build upon it, for I well know that such encouragement has not strength enough to bear weight. In health I think I am better than I have been since August. I find my power for work increases, and the cough is gone. Join with me in praising a merciful Father. ‘Praise God, from whom,’ etc.”

To Mr. Cunningham:—

“Richmond, Surrey, September 24th, 1838.

“My dear Uncle,—You ask how we are getting on here, and you must know how difficult it is to answer such a question. I think that, whenever God permits encouragement, He sends at the same time some drawback, as if to prevent encouragement lapsing into self-confidence, and self-gratulation taking the place of a spirit of thankfulness. And this is just the case with our parish: there is much to call forth the most unfeigned thanksgiving—great kindness amongst the people, large congregations, a capital collection yesterday for the Pastoral Aid Society—but on the other hand a continual worry about our schools, and, what is most of all to be considered, very little evidence of the regenerating power of the Holy Ghost in individuals. I see that the messenger has a far wider influence than he once had, but I do not see the message itself attended with the same saving power. This is a cause of great sorrow to me, and the more so because I fear it may be in a great measure explained by a want of spirituality in myself. There is a wonderfully close communion between the power of preaching and the power of feeling, and when a man’s own heart is very dead, he is not likely to produce much life in others. I think, moreover, there is great danger of spending our energy on our machinery. I am doing all I can to work the parish efficiently, and set all the machine in active operation, and I feel the effect of it in a forgetfulness of the spiritual end of the whole. It is something bordering upon leaving the Word of God to serve tables. However, in the midst of all, I trust there is a real progress. I find unspeakable comfort in Hebrews xii. 2, and whether a want of spirituality in myself or a want of spiritual power in my ministry be the cause of sorrow, I find the universal remedy in ‘looking unto Jesus,’ and I believe that to be the whole of the Christian’s secret. The more we can keep our eye on Him the stronger shall we be in every point of view, and one moment’s forgetfulness of Him must produce weakness, if not a fall.”

To his uncle:—

“December 7th, 1838.

“I should be inclined to question how far it was well to leave a curate altogether to himself, so as not to know what he is doing. There seems to me a great difference between keeping him under orders, and so checking his independent action, and by constant intercourse maintaining a vigilant superintendence. The plan that I adopted with —, —, and Frank himself was to point out clearly at first their line of duty, and then to leave them entirely to themselves in the discharge of it, at the same time making the pastoral ministry a subject of constant conversation, so that I always knew exactly what each was doing. By this means you get (1) the advantage of division of labour; you (2) know exactly what is going on, which parts are comparatively neglected, and which have an extra supply, and, like a general, you can by a recommendation apply your forces just where they are wanted. There is another thing which I should be inclined to suggest, especially with a beginner, viz. that you follow out the territorial system and assign him a district. My own plan is this. I divide my visiting into the aggressive and the extraordinary. By the aggressive I mean the regular stated visiting from house to house. By the extraordinary I mean those visits which I pay in consequence of some providential call, such as sickness, affliction, religious impression, etc. I then divide the parish into two parts, and give — the whole aggressive work for one district, and take it myself for the other. For the extraordinary I make no local divisions. I find then in practice that the calls are sufficiently frequent to keep a measure of connection with the whole parish, while the limitation of the aggressive brings each district tolerably within the compass of its minister, so that he is able by perseverance to gain an influence.”

To Mr. Cunningham:—

“Richmond, Surrey, March 14th, 1839.

“My dear Uncle,—I am always greatly rejoiced to hear of your well-doings at Lowestoft, but I am more pleased than ever now, for I have something of a parental as well as filial interest—filial because I was trained amongst you myself, and parental because Frank stayed six months with me. I have no doubt that the change of ministry is likely to prove a real refreshment to your people, and I should not be surprised if it were to be the means of calling out some, and leading to true conversions. You must not let all the ladies turn Frank’s head by flattery, of which there always appears to me great danger for young clergymen, for good people seem to suppose that religious interest gives a licence which is allowed in nothing else, and make the Gospel an occasion, rather than a check, for unwholesome conversation. I have felt the danger of it very much here, and though I have been very much preserved by a culpable want of sentimentality, I fear that I have suffered from the evil. I find that I often return from my intercourse with them thinking better of myself instead of worse. I was much interested by your remarks about the country. How completely does it prove that ‘Christ is the head over all things to the Church’! Men appear with wicked designs and ungodly purposes, but Christ is Lord, and when they are just ready to strike He paralyses their aim. I regard these failures of wicked men not so much as the effect of a state of society as evidences of the controlling power of the Lord. He allows them to form their wicked schemes, and just when all is ready for an explosion, He defeats them, that so He may prove His power and their nothingness. Thus it is that these very men who are most opposed to the Church of Christ become the occasions for adding to its strength, for they call forth the protecting power of God, and so increase faith by experience. I have been inexpressibly cheered lately, amidst the sins of this ungodly world, by the thought of the final triumph of the Church. ‘The God of Peace shall bind Satan under your feet shortly.’ It is therefore certain that the day will come when Satan and all his agents will be overthrown, when we shall no more suffer from sin and its effects, and then all the elect people of God shall be visibly gathered under one Head, enjoying a perfect union with each other and with Christ. All this must take place. Popery, atheism, infidelity, and the spirit of schism may unite their unholy ranks and lend all their strength for the overthrow of our Lord’s kingdom, but ‘the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ How is it that our hearts are not filled with holy joy at the prospect, and that we do not ride triumphant over all the fears, the sorrows, the sins, with which on every side we are beset?

“Your most affectionate Nephew and Curate,

“Edward Hoare.”

To Mr. Cunningham:—

“Hampstead, April 6th, 1839.

“My dear Uncle,—How are the mighty fallen! I am going to be married!! I have been spending a delightful week with the Brodies, and am come home engaged hard and fast to Maria. I am exceedingly happy, though I scarcely can believe it. I have the greatest hope that the thing has been undertaken in a prayerful spirit, and that we may look for God’s abundant blessing on us. We both particularly beg that you will marry us.

“Your most affectionate Nephew,
“Edward Hoare.

“Give my dearest love to my aunt, Frank, etc.”

To Mrs. Cunningham:—

“Richmond, Surrey, May 30th, 1839.

“My dearest Aunt,—As for myself, I am exceedingly happy, though so unusually busy that I hardly know how to think much about my happy prospects. Never was a person less loverlike, for I am expecting a confirmation here next week, and having more than one hundred and thirty young persons under my care, I am so busy from morning till night that I find my whole mind occupied. I think it is a good thing for me, for it fixes my thoughts upon my work, which otherwise they would be very much disposed to wander from. I am every day more and more happy in the thought of my marriage, and more and more thankful for the prospect of a wife who, I fully believe, has given herself to God. There is not a single feature in the whole thing that I could wish otherwise, and, besides all living circumstances, the recollection of my dearest mother’s wish makes the connection to my own mind quite a hallowed one. I only hope that we may be enabled to devote ourselves unitedly, as we have desired to do separately, to the service of that Heavenly Father who has laden us with so many blessings. We expect to be married on the 2nd of July, about ten days after their return; we then hope to go to the Isle of Wight for a fortnight or three weeks. I do not wish to take a long holiday, because of the expense, and because I am very anxious to take the lady into Norfolk and to Lowestoft in the autumn. I doubt, however, whether I shall be able to accomplish it.”

A letter from one of his sisters describing the wedding:—

“Broom Park, July 9th, 1839.

“Here we are in peace and safety, Edward shut up with Maria, Kate and I looking tolerably neat in white poplin, having just dressed in our little room, our only misfortune being that we have no gloves. We found dearest Edward most bright and sweet; the drive down with him has been not a little pleasant; nothing could have answered better than our journey with him, and we did quite enjoy it. Here is Maria come for us! She looks so quiet, and is so nice, only she has got a bad cold. When we went downstairs the Buxtons were just arriving; they had joined our phaeton party, and all arrived together. The only mishap has been that by going to London for her gown Miss Foreman entirely missed them, and we are fearful that there is but little hope of her arrival now; it is most provoking and quite a tribulation. Caroline arrived from Bury Hill, looking most sweet with a beautiful bouquet of orange flowers. Lady Brodie very kind and like herself, Sir B. B. detained in town by patients. When we had had a satisfactory tea, some went back to the drawing-room, others for a walk; the party consisted of all our own clan, and, as in most parties, there was a flock of girls in white, the belle on the Brodie side being Miss Beamish, on ours of course Chenda. Mr. T. Hankinson arrived in the middle of the evening, having stopped to climb up Box Hill and ford a rivulet. The house is beautiful, and the whole place pretty and cheerful. Maria behaves herself capitally—so much spirit, yet so quiet, and thinking little of herself; she looks two years younger than when we saw her last. We are in Mr. Brodie’s room, and, as Laydon says, there is so much shooting tackle ‘she don’t know where to put away our things.’ Edward is most happy; it truly is a pleasure to look at his beaming face. How I wish you could see them both together, dearest sister; it is most interesting. . . . The party now assembling for church all in good heart; Mr. Hankinson making the eight bridesmaids and about six other ladies laugh in the dining-room, the rest dispersed. . . . Half-past five o’clock (in the room which we had at Gurney’s wedding). After the above followed a lengthy waiting—people arriving, but no Bishop. Maria and Lady Brodie appeared, quite ready, but had to abide for a long time till the Bishop had arrived and arrayed himself. About eleven o’clock we went to the church, six bridesmaids in one carriage, and two with Caroline in another, all the gentlemen having walked previously and were ready at the churchyard gate to receive us; four bridesmaids with their gentlemen stood on each side of the path till the bride had passed and then closed in behind her. In the church the positions were capital—the relations round the altar, and her bridesmaids standing on a step behind her. The Bishop read the service beautifully, and they both spoke very clearly—she was perfectly composed. Signing and kissing as usual afterwards, with the bells ringing, and home as we came. After some congratulating in the drawing-room we all sallied forth for a walk, stimulated, as in everything, by Mr. Tom Hankinson. Maria then went in to rest awhile. We gathered in a group round Mr. Hankinson (in the garden) and heard all the poem about Sir Rupert and Lorline; then down to the water, where all the eight bridesmaids were put into the boat and our dear bridegroom (taking off his coat) rowed us about. This filled up the time capitally till the breakfast, for which we were very ready, though we had to wait some period for the Bishop, who was lost on the strawberry beds. The breakfast was very nice and very amusing. The first health was proposed by the Bishop in a most nice little speech; it was of course ‘Mr. and Mrs. E. Hoare.’ Our sisterly vanity was amply satisfied, and how I wish you could have heard Edward’s reply. It was so gratifying and nice to have him make such a truly nice speech, which he ended by proposing ‘Sir B. and Lady Brodie.’ A most feeling reply from Sir Benjamin, speaking so highly of both bride and bridegroom, but he could scarcely get on once or twice from feeling it so much. He proposed the Bishop of Winchester, and that was greeted by another three times three; which he thanked for, observing that ‘he had not expected to make so much noise in the world.’ Then Gurney proposed ‘The Bridesmaids,’ and Mr. Goulburn thanked for us, though, alas! he nearly stuck. Then ‘Papa’—and he made such a nice speech in return, observing that his three daughters-in-law being an increasing and untellable blessing to him, he had no small reason to rejoice in his new acquisition. Breakfast done, we went away, Maria to dress. The parting scene with her father and brother (in tears) upstairs was trying; but she passed by all of us who were waiting in the hall and went off very brightly. But I must leave off, though I fear this is an unsatisfactory history, though in all the muddles we have done our little best. Ever, dearest Sister,

“Most affectionately,
“C. E. H.”