The Press. — London, England, 1858-10-16 00:00:00

fittraturt. A Memoir, Letters, and Diary of the Rev. H. S. Polehampton, M.A., Chaplain of Lucknow. Edited by his Brothers. London : Bentley. --- - OF the many books, of various degrees of merit, produced by the Indian mutinies, not one will be r ead with half the painful and thrilling interest excited by this simple record of the earthly career of a righteous man. And yet it tells of nothing that may not occur in the life of every Protestant clergyman in this country—of nothing, indeed, that does not fall within the personal experience of very many. In this, perhaps, lies one of its greatest charms, for its application thus becomes almost universal. If there be little or nothing in this unpretending narrative of a startling or astounding nature, there is very much to win our love and admiration, and to encourage the most lowly to hopeful imitation. We are presented with a beautiful full-length portrait of a Chris tian gentleman, and, as a charming pendant, with that of a true-hearted English wife. Neither character is in any way extraordinary or abnormal. Thousands such, we fondly believe, may yet be found among the honest, homely race that people these islands, and send forth their off shoots to the furthermost parts of the earth. The only thing unusual is the opportunity of taking in at a glance a perfect type of a Christian house hold as it occurs among the gentry of England. No higher form of domestic purity, usefulness, and consequent happiness, exists in this world, or approaches nearer to what might have been the social condition of mankind had they never de teriorated from their primitive state of moral virtue. It may be that this really excellent book will not attain to such a large and vulgar popu larity—we use the epithet in its proper, not its conventional sense—as the memoir of Iledley Vicars, for it contains no high seasoning or pun gent condimets ; but not a few will be the weak and faultering brethren who will take heart on seeing these " footprints on the sands of time," and be encouraged to strive more earnestly to make their own lives " sublime." Henry Stedman Polehampton, we are told, was born at Greenford, in the county of Middlesex, on the Ist of February, 1824. His boyhood was passed at Eton, where he distinguished himself by his prowess in the sports and pastimes of British youth rather than by any par ticular depth of scholarship. He was a stout swimmer, a good oar, and a capital cricketer, and at the same time acquired a taste for general and polite literature, which refined his character, and repelled all tendency to coarseness or sensuality. His career at the University cor responded to the promise of his school-days. His manly fearless disposition enabled him still to derive pleasure from mere physical recreations, while his innate goodness and hereditary earnest ness gave a serious bias to his graver pursuits, and finally induced him to become a candidate for holy orders. But not altogether fruitless or selfish were the results of his excellence in athletic exercises, for while at Oxford he succeeded, at great personal risk, in saving a fellow-creature from death by drowning. On the 18th of June, 1848, Mr. Polehampton was ordained to the ministry by the Bishop of Oxford, and appears, from his letter to his mo ther, to have been deeply impressed by the solemn simplicity of the ceremony. He had undertaken the most sacred and responsible of all earthly duties, but circumstances soon occurred to prove his fitness for his high vocation. While offi ciating as curate in the parish of St. Chad's, Shrewsbury, he was subjected to the severest trial to which a young clergyman is liable. The cholera broke out with great violence, and upon him, almost unassisted, devolved the visitation of the sick and the burial of the numerous dead. He was not found wanting, and very many who afterwards recovered ascribed to h►s exhortations the dawn of religious feelings within them. The Poor especially loved and respected him, for he went to them as a friend as well as an instructor. One instance, indeed, is given of the efficiency of his consolations at the bedside of the dying which compels a smile, though certainly not one of derision. An old man, as his spirit paused be fore bidding adieu to humanity, turned his glazed eyes upon his comforter and said, " Ah, sir, I am THE PRESS, OCTOBER 16, 1858 " going first, but you will follow, and we shall " meet again; and won't I flap my old wings as I " see you a-coming through those gates of pearl." When four years had glided past from his ordi nation, Mr. Polehampton discovered that it was not good for man to be alone, and was fortunate in finding a help every way meet for him. Three more years, however, elapsed before prudential motives permitted him to be united in holy wed. lock to Emily, youngest daughter of C. B. All natt, Esq., of Shrewsbury, and even then he was only able to do so by accepting a chaplaincy in the Bengal Presidency. Before starting for the far East he took his young bride with him on a pilgrimage to the scenes of his early boyhood, and " showed Emmie the register-book with one "of our births on every other page." The letter in which lie describes his impressions on visiting the old familiar spots is so beautifully simple and natural that we cannot deny ourselves the plea sure of making an extract : Sayer pointed out the window which my father made, or rather began, with a pickaxe. Ile wanted the poor, who sat under the gallery, to have more light. The church wardens said there was enough. My father answered, there was not. They said there should not be another window; he said there should. They got peremptory; "upon which," said Sayer, " Mr. Poleiiampton says, says he, ' Brown, bring me the peck;' and he hits it into the wall, and picks out four or five great stones ; and says he, There, now, my boys, I've made a beginning ; you goon; never mind what anybody says, and do you make a finish of it.' " So there the window is, and the poor of tireenford can see to read their Bibles When we got to the rectory, we found that Mr. Middle ton was away, and that his locum Meats was a Mr. Ward, who had been an East Indian Chaplain for twenty-five years, and Archdeacon of Bombay. He said he had never had a headache in twenty-five years' life in India. He gave me many useful hints, as his wife did Emmie. They let us ramble all over the house; I had never been up-stairs since I left the house when I was nine years old, but I knew every room and every cupboard. It was very interesting to me ; I could hardly help crying over and over again. There was the room next to my father's, where we used to sleep, and through which I remember, first, tuy mother rushing to Miss Angell on the morning of my father's death ; and then Alias A. rushing back with her in her grey dressing-gown. And the school-room, where you would not let me eat any breakfast that morning; and I, whose appetite was much as usual, felt rebuked by yon, and thought that I too ought to feel as you did. The bed in my mother's room stood in the same place in which I always remembered it; and it was upon one side of it, in that place, that I remember kneeling on the bed, and looking down on my dead father's face. I remember a thousand things connected with every room; and I would have given anything to have stopped there hours by myself, but that could not be. We went into the garden, which was looking very nice; but I should have liked to stop there too, and get behind the bushes, where we used to play and make houses among them, when we were children. There is here the ring of the genuine metal, and no sickly attempt at fine writing and sentimen talism. After " doing" his native village, he returned to Eton, and " lionized college, cham " ber, the schools, and everything," tiring "Emmie dreadfully, though she was much in " terested." In the evening he met an old ac quaintance, and asked him to breakfast the fol lowing morning ; and how truly English is the next remark—" He came and was most agreeable. "He and Emmie got on capitally together, and " he would come to Slough with us, and see us " off by the train." A Frenchmen would have been frightfully jealous and made a scene out of this, but the healthy-minded Englishman was proud to see that his friend appreciated his young wife and was appreciated by her. His departure from England was now near at hand, but there was yet time to pull in a scratch-match at Ox ford and to win a pint pewter pot, " the last " vessel which touched his dying lips." Still more gratifying was the token of affection and gratitude he received from his parishioners at St. Chad's, who presented him with a purse, contain ing eighty guineas, and a silver teapot. On the 4th of January, 1855, he took leave for ever of his native land, and set out on the way to his new sphere of duties. The commencement of the voyage was unpropitious. It was the Pera's first trip, and everything went wrong. One of the engines broke down entirely, and, the ship being new, the seams opened through her hea vy rolling in the Bay of Biscay, and for some time serious apprehension was entertained even by the experienced captain. However, we may not pause to quote from Mr. Polehampton's graphic and interesting letters to his mother, relating the incidents of the voyage and the impressions made upon his mind by the strange objects and novel scenes which daily passed before his eyes. Suffice it to say that these letters appear a very 1007 model of familiar epistolary confidences, written without art, but bearing the imprint of consider able powers of observation, a sound judgment, a warm, genial disposition, and an inflexible recti tude of purpose. Calcutta was finally reached in safety, and fur nished materials for an amusing and vivacious letter to his brother. The journey to Lucknow and the novelty of his position also gave rise to much pleasant narrative, and, indeed, to as good a description of Indian life, as it appears to a new-comer, as we remember ever to have met with. Before leaving Calcutta he had " a tre - mendous pull," which he chronicles with eviden t satisfaction, although he was " nowhere." He had started from Bishop's College for the railway station—but he must tell his own tale : Dr. Kay had allowed us ample time to get there with the tide ; but, just as we started it turned, and it does run on the Hoogley ! We were in a sort of house-boat, like the Lord Mayor's barge on a very small scale, rowed by eight men—Hindoos. Well, they made very little way, and I saw we must be late, unless I worked also. So I took stroke, and pulled nearly the whsle way to the station— four miles : tremendous work it was, and such oars! All our luggage was in the boat, so you may imagine what work it was. We got to the station to the moment; but they world not wait for us to have our luggage put in, and we had to stay in Calcutta for another week. It was a great bore after my tremendous pull, and coaching the niggers up to the work as I did. A padre sahib " coaching niggers" is really very "shocking " to contemplate ; and that he should speak of his coloured brethren as " niggers " Straightlaced readers will, perhaps, sigh or shudder over this evidence of the natural man, but the fact is that the epithet " nigger," as applied to the natives of India, is no more oppro bnous than many lavished by parents upon their own children, and is in some degree analogous to that of "young monkey," which is current -in many families in reference to "the boys." But far other work was in store for the chaplain of Lucknow, who, by the way, selected that station in preference to three others, and was congratu lated on his good luck. So much for human prescience ! The present, however, found ample employment for both mind and body, and nobly did he exert himself to meet the incessant calls upon his time. Early and late he was in harness, and toiled on cheerfully, though terribly over weighted. Then the cholera broke out among the men of her Majesty's 52nd Regiment, and added to his labours more than even his strong frame was able to endure. The consequence was a severe and dangerous illness, during a part of which he was delirious, and fancied himself dead. This, his "first real illness," he regarded as " the most important and the most blessed event " of his life. It certainly gave rise to some very beautiful and touching letters, from which we can make no more than one characteristic ex tract : What babies we are when we are recovering from sick - ness ! I used to delight so in flowers. Dear Emmie used to bring two beautiful passion flowers, all wet with dew , and put them on a pillow for me to look at every morning, when I was so weak that I could scarcely lift my bead. She used to send me passion flowers from the Crescent, before we were married; so her doing so here had the charm of bringing back old memories, and so added beauty to the flowers. Passion flowers are almost the same here as in England. I used to like to get all the jewellery I could on the bed, and Emmie's gold bracelet. Anything with colour in it I delighted in. I fancy it is so .with all sick people. For actual pathos, however, English literature can produce but few examples to compare with the letter in which Mr. Polehampton tells of the birth and death of his first-born, and the un speakable anguish of the mother: — As I walked slowly home by moonlight, I was thinking how happy I was to have a son, and was saying to myself, " I have a son," in all the languages I know. On my arrival at home I found tLe nurse looking very blank ; she told me the baby had just had a convulsion fit. . . . . Not liking the nurse's account, and fearing the result of another fit, if one came on, I baptized the child, calling him Henry Allnatt. We thought it better not to tell Emmie of his illness, until the doctor came again. When he did come, he told me for the first time that the child had been very delicate from his birth, and that, though be certainly might get well and live, he thought it very likely he would not. So, by his advice, I then told Emmie ha was unwell. She took alarm at once, and was very much distressed, but soon recovered and became quite composed. He was in his mother's bed nearly all the time. I nursed him myself for about an hour by the fire. I went to sleep, and when I awoke I found our little darling much quieter, and I thought better; but Emmie did not think so The nurse took him away from her, and held him near the tire, and then, after gasping for breath a little while, he died ! Poor little boy ! I prayed very earnestly that he might be spared, but it was not to be. Mrs. Pender carried our little dead lamb back to his ma