The Sun.
London, England, 1865-02-24 00:00:00

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CARDINAL WISEMAN'S FUNERAL.

Further Particulars.

THE FUNERAL SERMON—delivered yesterday
from the pulpit of the Pro-Cathedral of Moorfields
by the Right Rev. Monsignore Manning, formerly
Archdeacon of Chichester, now distinguished among
the Catholics as Canon and Provost of Westminster
—was, according to a brief epitome of it, somewhat
as follows. Taking as his text this passage from
Nehemiah—" Let Nehemiah be long remembered,
who built up again for us our walls which were cast
down, and made strong the gates and bars, and
built again our houses "—the Preacher said : '
"It was quite beyond him to speak of what was
before him. He saw bishops of the Catholic Church in
England shorn of their chief dignity. More than one-half
of them had received from him who was gone episcopal
consecration ; most of the priests there had been taught by
him and set apart by him to offer the Holy Sacrifice. To
these his loss was a personal grief. A multitude of others
were there who learnt the truths of Christianity, from his
lips, who would have been to this day infidels had he not
been among us. The private sorrow of his Catholic friends
ascended into a public mourning and became a universal
grief—all over England requiems were rising from other
altars in unison. And great manly England—though not
Catholic—had paid its tribute to the memory of the great
Cardinal. Wherever the English tongue is known all have
joined or will join together. And in Rome among others
the Supreme Pontiff, for when he heard of the dangetous
nature of the Cardinal's illness he said—' This and the death
of the Archbishop of Cologne are great blows to me. But
the will of the Lord be done.' When he died Catholics in
England were about to celebrate the 25th anniversary of
his consecration. They had seen his tenacity to life—and
had deceived themselves with the belief that the full course
of 25 years would have run, and they would have been able
with him to keep the jubilee. They were then keeping the
vigil of the festival, which will be kept by him, not as they
had intended, but in a far nobler manner. He could not
speak the panegyric of such a man—the name of Nicholas
Wiseman was panegyric enough within the unity of the
Church, and even beyond its bounds. In 1860 the Supreme
Pontiff said, ' Truly he is the man of Divine Providence
for England.' There was a correspondence between the
character of the man and the age, and a proportion between
him and the country to which in God's providence he had
been sent. It was necessary to understand the time and
crisis when he came among us. That was not a day to ro-
open old wounds—the kindly stream of forgetfulness had
healed those. Five and thirty years ago came the reaction
all over the civilised world once more to Catholic faith and
piety. The undulation of the movement even reached our
island-shore ; a new system of legislation set in, and the
Catholic Church was free. Her chains fell away, and the
holy Mass was once more offered upon English altars.
After 300 years the frost-bound land began to relax, and
after the frost came the flow. The intellectual and spiri-
tual traditions of centuries began to change, but there was
wanted a leader to show the way, a shepherd to guide the
sheep. At that time one was preparing himself—God had
fixed his Divine eye on a child born in Spain. The
splendour of the Church there fired his mind, and to
his death the glory of that Church was .after that of its
Divine head the object of his dearest wishes. Ho came
to England, and there learnt that true, noble, manly
English spirit of which Englishmen have now learnt to be
proud. He was a boy of solitary thoughts, of industrious
study. But the other day an old friend pointed out the
house in Durham where, sheltering from rain when at
college at Oscott, came the first sparks of great light which
afterwards illumined us all. From England he went to
Rome to receive the last touches for his great work under
the shadow of the Vicar of Christ. It was in the chapel
of the English College, before the Blessed Sacrament, that
be conceived the idea—phantasy, or madness, or hope, call
it what you will—of the conversion of England. In the
Church •of the Sapienza, at Rome, where the altar of the
Blessed Sacrament is also the altar of the Immaculate
Blessed Virgin, the thought came on him that England
rejected the two great mysteries. Then he went to that
great Pontiff, GregoryXVl., and offered to resign the rector-
ship of the English College that he might go to England
to found a mission. In 1835 he preached from that pulpit,
but the time was not come, and he returned to Rome to
finish his preparation. Gregory XVL soon nominated
him as a Vicar Apostolic in England, and hero ho came to
do the work of his life. When expostulated with for his
visionary projects he said, I may be sanguine and in
error, but I would rather err and fall on the side of true
theological virtues than fall on the side of human prudence.
I am prepared, if I fail, to meet the smiles on earth and in
heaven, for I know the smiles of heaven are not scornful.'
Then the time came when Pius IX., in the exercise of
his imperishable prerogatives, marked out the ground and
appointed the hierarchy of the Catholic Church in Eng-
land, when the Bishop of Melipotamus became Archbishop
of Westminster and Cardinal Priest of the Holy Roman
Church. He would not then recall the acts at that time of
the noble-hearted people of England, who soon cane to see
there was no necessity for excitement. The Cardinal
Metropolitan of the Church said in a pastoral letter—'Your
beloved country is by this act restored once more to that
cluster of Churches which when properly constituted, form
the Catholic unity. The Church in England begins once
more her motion round the centre of light. The next 50
years, as the last 50, would do much for England. The ex-
pansion and multiplication of the Church must now go on
for ever. For the last five years the Cardinal had sat in the
shadow and on the brink of the grave ; but his mind was as
active and zealous for the work as ever. He had been asto-
nished among the many tributes which had been paid to his
memory to find one who showed a blank misapprehension
of the archbishop. One had said his was 'a mighty en-
trance but a feeble exit.' How could that be when he saw
rising again the walls which had been thrown down and
the houses of the faithful multiplying ? Did they think
he was one of those visionary expectants who think the
twenty millions of our hard-headed but noble-hearted
countrymen will rise up suddenly one morning in the
Catholic faith ? He was like the poor fisherman who en-
tered powerful Rome, weak indeed, but nevertheless strong
because he was the Vicar of Jesus Christ. He knew the
word of the Lord would accomplish the work whereto he
sent it, and that the harvest would not come until after
the early and latter rain. At the time of making his last will
—the testament of the great Prince of the Church—(the will
was like that of him of the Beautiful gate, Silver and gold
have I none, but such as I have I give unto thee') he had
told them, I leave you aspirations, and the centre of them
must be love for the Vicar of Jesus Christ.' Next he left
with them the love of sinners. Thirdly, he bequeathed the
supremacy of faith, pure and unintermingled—the Divine
faith of the day of Pentecost. In one of those majestic
scenes of his majestic end he declared he never had enter-
tained a doubt of any of those articles of faith which he de-
sired to teach other men. His first famous work was on
The Harmony of Science and Revelation'—those two
streams which if they flow in different channels rise from
one fount; and he followed it up with others not less im-
portant. He had intended to send round his diocese a series
of pastoral letters on The Harmony of Science and Revela-
tion from Septuagesima to Easter,' but it was not to be ; and
now they could mourn the loss but could not repair it. He
bequeathed to them also the principle of the Catholic
training of the young, and it was essential that this
should be maintained. " I have never," he said, " known a
good man so misunderstood by the public. That misunder-
standing, however, must, no doubt, to some extent, be
attributed to his own character. This man, who was sup-
posed to be so stately and so self-sustained, was the shyest,
the most modest, the most bashful man I have ever met.
He had the shyness of a boy with the bashfulness of a
maiden. His tenderness and his benignity were perpetually
manifested in his respect for women and his love for chil-
dren. I never knew a man speak of others, even when
they deserved severity, with so much measured tenderness.
With his large charity was united the most profound
humility. A greater humility in so great a man it has
never been my lot to witness. Another remarkable
trait in his character was, that for the misfor-
tunes of others, while he gave them his deepest sym-
pathy and assistance, he never shed a tear ; but at the
mention of any great act—of anything heroic or mag-
nanimous, the tears sprang at once to his eyes."
Now, if ever there were one who used his gifts freely
for the love of God, and without any thought of him-
self, it was Cardinal Wiseman. He bad actually in
his younger days taken advice whether, lest he might
be drawn into vanity, he ought not to drop bia TaitlPS•

g PRICE 4(1.4
STAMPED rid.

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It was the love of God and his neighbour which
impelled him to come forward in books and lec-
tures. He had the shyness of a child and the
bashfulness of a youth. The last year, and the last
days especially brought out the love of God that was in
him. He was a true Englishman, for he always shrunk
from making professions by the lips. One near him during
his illness 'said, ' I fear you suffer greatly.' I don't suffer
at all,' he replied; 'think of the poor. I have a good bed
to lie upon, and I have made it a rule never to call anything
pain until it is unendurable.' When they told him it was
necessary to undergo another Painful operation he said,
under the promptings of nature, cannot,' but he imme-
diately recalled the words, and said, ' That will not do ; if
it is right it must be done.' When he was to receive the
Viaticum he was only then impatient because they were
delaying what was his chief solace. When the last opera-.
tion was announced to him, and it was said if he did not
submit he could not.live out the night, he remarked, 'How
unkind of them to operate—otherwise they said I would be
in Heaven to-night.' Just when they were offering for him,
in his own chapel, the Sacrifice of Redemption, his last
breath was departing. One said of him, We have lost a
man worthy
to represent the Universal Church in the face
of this great people which, strong sometimes in its re-
sentments, had learnt to revere him.' Then, turning to-
wards the bishops, Dr. Manning continued—" It is for
you, right rev. fathers, to bear him out and lay him under
the green sod, outside this wild multitude of men, where
the holy cross towers above the tombs, and where they
who were round him in life will be round him in death.
He is not here ; he will not be there ; but he is before the
throne of the great Pastor of the sheep, his hands lifted up
in prayer for those whom he loved so well, for you, for
England, and for the Church."

From the time the procession, which was nearly
two miles long, began to defile away from the
cathedral it was with difficulty the police could re-
.. r. throngs of people who crowded in from
every quarter. The hearse seemed to be the object
of the most attention. It was an open bier on
wheels, with the pall of cloth of gold, and sur-
mounted by a crown signifying the rank of Prince,
while wreaths of immortelles and the presence of
sundry crosses bespoke at once a hope of resurrec-
tion and a trust in the merits of the Crucified. Along
the route, which was by the City and Euston roads
to Paddington, thence by the side of the canal to
Kensal-green, the crowds seemed to increase at every
step, and, unfortunately for the general effect, the
procession in some way came to be divided, and
one moiety lingered far behind the other. Hardly
a house along the route but had a party at its win-
dows ; hardly a dozen yards of the pavement toge-
ther were unoccupied by groups of people, while at
the corners of the principal roads wherever it was
possible that the procession should move by more
ways than one there were compact masses of sight-
seers, who gave plenty of occupation to the police
that were distributed along the line of road.
Occasionally, when a Dominican chanced to
put his head out of a carriage window,
some irreverent lad would vent his chaff ;
but on the whole the procession was treated with
marked respect, as if the most ultra-Protestant felt
that was no time for weighing theological differences.
At last, when the carriages had toiled up the side of
the Anglican cemetery at Kensal-green—which we
propose should hereafter be called " Kensal-mud,"
from the many inches of that agreeable compound
there to be met with—and had set down the clergy
at the gates the procession was once more gathered
together, and though the shades of night were falling
fast everything was done regularly, if a little more
speedily. The clergy went first in surplice and cas-
sock,
each bearing a taper, not yet lighted. The
bishops came next, and when the coffin was moved
from the hearse to a little truck the pall was borne
by the members of the Chapter, who thus saw their
superior to his last home. The grave, prepared un-
der the experienced direction of Mr. Garstin, of
Welbeck-street, who had charge of the funeral
arrangements, in ground about 50 yards from the
little cemetery chapel, and set apart for the clergy,
was a vault eight feet deep, brick lined and lime-
washed. Round the vault were barriers draped with
black serge, on which white crosses were laid ; and
at some little distance farther were other barriers,
which, with the aid of 250 volunteer members of
Roman Catholic charitable societies, helped to keep
off the crowd, for Sir R. Mayne, it was said, would
not allow a single policeman inside the cemetery.
ground. At twenty minutes past five the pro-
cession advanced to the grave. Then was borne
in the crucifix, with a large taper on either
hand; and then came bishops, while the priests
began to chant the plaintive Miserere, and lit
their tapers. Next came the Pope's Chamberlain,
bearing the red hat, and then was brought the coffin
covered with the pall, on which lay a magnificent
wreath of red and white camellias. Speedily, amid
mournful hymns, was lowered to the grave the oaken
coffin, with its large brass breast-plate and plate of
the cardinal's arms, and the responses of the ser-
vice, which, dealing with death, is sad, but hopeful
of resurrection is joyous, were again heard as a
bishop read the final prayers. At this moment the
group around the grave was exceedingly picturesque.
The mourners in deep mourning with crape hat-
bands, on the brink of the vault, the bishops in their
violet dresses, the canons with their sad and solemn
faces, the one or two distinguished persons wearing
the badges of their orders, a few gentlemen in white
gowns and crimson capes, and bearing candles in
silver swinging lamps—members,webelieve, of some
guild or brotherhood—and, filling the outer space,
the white-robed priests, with, beyond these again,
a mass of people pressing against the barriers wait-
ing their turn to go to the vault and see the coffin,
formed a picture which it hardly needed the burn-
ing tapers to lighten up, and which few who saw it
will ever forget. Unstudied, as it was, it was the
most effective scene of the day ; and while some
were yet admiring it, it was dissolved, the clergy—
bishops, canons, priests, and monks—turned their
faces from the grave, and into the fast-falling dark-
ness, not more impressed than those Protestants who
were present with the mystery before them, and not
more disposed to echo in their hearts the Christian
aspiration. _ _

Scarcely a month before the deceased Cardinal's
death ho had been occupied in preparing a lecture
on Shakspere, three parts of which he had completed
and carefully collated with a lecture on the same
subject by Lord Brougham. Feeling a little ex-
hausted with his work, he took a carriage airing in
the direction of Battersea, when unfortunately he
took cold, in consequence of which his chronic
symptoms becoming acute his strength finally gave
way, and all the skill and exertions of his medical
attendants could only avail to defer a little the final
release from suffering. During his last illness he
had to submit to more than one painful operation,
but he bore all with perfect patience and resignation.
"THE TIMES" of this morning speaks of the
Cardinal himself in these words :—" In learning, in
benevolence, and piety, it will be long ere the Eng-
lish Roman Catholic hierarchy can expect again to
find the like of Nicholas, Cardinal Wiseman."
Our leading contemporary observes, in regard to
the funeral of yesterday :—" That it took place
amid such circumstances of ritual pomp as, since the
Reformation at least, have never been seen in this
country, and, we may add, amid such tokens of
n
public interest., and almost of sorrow, as do notofte
mark the funerals even of our most illustrious_ deea
ofd
Not since the State funeral of the Great Duke
t
o.
Wellington has the same interest been
behold the superb religious pageant of evinced
yesterday.
Since the death of Cardinal Wolsey, we believe, no
English Cardinal has been buried in this country,
and the funeral obsequies
were looked forward
to as likely to afford
a splendid ceremonial of
the most impressive kind. Those who were present
in the pro-cathedral of Moorfields were not disap-
xpectation. In the streets the
pointed in this e
only
•on was remarkable for its enormous
process'
length. It soon,
however, got broken and disar-
ranged and mixed up with vehicles of all kinds ;
and this made the out-door portion of the cere-
monial ineffective, except as regards the im-
mense crowds it attracted along the whole seven
miles of road it had to traverse from Moorfields to
the cemetery. Everywhere, however, the cortege