L I E> RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 
 or 1 LLl NOIS
 
 
 
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 *i' 
 
 .■!
 
 THE DAYS OF OLD 
 
 A SEPvMON 
 
 PREACHED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
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 THE SUNDAY FOLLOWINT; THE DEATH 
 
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 LOED JOIIX TIIYNNE 
 
 J5UB-DEAX OF WKSTMINSTKE 
 
 ARTHUR PENRIIYN STANLEY^ D.D, 
 
 DKAN 01'^ WKSTMIXSTEU 
 
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 SPOTTT8W00DE & CO., NKW-STREET SQUARE, LONDON 
 
 1881
 
 [Eu-tractcil from the ' Timen' of Fchriuiri/ 11, 18S1.] 
 
 We regret to announce the death of Lord Jolm Thynne, 
 Sub-Dean of Westminster Abbey. He was the third son of 
 Thomas, second Marquis of Bath, and was born November 7, 
 1798. He was educated at Eton, and at St. John's College, 
 Cambridge, and held the living of Walton-Street-cura- 
 Walton, in the county of Somerset, for thirty years. While 
 occupying that position he was appointed by the Duke of 
 Wellington Sub-dean of Lincoln. This office he exchanged 
 for a canonry at Westminster, in July 1831, and in this post 
 remained for the rest of his life. In 1835 he was nominated 
 Sub-dean by Dean Ireland, and this office he held till his 
 death, being appointed by the successive Deans who have 
 ruled over Westminster Abbey. When Dean Ireland appointed 
 him Sub-dean, the Dean was already beginning to fail in health, 
 and, after thus securing the services of a ci^adjutor, said, 'Now 
 I shall go to bed.' PVom that time Lord John Thynne for a 
 large period of his tenure of the office became virtually 
 Dean. Dean Turton, who succeeded to Dean Ireland in 1842, 
 was not disposed to interfere with his authority. Samuel 
 Wilberforce, who occupied the Deanery for one year in 1845, 
 Blight no doubt have been jealous of any rival near the 
 throne. On Wilberforce's preferment to the Bishopric of 
 Oxford, the Deanery of Westminster was offered to him by 
 Sir Robert Peel, but was declined. The post was then 
 accepted by Dean Buckland, with whom Lord John Thynne 
 worked on terms of friendly intimacy, and then, after Dean 
 Buckland's unfortunate malady, he became by Letters Patent 
 from the Home Office possessed of the powers of Dean. This 
 lasted till 1856, when Dean Trench resumed the reins of 
 decanal authority. His services to the Abbey continued 
 through the rule of Dean Trench, as also during that of his 
 successor, the present Dean, who was appointed to the office 
 in 1863. Nothing was more remarkable in his career than 
 the chivalry with which he handed over to these two successive 
 Deans the powers that he himself had wielded during the 
 abeyance of their predecessors. During the greater part of 
 this time Lord John assumed tlie duties of administration to 
 a degree that often attracted the admiration of tlioi^e who 
 
 A 2
 
 know what a difficult task was in those earlier days committed 
 to any one who undertook to unravel the mysteries of capitular 
 property. He considerably raised the value of the property 
 under his charge, until it was finally transferred to the Eccle- 
 siastical Commission. Many of the reforms in the Abbey were 
 inaugurated under his auspices. The free admission to the 
 Abbey began in the time of Dean Ireland, who accepted it 
 reluctantly, saying, ' Henceforth we shall have people eating 
 their luncheons in every corner of the Abbey, and scattering 
 their sandwich papers over the nave.' He placed the pay- 
 ment of the guides on its present footing, and created thereby 
 a fund, which at times rose to a considerable extent, for the 
 adornment of the Abbey. The new stall work, the reredos, 
 the pulpit, and the paintings in the Jerusalem Chamber were 
 all the products of this arrangement. The choir, which had 
 been withdrawn from the public by wooden partitions, was 
 thrown open to the large congregations which now crowd 
 the church. The first beginning of special evening services 
 was inaugurated during the (Treat Exhibition of 1851, 
 when he was fulfilling the office of Dean. He assisted at 
 
 two Coronation that of William IV. and Queen Victoria — 
 
 and in the latter instance occupied the place left vacant 
 by the illness of Dean Ireland. He obtained by per- 
 severing efforts the endowment of the district churches of 
 Westminster from the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, and was 
 the energetic supporter of Dr. Wordsworth, now Bishop of 
 Lincoln, in the formation of the fund which is instituted to 
 relieve the spiritual wants of Westminster. He also actively 
 co-operated with the learned and liberal-minded jNIilman, 
 afterwards Dean of St. Paul's, and with the venerable Arch- 
 deacon Jennings, now the only survivor of that ancient time. * 
 In 1849 he became possessed by inheritance from the 
 Carterets of the estate of Haynes, in Bedfordshire. Sir 
 Eichard Grenville, celebrated by Kingsley and Tennyson, 
 was one of the ancestors whose recollection was most 
 cherished in the family. There was preserved at Haynes 
 the ring said by tradition to be that which Essex gave to 
 the famous Countess of Nottingham. He came up at the 
 
 
 J
 
 beginning of February to keep bis residence, whicb had been 
 preserved unbroken for fifty years. He was suddenly taken 
 ill immediately on arriving, and sank under the natural 
 ►infirmities of 82 years on the night of February the 9th. 
 His death severs a long tradition, which united Westminster 
 Abbey to the former generation. In his high-bred courtesy 
 and in his faithful discharge of the duties of his office, he 
 was a good specimen of that older generation whom it is 
 now the fashion to disparage. He married, in 1824, Anne 
 Constantia, daughter of the Rev. Charles Cobbe Beresford, 
 by whom he had six sons and two daughters, the elder of 
 whom is the Marchioness of Headfort. The third son was 
 killed at Lucknow in 1858. 
 
 The following was the Order of Service on the Sunday 
 after his death, in Westminster Abbey, February 13, 1881: — 
 Proper Psalms 77 and 90. 
 
 The Hymn 
 
 When our heads are bowed with woe, 
 When our bitter tears o'erflow, 
 When we mourn the lost, the dear, 
 Jesu, Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 
 Thou our mortal griefs hast borne. 
 Thou hast shed the human tear, 
 Jesu, Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 When the solemn death-bell tolls 
 For our own departing souls. 
 When our final doom is near, 
 Jesu, Son of Mary, hear I 
 
 Dean Milman. 
 
 Thou hast bowed the dying head, 
 Thou the blood of life hast shed. 
 Thou hast filled a mortal bier ; 
 Jesu, Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 When the heart is sad within 
 With the thought of all its sin, 
 When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
 Jesu, Son of Mary, hear 1 
 
 Thou, the shame, the grief , hast known. 
 Though the sins were not Thine own ; 
 Tliou hast deigned their load to bear, 
 Jesu, Son of Mary, hear ! Amen. 
 
 The Anthem Dean Milman. 
 
 Brother, thou art gone before iis ; and thy soul liath gently flown, 
 Where tears are wiped from ev"ry eye, and sorrow is unknown ; 
 From the burthen of the flesh, and from care and fear releas'd, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 The toilsome road thou'st travelled o'er, and borne the heavy load, 
 But Christ has taught thy languid feet to reach His blest abode ; 
 Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, upon his Father's breast, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 On Monday at noon, the first part of the Burial Service 
 was performed in the Abbey, with the Anthem, ' Blest are the 
 departed, who in the Lord are sleeping, from henceforth, for 
 evermore. They rest from their labours and their works 
 follow them ; ' the Mourners then proceeding to Haynes, 
 where the interment was solemnized.
 
 Psalm Ixxvii. 5. 
 
 ' I have considered the days of old : and the years that are past.' 
 
 Prayer Book Version. 
 
 • I have considered the days of old, and the years of ancient times.' 
 
 Bible Version,
 
 SEEMON. 
 
 The Psalmist is in a state of deep depression ; lie 
 wonders whether tlie Eternal will absent Himself for 
 ever ; he asks whether His mercy is clean gone for ever, 
 and His promises come utterly to an end for evermore. 
 We know not the special causes of this anxiety, but we 
 see in the Psalm the manner in which his troubled 
 spirit was composed, and the thoughts in which he 
 took refuge. He dwelt on the days of old ; on the 
 history of the years that were past. He remembered 
 the wonders that God had wrought in old time ; he 
 thought of all His works ; he went back especially to 
 the days long ago when the people of Israel were 
 brought up out of the land of Egypt ; he seemed to 
 see, almost as in a vision, the passage wliich they 
 accom^Dhshed through the Eed Sea ; the storm of the 
 strong east wind that drove the waters back — the 
 thunder which shook their souls with dread — the 
 lightning which illuminated the darkness of that 
 memorable night — the earthquake which caused the 
 ground beneath them to tremble — the mysterious path- 
 way through the great waters — the inscrutable footsteps
 
 8 
 
 of the Most High in the waves of the Red Sea — and the 
 leading of the people like a flock of terrified sheep 
 by the hand of their venerable leaders, ]\Ioses, the 
 mighty Prophet, and Aaron, the sacred Priest. 
 
 Such a backward view towards the past is still one 
 chief remedy for times of despondency. It is true that 
 to look forward is the best of all remedies. The behef 
 that in the progress of mankind there is a hope of 
 ultimate perfection was the prevailing sentiment of 
 the highest spirits in tlie Jewish race. The Jewish 
 race itself had, as has been said, its golden age not in 
 the past but in the future. The same thought has 
 descended to Christian times. The Apostle forgot 
 those things that were behind, and reached forward to 
 those things which were before. The whole creation, 
 according to him, was constantly reaching forth its 
 head in the earnest expectation of the manifestation 
 of some future glory in the Sons of God. But this 
 prospective glance is not the only consolation. At 
 any rate, without a retrospective look into the times 
 that we have already known, the forward apprehension 
 of what is to be becomes unsteady and unstable. A 
 great statesman, whose monument is in this church, 
 has combined the two expressions of feeling in a motto 
 which is now engraven upon the pedestal — Per ardua 
 siabilis, that is to say, constantly ascending the most 
 arduous and adventurous precipices, yet still never 
 losing his footing. It is written under the mountain 
 goat, which, chmbing constantly and yet firm in its 
 hold on the rock, is the emblem of the house of Russell 
 — but also the emblem of every wise statesman.
 
 9 
 
 That hold, that footing, is best preserved by having 
 an anchor, so to speak, in the thoughts and memories 
 of the past. 
 
 There are two special lessons which this study of 
 the days of old enforces upon us. First, in answer to 
 the temptation to which we are all liable of regarding 
 oiu'selves as ^ the foremost in the files of time,' it is 
 the natural correction to be from time to time reminded 
 that there have lived ' famous men ' in old time — that 
 there have been ' the fathers that begat us ' — that, as the 
 Eoman poet sings, ' there were mighty men who lived 
 before Agamemnon,' and who, perchance, have only 
 fallen out of our knowledge because there was no bard 
 to trumpet forth their praises, or because we are so 
 ignorant as not to know what they did or what they 
 thought. ' Art thou the first man that was born, or 
 wast thou made before the hills ? ' Such a belief is 
 very common at the present time. It shows itself in 
 many ways — it shows itself in a mode of feeling 
 widely diffused, as if Christianity had been born into 
 England about thirty years ago, as if the revival 
 of religious life in England dated fi'om a modern 
 movement of but the date of yesterday. Without 
 going back to the earher times of the eighteenth 
 century, which, whatever drawbacks it may have had, 
 yet produced the solid, massive, enduring faith of 
 Butler, Burke, Johnson, and Paley — which embraced 
 the whole of the splendid career of John Wesley and 
 his followers — without going back to that period, 
 there was, in the beginning of this century, a 
 general awakening of the deeper and higher hfe in a
 
 10 
 
 thousand quarters, breathed into the world by the 
 seriousness which was the natural outgrowth of the 
 great events subsequent to the French Eevohition. Of 
 these convulsions it may be well said in the words of 
 the Psalm from which the text is taken : ' The waters 
 saw Thee, God, the waters saw Thee, and were 
 afraid : the depths also were troubled. The voice of 
 Thy thunder was heard round about. The lightnings 
 shone upon the ground : the earth was moved and 
 shook withal. Thy way w^as in the sea, and Thy paths 
 in the great waters, and Thy footsteps were not 
 known.' This seriousness expresses itself in many 
 forms — in the profound poetry of Wordsworth — ^in 
 the heart-stirring romances of Walter Scott — in the 
 deep earnestness of Thomas Carlyle — in the thoughtful 
 philosophy of Coleridge — in the stimulus given to 
 religious education by Arnold — in the practical fervour 
 of Wilberforce and of Simeon — in the more sober but 
 not less effective energy of laymen hke Joshua Watson, 
 and clergymen like Blomiield and his compeers on 
 the Episcopal Bench. These were all in full operation 
 before the first growth of that movement wliich claims 
 to itself in the present day the exclusive privilege 
 of having enlightened and purified the world. All 
 honour to those who in our time, by any means in 
 their power, whether by the adornment of worship, 
 or by throwing life into old forms and light into old 
 truths, have carried on the work which their fathers 
 began for them — but not the less is the first honour 
 due to those who in the early years of this century 
 awoke to the duties and fulfilled the high calling of 
 
 J
 
 11 
 
 their position. And if, as was the case, they performed 
 tlieir duties and fulfilled their task with the more 
 difficulty because they were the first to attempt it ; if 
 they did good not for the sake of glorifying themselves 
 or the party to which they belonged, but simply for 
 the sake of doing good, and of rendering the best 
 service to the Church and commonwealth in which 
 their lot had been cast, so much the more praise is 
 due to them for this often thankless and unrewarded 
 mission. 
 
 Again, the study of the past teaches us the 
 intrinsic value of qualities which w^e do not possess. 
 The young are always apt to believe that in their 
 sanguine, lively, forward imaginings there is some- 
 thing superior to the wisdom and experience of old 
 age. Here, again, each generation must learn not only 
 from that which has gone before but from that which 
 is coming after it. The rising generation has grasped 
 some truth which the older generation may have failed 
 to apprehend. Even a child can instruct its elders by 
 good example, by innocent questions, and by simple 
 statements. Elihu, in the Book of Job, was ' very 
 young,' and the three friends were ' very old,' yet to 
 the younger and not to the elder was entrusted the 
 message of pointing out the answer to the difficulties 
 which had perplexed them. ' I am wiser than the 
 aged,' says the Psalmist, ' because I keep Thy 
 commandments.' This is a truth which we must 
 bear in mind in deahng both with men and with 
 nations. But nevertheless reverence for age is a duty 
 of all times and all places. Hesitation and modesty
 
 12 
 
 are the virtues which ought to belong to youth aUke 
 in the East and in the West, There is a kindred 
 nation across the Atlantic which, with all its excellence, 
 has not possessed in any eminent degree this modesty 
 of thought or action. That is chiefly because it has, or 
 thinks it has, no venerable ancestry at its back, and no 
 long traditions to hold in reverence. The respect due to 
 age is founded on the qualities which long experience 
 brings with it, and the wide and comprehensive view 
 of human affairs which, unless it falls grievously below 
 its calling, is unquestionably its own. I have frequently 
 mentioned, and will yet again mention, that most 
 touching of all the expressions of autobiography, the 
 reminiscences in which Richard Baxter, at the close of 
 his long and eventful life, sums up the points in which 
 the excesses and the crudities of his youthful opinions 
 were checked by the moderation and the calmness and 
 the charity of old age. From such counsellors every 
 one may pause in the hiurry of hfe to learn the lessons 
 of a truth wliich is not our own, and a wisdom which, 
 if not from above, is at any rate not of this world. 
 ' Eeverence is the angel of the world ' — so said the 
 greatest master of the human heart. So remarked 
 upon the words the oldest and one of the wisest of our 
 statesmen the other day, before he sank to his long 
 rest, ' Eeverence is what softens, elevates, refines, the 
 minds of men,' 
 
 You will have perceived what is the thought that 
 has suggested these reflections, A long and venerable 
 career in this Abbey has just closed. A link — almost 
 the only surviving link — wliich united us with the
 
 13 
 
 earlier years of this century has been snapped asunder. 
 That stately figure, those courtly manners, that high 
 bearing, that grand form and fasliion as of the antique 
 world, will no more be seen amongst us. For nearly 
 fifty years has the second office in this collegiate church 
 been in the same hands, and the continuous tradition 
 of six decanal reigns has been summed up in the 
 existence which has passed away. 
 
 He was one of those on whom were poured some 
 at least of the beneficent influences of the opening 
 years of the nineteenth century. He was one of those 
 of whom I spoke, to whom belongs the singular merit 
 of having been an unconscious reformer before the 
 time when reform became so fashionable, and who, 
 whilst himself a staimch adherent of ancient usage 
 and established custom, nevertheless saw the possibihty 
 and the necessity of purifpng them of their ingrained 
 abuses. He did this at a time when such work was 
 difficult in proportion to its novelty. He found this 
 Abbey infected with those maladies wdiich the negh- 
 gence or the altered circumstances of preceding years 
 had introduced into its very core. The free admission 
 to its sacred walls, which had been debarred by tolls 
 and imposts at almost every entrance, he forced on the 
 reluctant authorities, regardless of the panic fears which 
 would have protected the building at the cost of 
 rendering it useless. Down to his time nave and 
 transepts were ahke closed to the wayfarer and the 
 worshipper in London. All these restrictions were 
 done away ; and if there still remain some obstacles to 
 the full and fi'ee enjoyment of every part of the Abbey,
 
 14 
 
 it will be following in the footsteps of his policy to 
 sweep them away when time and opportunity shall 
 permit. The vast congregations which now assemble 
 Sunday after Sunday are enabled to enjoy free air and 
 free hearing, by the courage and confidence with 
 which, under his sanction, the wooden screens were 
 thrown down on either side, which cut off all com- 
 munication between the choir and the transepts. The 
 reredos, with its mosaics and its statues, may have 
 been arranged and designed by other hands and other 
 minds, but its whole form and fabric is owing to his 
 active watchfulness and foresight, as was also the pulpit 
 from which the preacher speaks. The bald w^alls of the 
 Jerusalem Chamber, from a like soiu'ce, have resumed 
 something of their original splendour, and the tapestries 
 which adorn them are chiefly the gifts from the stores 
 of his ancient home. The services which have gathered 
 thousands within the sound of the preacher's voice on 
 Sunday evenings were first inaugurated by him when, 
 in the year of the Great Exhibition, multitudes from 
 all the ends of the world were congregated in this 
 metropolis, and many heard, for the first and last 
 time from an English pulpit, in their own French 
 language, the words of a vigorous preacher,* now no 
 more. The whole architecture of this Abbey received a 
 new life from the introduction, under his patronage, of 
 that famous architect whose name is identified with 
 almost every Gothic church in England. The choral 
 service, with all its arrangements, was by him rescued 
 from the neglect and disorder into which for many 
 
 * Dr. Jeune, afterwards Bishop of Peterborough.
 
 15 
 
 years it had fallen. The addition of a Great Cloister, 
 which should extend the glory of the Abbey for the 
 future interment of the eminent men of our country, 
 was never absent from his mind. His wish still remains 
 imfulfilled ; but if there should revive in the nation or 
 in its rulers anything of the munificent spirit of former 
 times, it will be remembered that the idea first arose 
 with him, and was by him encouraged and fostered 
 at every turn and with all the fondness of a parent 
 for a long-expected child. 
 
 In earlier times, it may be, from the gradual 
 steps by which the population of London increased, 
 the Abbey of Westminster had taken but little heed 
 of the multitudes which at last pressed upon it with an 
 intolerable burden. He was the first who recognised 
 the fact that to this vast neighbourhood the Abbey 
 had a duty to perform. Long ago, before any pubhc 
 attention had been called to the need, he urged the 
 wants of the surrounding parishes on those concerned, 
 and it was owing to his incessant exertions that 
 thousands were given to the support of churches 
 which now are the standing witnesses of his energy. 
 He was the zealous assistant of his colleague, the 
 present estimable Bishop of Lincoln, in starting 
 that fund for the spiritual destitution of the people 
 of Westminster which long preceded the agencies 
 that have since been set on foot for the same 
 object. The times have moved — the special work is 
 accomplished — but the originators ought not to be 
 forgotten, and the enterprise then set on foot has still 
 to be carried on, though the head and the heart which
 
 16 
 
 first planned it has been chilled by age and infirmity, 
 and is now cold in death. 
 
 And far away from Westminster, in Somersetshire 
 and Cornwall, there are many who will remember the 
 good works which, whether in his own pecnliar field or 
 in the wider sphere of the rising wants of the Church, 
 he fostered and favoured by bringing to bear upon 
 them his administrative ability and liis honest uitentions. 
 May I mention two instances of this? One shall be 
 the effect which he produced on Nonconformists. In 
 that western parish in which he long laboured there 
 was a colony of the Society of Friends. Separated 
 from them by every feeling, political and ecclesiastical, 
 he yet was so drawn to the good Quakers by their 
 singular purity and piety, and they were so drawn 
 to him by his singular straightforwardness and 
 uprightness, that a steady friendsliip resulted, never 
 broken, and which lasted to the very end. The 
 other example will endear his memory to many of my 
 profession. He was the virtual founder of the first 
 of theological colleges — nearly the first in time, and 
 absolutely the first in importance — the college at Wells. 
 There is no doubt much to be said for and against 
 theological colleges — much to be said in favour of the 
 larger, more generous, education that young men receive 
 at the two ancient Universities. But there can be no 
 doubt that there was room for at least one such college ; 
 there can be no doubt that this space was filled by 
 the institution which sprang up in that loveliest of 
 all cathedral precincts, in that beautiful Vicars' Close, 
 under the shade of that stately palace and that exquisite
 
 17 
 
 cathedra], whicli had once been the home of Ken. Not 
 a few will trace back their rescue from frivolous pursuits, 
 their sense of a deeper religious earnestness, to the 
 parental counsels of the good old man whom he chose 
 as its chief, and whose snow-white head and benignant 
 face will be remembered by every student in the col- 
 lege as the sign and symbol of all that was venerable 
 and lovable. 
 
 ' I have considered the days of old, and the years of 
 ancient times.' For half a century he has been part of 
 this Abbey — almost like one of its own massive pillars, 
 unchanged while all around has changed, with the air, 
 the manners, the aspirations of another age. He, of 
 all our body, most united us with the days, as it were, 
 before the flood — before the flood of stir and change 
 which broke in upon us in the far-off age of the first 
 Eeform Bill. He most faithfully represented the time 
 when the nobles of the land were not ashamed to bear 
 office in the high places of the English Church. As 
 these changes whirled and wheeled around him he 
 acknowledged their power although he never shared 
 their influence. Like the nged poet, whom a younger 
 bard celebrates — 
 
 He grew old in an age he (Condemned ; 
 He looked on the rushing decay 
 Of the times that had sheltered his youth, 
 Of a social order he loved. 
 
 In that long succession of Deans, to whom he 
 
 acted as vicegerent, of Canons, to whom he acted as 
 
 colleague, there were varieties of character which 
 
 might well have vexed, and whicli doubtless did vex, 
 
 his unbending nature. But, nevertheless, he well
 
 18 
 
 knew his position as in one of the most national and all- 
 embracing institutions of our national and all-embracing 
 Chiu-ch. He did not shrink from companionship with 
 the widely tolerant and multifarious learning of Milman. 
 His aged heart warmed at the fiery enthusiasm of 
 Charles Kingsley. He delighted to work with the 
 bold geologist who for a time ruled over us. He 
 delivered over the powers that he had long enjoyed 
 with chivalrous gallantry to the accomphshments and 
 graces of my honoured predecessor. And, last of all, 
 he bore with one who must have sorely tried his 
 endurance, and wdio would fain take this occasion of 
 expressing his heartfelt gratitude for a loyal and 
 generous forbearance, never to be forgotten. 
 
 As years rolled on he faded away from our siglit, 
 but we still remained in his thoughts. The time drew 
 near for the term of residence, which with unshaken 
 fidelity he had kept for fifty years. He came as 
 usual. Like an ancient warrior, he would still, so 
 long as life was granted, be found at his post. But 
 on the threshold the Angel of Death met liim, and he 
 passed away in the sacred cloisters endeared by the recol- 
 lection of his beloved partner, wliose loss had taken away 
 so much of the brightness of life, in the efToi't to dis- 
 charge the last remaining relic of duty w^hich was left 
 to him, and amidst the family to whom his patriarchal 
 presence and domestic virtues were so long an example, 
 a support, and a delight. 
 
 The shades have closed thick upon us — ' fast falls 
 the eventide,' — sorrow after sorrow, parting after 
 parting, has 'rent our sheltering bowers.' Not only
 
 19 
 
 ourselves but the times are changed — tasks new and 
 unknown He before us. But our duty and our hope 
 remain the same. That maxim which I quoted last 
 Sunday from the old prophet and sage of Scotland is still 
 our motto : ' Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it 
 with all thy might.' That was what he whom we have 
 lost from amongst us, so long as strength was granted 
 him, did, according to his light and according to his 
 capacity. He persevered in what was often a thankless 
 toil ; he set a falling house in order ; he laid the solid 
 foundation whereon we must build. All of us, through 
 all our degrees, have to do the work of edifying, 
 beautifying, elevating, enlarging the Church of Eng- 
 land through this its most august and characteristic 
 edifice. All of us have a high calling before us, 
 which every difficulty, every obstacle, ought to stimu- 
 late us to overcome. The voices of the dead, the 
 claims of the living, the greatness of England, the fiiir- 
 reaching future of the everlasting Gospel of Christ our 
 Lord, entreat us not to be weary or faint. The last 
 of an ancient race is gone from us. Let us do our 
 best rightly to honour the trust which was once 
 committed to him, and whicli he and his generation 
 have handed down to us. 
 
 Something ere the end, 
 Some work of noble note may yet be done . . . 
 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world, . . . 
 Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, 
 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 
 
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