As I spent much of January in dry dock in Tommy’s hospital (‘dry’ being doubly appropriate), other avocations were needed. One friend said that it sounded as if I had spent much of the time gazing at the glories of Barry and Pugin, reading poetry or teasing pretty nurses: all pleasant activities. But there was one disappointment.
Geoffrey Elton helped to introduce the civilisation of the Rhineland to East Anglia
Assuming that hospital wards were good stalking grounds for chaplains, I would have been happy to discuss the Trinity, the meaning of the first verse of St John’s Gospel, or whatever. But only one clergy creature appeared. There is a good old Scots word, ‘mouthless’ (pronounce ‘oo’); that poor fellow fitted the description. Another possible debating topic was the survival of the Church of England under the sway of Archbishop Doolally. The poor girl will no doubt do her best, but is it remotely good enough?
A few years ago, there was a fashion in the City for vulture funds. As failing firms were turning into carrion, those sinister birds prepared to pounce. A Papist friend of mine spies an analogy. He insists that the northern heresy has survived for far too long as it is. Over the centuries, fine men have sustained error, but now the era of false doctrine is coming to an end. The new Archbishop was a nurse. How suitable to deploy her ministrations in a terminal ward – and how depressing.
I have a godson, which ought to make me feel awkward, for I have not repudiated the Devil and all his works. If I had, could there not be a danger of an action for breach of contract? The deed done, a shadowy being in a slouch hat and a dark cloak might appear, beckoning with a finger. ‘This way, Anderson. My master wants a word. By the way, my name is Mephistopheles.’ Anyway, the youngster is a chorister at Sherborne Abbey with a glorious voice. Not long ago, his choir came to sing in Westminster Abbey, and they were superb. It seemed everything was as it ought to be. Byrd, Tallis, 1611, 1662: the parish church of the British Empire marching in step with Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam. Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian. Then it all went wrong.
I have nothing against lambs and lost sheep. They play a crucial role in Christian liturgy and iconography, which does not prevent them featuring on the dinner table: practical people, these Christians. I wonder if sheep meat was served in the banquet at Cana? But surely there ought to be a limit. That day in Westminster Abbey, some lost sheep found its way to the pulpit, to bleat banalities. Where was a wolf when we needed one?
To a greater extent than any other major nation, England depends on institutions. The monarchy, the Crown in parliament, the Tory party, the Church of England: one could add Shakespeare in particular and English verse in general. They are a part of the golden thread of long destiny, the rich tapestry of the ages: a secular version of the music of the spheres. Today, in different ways, all can seem under threat. That must be resisted. In hospital, with peace to think, this Scotsman wished a benison on the English: this unbeliever, a recovery of the C of E’s self-confidence.
That said, Kipling was right. ‘And what should they know of England who only England know?’ Over the weekend, we were discussing a great Englishman who was also a great European. A German Jew by ancestry, who devoted his scholarship to interpreting England, Geoffrey Elton also helped to introduce Cambridge to German wine: the civilisation of the Rhineland to East Anglia. We toasted his blessed memory in Ayler Kupp, one of his favourites. May his adopted country continue to enjoy the heritage that he would have wished on it.
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