The Henson Journals

[30]

Tuesday, November 8th, 1921.

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My Birthday finds me somewhat dilapidated in physique, and more than commonly perplexed in mind. Sir Walter Scott described himself as "aged" when he was several years younger than I am. It would, perhaps, be unreal to say that I fell "aged": but at 58 one cannot feel that old age is a distant phase, and one cannot conceal from one's self or from others that one has left youth far behind. It is 25 years since, on this day, my Father died while I was preaching to the University of Oxford. I was then to all appearance definitely "side–tracked" at Ilford, but four years later I was sent to Westminster, & entered on a public career, which has brought me to this Chair. Increasingly, indeed, I feel how poor a creature I am to sit in such a seat, and yet, increasingly, the belief grows upon me that I could not have been brought here apart from some purpose of the Eternal, which I specifically am ordained to serve. What that purpose is, I do not know: I am not sure that I can even guess at it: but that it is no mere figment of my own conceited fancy is the indispensable condition of my "doing out the duty". From my brother came some photographs which he took himself during our visit in August. They include one of Loyton Farm, Morebalth, where in 1912 – no less than 109 years ago – my Father was born. There is also one of Morebalth Church where he & my great–grandfather were churchwardens, and where, in the churchyard, he & my grandmother lie buried. They were God–fearing hard–working farmers, who served their generation worthily & now sleep in peace. My Father broke away from that quiet round of rustic duties, and came up to London, when he was yet in his teens, to push his fortunes: and he never (save, I think, for a single visit) returned to his native county. I saw the seat of my ancestors for the first time last August. William brought me a pocket–knife as a birthday present: that evidence of affection pleased me greatly. He and I have become so closely associated that our relation to one another has quite outgrown the conventional limits. As I grow older, I do not find that I grow more indifferent to the measures of goodwill & confidence which I possess from those with whom I live: on the contrary, I think my dependence upon these increases. So I begin another year with a tangle of conflicting emotions in my mind, & mountains of difficulty in front of me.

[31]

Spencer Wade, the curate of S. Peter's, Bishop Auckland, came to see me, & explain why he desired to change his curacy. He & his vicar are good friends, but don't "see eye to eye": and the dissidence is, perhaps, as much political as religious. When the assistant prides himself on his knowledge, and the chief "boasts of never reading a book", it is not difficult to imagine difficulties in the way of mutual understanding and co–operation.

A most abominable book, "Social Chaos, and the Way Out", was sent to me by its author, Alfred Baker Read. He advocates infanticide as the one & only remedy for the world's ills, not contra–conceptives or abortion, which he denounces with much energy as unnatural and variously mischievous, but specifically infanticide. Was there ever a social reformer so demented and depraved? The volume is frankly atheistic, & includes a vehement attack on the clergy. Much of the denunciation is familiar enough. Thus there is a list of bishops with the amounts of their several estates to point the moral of clerical hypocrisy for does not the Gospel teach the virtue of poverty? It is odd to read the name of Bishop Lightfoot in the list! I should like to know how far this precious nonsense has a circulation. Certainly no one could read it without being to some extent injured by it. Yet how could I wisely advertize it by criticism or censure?

Clayton & I motored to Durham where I presided at meetings, first of the Diocesan Conference Committee, & then of the Finance Board. Afterwards, I went to the Castle, & had tea. Bodeu, a candidate for Ordination from S. Chad's, came to see me about his examination. He is more scholarly than the general run of candidates: was the son of a Wesleyan minister, and seems both reasonable and devout. I was distinctly pleased with him.

We motored to Burnmoor, where I dedicated a War–memorial which Lord Durham unveiled with a very felicitous speech. I also preached. We dined at Lambton very pleasantly. Colonel & Mrs Stobart and Mr Reynolds the Vicar made up the party. Lord Durham and Lady Anne presented me with a Birthday present. We came away about 9.30 p.m., & motored home under a clear frosty moon, arriving about 10.30 p.m.

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