The first cathedral, begun in 1075, was a large, rugged building in the French manner, set down within the walls of the castle-fort; between the two groups of occupants, clergy and soldiers, so much friction arose that rupture was inescapable. Rarely had a formal complaint been more comprehensive than that issued by Pope Honorius III in 1219 when he summarized the difficulties of his priests at Sarum:
The clergy cannot stay there without danger to their persons. The wind howls so furiously that priests can hardly hear each other speak. The building is ruinous. The congregation is so small it cannot provide repairs. Water is scarce. People wishing to visit the cathedral are prevented by the garrison. Housing is insufficient for the clergy, who must buy their own houses. The whiteness of the chalk causes blindness.
The bishop solved these difficulties by offering to move his cathedral from Sarum to a vacant field well to the south, where the town of Salisbury would belatedly arise. The exchange worked and the cathedral at Sarum was abandoned, to the pleasure of the bishop; he owned the vacant field and sold it to the church for a nice profit.
With the loss of its cathedral, Sarum declined. Once it boasted more than two thousand residents, then one thousand, then five hundred, then only a handful, and the day came in the early 1700s when it had almost none. Cathedral and castle alike were in ruins.
But tradition dies hard in England, and in rural England, hardest of all. When Parliament convened in the late 1200s, Sarum as a major settlement and support of the king, was awarded two seats; in its heyday it sent some mighty men to London. With the disappearance of its cathedral and its population, those seats, in any other country, would have been lost. But not in England, where precedent was prized. If Sarum had once been entitled to two seats, Old Sarum, as it was now called, was still entitled to them, and these empty fields with barely a single human being residing on or near them retained the right to send two members to Parliament and arrogantly exercised that right.
It became famous as ‘the rottenest of the English rotten boroughs,’ referring to those former towns, now abandoned or much reduced in population, which clung to ancient privileges on the principle that ‘Parliament represents land, not people.’ So that even in these early years of the nineteenth century one-fourth of the members of Parliament came from boroughs which in common sense should have returned nobody, and a shocking percentage of these were from boroughs like Old Sarum, which contained almost no one.
When a sitting Parliament was dissolved and a new one authorized, who selected the men to represent a rotten borough, especially when it had no voters? Custom said that whoever owned the land reserved the right to nominate whom he wished to represent it. What made this system repugnant to people of sensible intelligence was that an empty spot like Old Sarum could have two members of Parliament while great towns like Birmingham and Manchester had none.
At Old Sarum, in the first decade of the 1800s, an election was held for members of the new Parliament that would soon be convening, and the Proprietor rode out to the site in his carriage from Salisbury Town, while his factor, Josiah Saltwood, forty-nine years old, accompanied him on horseback. They started from the south side of River Avon, crossed the stone bridge five centuries old, passed the marvelous cathedral with its tall, clean tower, and made their way through the cluster of inns from which the stagecoaches departed for London. As they left the North Gate they entered the lovely rolling hills that led to Old Sarum, and after a pleasant rural passage, came to the south side of the rise on which the ancient ruins stood.
They did not climb that hill, but stopped at an elm tree whose spreading branches created a kind of shady amphitheater. Stepping carefully from his carriage, the Proprietor, an old man with white hair and kindly blue eyes, looked about him and said, ‘Rarely have we known a finer voting day, eh, Josiah?’
‘It was thoughtful of the old Parliament to end when it did,’ the factor agreed.
‘I can remember storms,’ the old man said, recalling voting days when rain dripped from the elm. ‘But our work never takes long, be praised.’
The coachman led his horses some distance from the tree, and after another servant placed a collapsible table on cleared ground, steadying the legs with twigs, the Proprietor unfolded a set of legal papers.
‘I trust you find everything in readiness,’ Saltwood said.
‘Seems to be,’ the old man said. He wore white side whiskers and showed a military bearing, for he had served his nation in many capacities abroad. It was curious that he had never elected to take one of his Parliament seats for himself; always he had picked other men who showed promise of good judgment, as had his father before him, so that whereas Old Sarum was indeed a rotten borough and an offense to reason, it had sent to London a succession of notable politicians, most of whom had never set foot in Old Sarum or even Salisbury. Indeed, none had ever lived within fifty miles of the dead town, but they had accepted the nomination as their right and had performed well. William Pitt the Elder, one of the outstanding English statesmen of the previous century, had been able to function as independently as he did only because he was sent to Parliament from Old Sarum, whose invisible electors he did not have to appease.
‘Who’s it to be this time?’ Saltwood asked.
‘A surprise, and not a surprise,’ the Proprietor said, taking from his pocket a private memorandum. ‘Dear old Sir Charles is to keep his seat, of course. He never speaks in the House, proposes no bills and might as well stay at home, but he’s never done any harm, either, and many of us deem him the best member in recent history.’
The name was properly entered in the report of the election that Saltwood would forward to London. ‘It’s with the second name we get our surprise,’ the Proprietor said, thrusting the paper at his factor. ‘See for yourself.’
And there it was, in second position in the memorandum: ‘Josiah Saltwood.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘You’ve a better head than most, Josiah, and I wish to reward it.’
The factor gasped. A seat like this, from one of the rotten boroughs, could cost an aspiring politician as much as a thousand pounds, and it might have to be paid anew periodically, but considering the money a clever man could come by if he held a seat, the cost was minimal. To have such a boon handed to one was only to be dreamed of, and here came a gift he had not even solicited.
‘You’re the man for the job,’ the Proprietor said. ‘But I want you to take it seriously. During the first four years it’ll be better if you say nothing. Just listen and vote as I instruct, and after four or five years, you might begin to do things. Nothing flashy. You’re not to be noticed. Men from the provinces are apt to make asses of themselves and don’t last. Show me one from Old Sarum who ever spoke much and I’ll show you one who lasted only a session.’
Saltwood very much wanted to ask, ‘How about William Pitt?’ but had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. Indeed, as he stood silent in the manner the Proprietor liked, the old man said, ‘Even Pitt, he talked too much. Much better if he’d sat silent more often.’
With the necessary papers signed, and endorsed by Saltwood, the old gentleman signaled for the horses, and when he was safely inside his carriage for the ride back to the cathedral for evensong, he flicked his hat to his factor, riding behind, and said, ‘We’ve done a good day’s work.’
Behind them stood the great elm, its branches covering an immense spread. For three hundred years this venerable tree had witnessed elections like this, but never one conducted so speedily. A significant percentage of Parliament had been elected by one man in the course of seven minutes.
When Josiah Saltwood assembled his family under the oak trees to inform them of the surprising event at Election Elm, his wife Emily did not try to anticipate what her husband was about to announce; her task had been the rearing of four sons, and it had occupied her exclusively. Her principal recreation had been walking the mile or so to the cathedral to listen to the choristers; she did not care much for the serm
ons.
The four boys came to the meeting with eagerness; for some time they had been speculating on what they must do to find a settled place in life, and any sudden change in their father’s position excited them for the possibilities it might uncover for them. Peter, the eldest, had come down from Oxford some years back and was serving as a kind of junior clerk for the family estate while vaguely learning the tasks involved in his father’s role as factor to the Proprietor. He was not accomplishing much.
Hilary Saltwood, twenty-four years old that day, presented a serious problem. As a younger son he could not look forward to inheriting either the Saltwood house or his father’s occupation. He must look to the army or to the church for his life’s sustenance, and up to now he had decided on neither. He had done well at Oxford and could possibly have aspired to work in India, but he had dallied, and now all positions for which he might have been eligible were filled by young men with greater concentration. In some respects he was brilliant; in others, quite confused, so that the family often speculated on what might become of him.
Richard Saltwood, however, though he had done poorly at Oxford and left with the most meager degree awarded, had bought his way into what was always called ‘the Gallant Fifty-ninth,’ a regiment stationed in India. His father had told the Proprietor, ‘That boy was destined for the army from birth, and I’m damned relieved he’s found a place!’ Then, with proper deference, he added, ‘Thanks principally to you.’ It had been the Proprietor who had put up the money to purchase the commission and who had recommended young Saltwood to the commanding colonel. Richard would soon be on his way to India and was delighted with the prospect.
It was young David who was most worrisome. He had managed to stay at Oriel in Oxford—the college to which Saltwoods had gone time out of mind—only one term, after which he was sent down ‘with prejudice,’ meaning that he need not reapply when and if he ever learned Latin. To be dismissed from Oriel was rather shameful, for even the most backward scholar should have been able to get a degree from that feckless college. If a lad had real promise, he went to Balliol; if he sought preferment, he went to Christ Church; and if he wanted to cut a figure, he went to Trinity. If he came from some rural cathedral town like Salisbury, with little Greek and less social footing, he went to Oriel. Indeed, the archetypal Oriel student was a Saltwood from Sentinels, and had been for over a hundred and fifty years. What with four Saltwood boys of child-producing age, it looked as if the college was assured of an endless future supply of its preferred students.
What to do about David, no one knew. As his father once said, ‘If a boy can’t handle it at Oriel, what on earth can be expected of him?’
Saltwood coughed as his family sat in the picnic chairs, awaiting his revelations. ‘It’s rather surprising news,’ he said modestly. ‘I’m to be the new member of Parliament from Old Sarum.’
‘Father!’ It was difficult to separate what the various boys were saying, but that they were honestly pleased with this turn of fortune was apparent, and they were gratified not only because of what it might mean to them, but especially because their father had been such a hard-working, responsible citizen.
‘No better choice!’ Richard said. Striking the pose of a politician arguing a point, he cried, ‘Sirs, sirs! I beg of you! Attention, please.’
‘When do you leave for London?’ Peter asked, but before his father could reply, young David leaped to his feet, ran to his father, and embraced him.
‘Good on you!’
Quietly Mrs. Saltwood said, ‘Let’s hear your father’s plans.’
‘They’re simple,’ Josiah said. ‘You and I leave for London immediately, find a flat, and stay there for the season.’
‘I shouldn’t like to leave the trees,’ Emily said, pointing to the cedars and chestnuts.
‘We’ve new fields to consider,’ he said abruptly, and his wife spoke no more.
‘Who’s to mind our interest?’ Peter asked hesitantly, afraid lest his question seem like begging.
‘You, Peter. And you’re to become the Proprietor’s manager. He asked for you.’
‘And I’m off to India,’ Richard said brightly. ‘How about you, Hilary?’
The second son blushed, for he was being importuned to disclose his plans before he was entirely ready, but in such a conclave, when issues of gravity were being decided, he could not refrain. Very softly he said, ‘I’ve been wrestling … for many days … I’ve been away, you know, in the fields mostly …’
‘And what did you decide?” his father asked.
Hilary rose and slowly moved among the oaks, coming back to stand before his mother. ‘I’m to be a missionary,’ he said. ‘God has called me out of my confusion.’
‘A missionary!’ Emily repeated. ‘But where?’
‘Wherever God sends me,’ he replied, and again he reddened as his brothers gathered to congratulate him.
‘I’m going overseas, too,’ David broke in.
‘You’re what?’ his father cried.
‘I’m emigrating. Four chaps I know in London … we’re off to America.’
‘Good God, those rebels!’
‘It’s a settlement scheme. Ohio, some place like that. I’m sailing next month.’
‘Good God!’ his father repeated, aghast at the prospect of a son of his in such a wilderness. ‘David,’ he said seriously. ‘We’ll be at war with those rebels within a year. As soon as I get to Parliament, I’m to vote for war. The Proprietor said so.’
‘I’ll be fighting your troops somewhere in Ohio, wherever that is.’
‘When will you be back home?’ Emily asked.
‘It’ll take some years to get the plantation going,’ the young man said. ‘Slaves hoeing the cotton, and all that. But I’ll be back.’
‘You must never take arms against England,’ Josiah said gravely. ‘You’d be shot for a traitor. And there will be war.’
‘Father, America’s a sovereign nation. Don’t send a lot of silly troops like Richard—’
‘Brother against brother!’ Richard cried. ‘Wouldn’t that be jolly?’
So under the oak trees at Sentinels in the County of Wiltshire the Saltwoods reached decisions on the destinies of their sons. Peter, who had brains, would take charge of the family business. Hilary, who had character, would go into the ministry. Richard, who had courage, would enter the army. And young David, who had neither brains, nor character, nor courage, would emigrate to America.
The shock caused by Hilary’s announcement that he intended becoming a missionary instead of a proper clergyman grew into a firestorm when his family learned that he proposed joining the Missionary Society operated not by the Church of England but by the dissidents, and more especially, the radical Congregationalists. ‘You’ll ruin your prospects,’ his mother warned, but he was adamant, assuring his family that when he reported to the training headquarters at Gosport, not far from Salisbury, he would not be required to convert to the rebellious faith. ‘I’ll serve my time with Jesus overseas and come back to Salisbury,’ but even as he promised this he announced that he was not going to be a part-time missionary but one wholly dedicated to the cause: ‘I’ve elected to go for a complete theological education, terminating with ordination as a full-fledged minister.’ His father, now in Parliament and a resident of London, encouraged him in this decision: ‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Choose the highest possible, because one day, when this missionary foolishness is over, your mother and I expect to see you dean of Salisbury Cathedral.’ At tea one afternoon, during the later stages of his training, his mother said, ‘Hilary, you must discharge your duties quickly, because the Proprietor has promised most faithfully that when you’re through and safely back in the Church of England, he plans to exert every influence for your assignment as dean of the cathedral.’
Hilary’s brothers approved heartily: ‘We could sit here under the oaks and look across the meadows and tell each other, “That cathedral’s in good hands.” Do hurry and finis
h with the savages, wherever you go.’
He would have made a flawless dean, tall, slightly stoop-shouldered, his head bent a little forward as he walked along the cloisters, as if he were looking for something a few yards ahead, diffident, rather brilliant in his studies and of deep conviction religiously. He should have stayed at home, progressing from one small living to another until his reputation as a sound young man was established, then moving into the larger positions from which he would write two incomprehensible books. Such books were a prudent step in English advancement; no one bothered to read them, but one’s superiors were gratified that the effort had been made. And in due course, fortified with credentials from the noble houses of the county, including the Proprietor’s, he would move on to professor at Oriel and then the deanship.
What had interrupted this pleasant, routine progression? Hilary Saltwood had religious insights far deeper than those of the ordinary Oxford graduate, and he had paid attention to those ringing commandments of Paul in the New Testament in which young men were charged with the duty of spreading the gospel. Indeed, his favorite book in the Bible was Acts, in which the birth of a new religion, and especially of a new church, was portrayed so vividly. With Paul he had traveled the Holy Lands and penetrated to those surrounding nations which knew not Jesus and where Christianity began as an organized religion.
He felt a deep affinity with Paul, and a thorough knowledge of Acts prepared him for the Pauline letters that outlined the next steps in the spread of Christianity. His own discovery of Christ was less dramatic than Saul’s conversion into Paul on the road to Damascus, but it had been real. He was not, like others he knew, turning to religion because as a second son he had nowhere else to turn; the church was by no means his secondary choice. Long before his father had been nominated for Parliament he had been on the verge of announcing his commitment to Jesus, and would have done so regardless of his family’s fortunes.
The Covenant: A Novel Page 49
