1813: “An Earnest Reflection Upon the Providential Greatness of England, Its Church, and Its Civilising Mission”
In The Spectator by The Honourable and Reverend Augustus Meriweather Watervale, M.A., Rector and Canon‑Designate of Midchester Cathedral
It is my solemn conviction, formed through years of scriptural meditation, moderate exercise, and steady dining, that no people in the history of Providence have been found so deserving of divine esteem as the English. I recognise that modesty is one of our national virtues; but as the custodian of moral truth, I cannot permit modesty to interfere with instruction. The time has come, perhaps, for our nation to recognise openly what Heaven has already ordained secretly: namely, that England, in her institutions—both spiritual and imperial—possesses a charter of superiority written not in human ink but celestial dew.
Consider the evidence. By God’s manifest appointment, our dominion has spread to the farthest corners of the globe with the ease of morning light across the sea. From the rugged shores of Africa to the perfumed isles of the Indies, from the wilderness of the Americas to those new antipodean settlements (where convicts are transformed into penitents by sunshine and industry), the English flag flutters as a visible emblem of divine favour. When I examine such expansion, reason compels me to interpret it not as accident but as apotheosis. Would Heaven, that thrifty administrator, lavish success upon an unworthy people? I think not.
“In Thy light shall we see light,” saith the Psalmist (36:9). It is precisely in our light—Anglican and English—that the world begins to see at all. Other nations make commerce; we make civilisation. The French, poor distracted race, confused Reason with God and reaped the guillotine. The Spaniard, too indolent for Providence, lost his colonies to sloth. But we, animated by Scripture and the solidity of roast beef, have made Empire an act of devotion. We conquer not for gain but for ordinance, and collect tithes of continents in token of gratitude.
Indeed, it has been whispered—by envious foreigners chiefly—that our ascendancy arises from ships, gunpowder, or industry. These are secondary instruments. The true source of our prosperity lies in our spiritual architecture: the Anglican Church herself, that noble compromise between zeal and reason. “Therefore now amend your ways and your doings,” exhorted Jeremiah (7:3), “and I will cause you to dwell in this place.” We have amended both, moderately; thus we continue to dwell, magnificently. The Church’s measured latitude—Catholic in ceremony, Protestant in integrity—provides divine ventilation to the conscience. Rome suffocates, Geneva shivers; Canterbury, sensibly temperate, breathes. It is this very breath that has filled the sails of Empire.
I am sometimes accused, by critics deficient in patriotism, of exaggeration. Yet what is exaggeration but the enthusiasm of truth? To declare England and the Anglican doctrine supreme is not vanity but acknowledgment of fact. Since the days of St. Paul, who foreshadowed us when he preached to the Gentiles, no faith has travelled so prosperously. “Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature” (Mark 16:15). We have obeyed with an efficiency Christ Himself might envy. We have Christianised the compass! Our missionaries—those spiritual mariners—sow pence as parables and reap souls for the census. Entire tribes, who a decade ago worshipped tobacco or trees, now kneel before our Lord and pay customs duties. To me this seems sagely providential.
There are historians—foreign, naturally—who compare our dominion to that of Rome. The parallel is flattering but incomplete. Rome, let us remember, fell; England ascends. Rome conquered to exploit; England conquers to improve. Jerusalem fell to sin; Babylon to pride; yet London, that sacred Babylon of industry, grows stronger hourly. “For the kingdom is the Lord’s: and he is the governor among the nations” (Psalm 22:28). How could one doubt that His headquarters lie conveniently near Westminster?
In such meditations I find especial comfort in our constitution, that blessed trinity of King, Lords, and Commons—a human reflection of the divine. The King, paternal; the Nobility, apostolic; the People, evangelical; the Bishopric, mediating between all as do angels between Heaven and Earth. His Majesty, the earthly vicegerent of Providence, steers the nation not by innovation but by example of immovable dignity. When he speaks, even the weather listens. Our nobility—those gracious patrons of virtue and venison—constitute the golden frame around the nation’s portrait. We clergy hang safely between, interpreting God’s will in language both comprehensible and conveniently English.
Of the working classes (that industrious multitude whose labour oils our theology), I must say this: let them continue working cheerfully in their stations, assured that they serve the very structure of Heaven. For “he that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much” (Luke 16:10). The poor man polishing a shoe contributes as sensibly to the triumph of England as the Admiral who crystallises glory at sea. The key, of course, is that each must know his blessed place. Providence, which made some eyes short‑sighted and others longsighted, clearly intended hierarchy. Heaven, if democratic, would be chaos; so too would England if everyone began thinking independently, which mercifully appears unlikely.
In all these matters we perceive the unity of Church and Empire: two branches of the same oak, nourished by divine rain and the savings of the wealthy. The rich, those fortunate vessels of celestial confidence, must remain affluent if the country is to display God’s benevolence. I have often remarked—privately, to generous parishioners—that almsgiving is improved by affluence: it is difficult to bestow charity from an empty larder. Therefore let us make the continuation of wealth a Christian duty! Surely our merchants’ fortunes are but the visible sacraments of grace.
It will be said, by those who measure greatness in other currencies than salvation, that England’s Empire, like Rome’s, must decline. Yet the evidence is entirely opposite. Each colony planted is another verse added to our collective psalm. If Rome wore laurel, we wear lawn sleeves. If Caesar built roads, we build rectories. The world’s map, once idolatrously various, now whitens like linen—an outward sign of inward cleansing. Even the heathen have begun to imitate our vices, which is the first step toward conversion.
Finally, then, what reason compels us to suppose that so beneficent a pattern might break? The sea, which girds our island like a sacramental ring, ensures eternal fidelity between England and God. The world may envy, but it cannot dissolve, that union. “Blessed is the nation whose God is the Lord,” says the Psalmist (33:12). We might add: “and whose imports are profitable.”
Thus I conclude, in the calm confidence of revelation, that Heaven looks favourably upon all Englishmen—not selectively upon the pious or competent, but inclusively upon the obedient. England is the chosen vineyard: some grapes make claret, some vinegar, yet all belong to the same estate. Let us therefore preserve harmony between altar and Empire, rich and poor, bishop and bootblack, church bell and canon shot. This is not merely national policy; it is divine arithmetic. God has multiplied us across the world, and surely He knows His business better than the Opposition.
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