When a young man distinguishes himself by taking a brilliant degree, the question is asked, “What profession is he going to adopt?” No doubt many were curious to know how Edward Hoare intended to make use of the talents that he possessed and the position which he had attained, and the following letter to his father, dated “May 17th, 1834,” supplies the answer:—
“. . . Now as to plans. With respect to the opening in business, I feel quite satisfied in declining it entirely. I am well aware that it might lead to an extensive field of usefulness and to many and great advantages in every point of view, but still I have long looked to the Church as my profession, and feel every day more and more decided in my desire to devote myself to it; and I earnestly hope that I may be strengthened in the feeling, and that when, if ever, my hopes should be realised, I may be taught to be a useful minister both to myself and others.”
In reply his father writes as follows:—
“Your letter conveyed the intelligence which I fully expected to receive. I have only to pray God to bless you and make you a bright and shining light in His sanctuary.
“You have chosen the better part, and I confidently hope and expect that a blessing will rest upon it, and although you may not be blessed with the fat of the land, that you will be with the springs of living water springing up into everlasting life.”
This was a distinct turning his back upon wealth, and perhaps social or even future Parliamentary distinction; but he had made up his mind. “The joy of the ministry” was the object of his young life, and surely thousands have had good reason to thank God for his choice, for thousands by his means have become sharers in that joy.
He did not, however, seek ordination at once. Being still too young for Holy Orders, and having been strongly urged to read for a Fellowship, he determined to set to work for another year of diligent study, and arranged at once to take a reading party of undergraduates to Killarney for the summer.
Many entertaining letters describe this period. We are rather alarmed in these days by the Race to the North between the trains of rival railway companies; the same spirit was not unknown sixty years ago, and showed itself in racing coaches!
The first letter describes such an event: two opposition coaches raced down a Welsh valley; one passed the other at full gallop, but soon began to sway fearfully, and at last went over with a terrible crash. Providentially and most marvellously no one was injured; had it happened a few yards farther on several lives would have been lost. Our travellers were deeply thankful for their escape, and proceeded on their journey viâ Holyhead to Dublin, and thence, after a short stay in the Irish capital, which they much admired, travelled southwards to the famous lakes. The exquisite scenery made a great impression upon the young Englishmen. “Fairy-land” was the first brief summary of opinion, and they agreed that it had surpassed all their expectations.
Great thankfulness is expressed frequently for the excellent parish clergyman, Mr. Bland, and his sermons are often described with interest. All were reading steadily, but frequent excursions were made, and rowing, fishing, and climbing of mountains kept them well occupied. One difficulty not met with on former occasions was the great hospitality of the surrounding gentry, who would have entertained them at dinners and balls every evening of the week if they had been disposed to go. Some of the young men could not resist the social charms of the place, and their chief writes a little despondently of the responsibility upon him of managing so large a party. He does not shrink from it, however, and the first letter mentions the regular “family reading” every day, to which they invited their landlord and his family. The condition of the poor Celtic population around served to excite at different times feelings of amazement, humour, and almost of disgust. It must be remembered that some considerable changes have taken place in the manners and customs of the poor of Ireland since then; still much that is said in the following letter is true, not only of that neighbourhood, but also of large portions of the South and West; and yet, as he used often to remark in later years, this ignorant, pauperised, and superstitious population have proportionately more representatives in Parliament than the intelligent artisans of England!
“I had no idea of such want of comforts. You may travel for miles and yet meet with scarcely any one whom a Brewhouse Lane pauper would condescend to speak to. I do not complain of their having no shoes and stockings, because that is not their misfortune but their choice, but what few clothes they have are a mere bundle of rags: you see women about in worn-out men’s coats, and the men do not cast them off till no strings can hold them together any longer. And then their cabins! you never saw such places; they generally consist of one room, though sometimes there are two. In the better sort there is a hole in the side by way of a window, but nowhere any glass in it; then there is a large aperture above the fire, which I believe is intended for a chimney, but the smoke decidedly prefers to proceed (after it has spent some time with its masters) by the more fashionable entrance of the door. This is a great convenience, as they smoke all their dried meat on the ceiling instead of in the narrow passage of the chimney. Their furniture consists of perhaps a table, two or three low chairs, a long box which serves for a bed for two or three by night and a seat by day, and a long bench for the younkers. Besides this there is some straw in one corner for those of the family who have no room in the box, and in another for the pigs; a large coop to fat the young chickens in, and some bars across the top which serve to dry the hams on and as roosting poles for the hens. In the third corner they may stow a young lamb, and in the fourth throw a heap of potatoes. I went to a place arranged as I have attempted to describe. At first I could not see for the smoke, but was soon told that if I were to stoop low enough I could breathe if not see; I accordingly sat me down on the low form, and when I was accustomed to the darkness I perceived the form of my hostess, bustling about with no shoes or stockings, and scolding hard at all the little urchins. Then there ensued a conflict with the pig, who could not understand on what grounds he was to be excluded, more especially when he saw the woman pour out a whole pot of hot potatoes on the table, and give a basin of goat’s milk to each of us, which I can assure you that we and the chickens feasted on with no inconsiderable relish. Now for mathematics!
“Your most affectionate Son,
“Edward Hoare.”
Men who have not forgotten the sensations of College life will recollect the rapid way in which age accumulates at the University! This comes out amusingly in some of the Killarney letters, e.g.:—
And again:—
“I am not reading hard, for we have all agreed that, as we have come so far, we will see the country well, and that I am too old and the others too young to fatigue ourselves with reading.”
A vast gap of about two years separated the leader of this reading party from his juvenile companions, and though the outer world may not recognise much difference between young fellows of twenty and twenty-two, University men will recognise at once the historical accuracy of the feeling and its expression! It is very hard to put aside all the amusing letters written at this time, with their picturesque descriptions of the exquisite scenery, their accounts of duck-shooting and stag-hunts and expeditions of various sorts, and their droll description of novel experiences in his present surroundings. The following extract from a letter to one of his sisters must suffice as a specimen:—
“I must tell you of our evening yesterday. I was reading away as hard as could be when I heard the bagpipe in the next room. I found it was Gandsey, the celebrated piper, and all the village crowded into the house to hear. However, the ladies who had him would shut the door, because, as our landlord said, ‘one of them was a dumpey,’ i.e. deformed, and did not wish to be seen, so that we were disappointed. When he had done with them we thought that we must give ourselves and all the listeners a treat, so we said he must play for us too; and as our room was not large enough for the party, we adjourned to the kitchen, which, though a large room, was soon as full as it could comfortably hold. We had several famous tunes, to the great delight of all parties. As I felt my own feet quite a-going with the music, I proposed that those who wished should have a dance. We soon had some volunteers, and a famous Irish jig was the consequence. The partners were to me so un-tempting, as by far the best was the cook-maid, that, though I longed to dance too, my pride would not come down, and I looked on. Upcher and Merivale, however, danced hard with two of the maids, but they could not learn the jig, so the latter gave up. Upcher, however, went on with more perseverance than skill. But I can assure you it was a grand scene—a fine old blind man, the best piper in Kerry, playing with all his might, and the more active dancing in the middle of the room to correspond, and, if any by chance had a pair of shoes, taking them off to be the more active; while all along the walls were the ragged Irish watching the dance and sucking in the music with the greatest animation. Now just think what a difference there is between our two situations: you sitting quietly in the comfortable library with my father and mother, and I giving a ball in the kitchen, with nothing but a clay floor and naked walls; with scarcely another sound coat in the room except our own!”
The summer at Killarney passed pleasantly, and October found the travellers back at Cambridge, Edward Hoare reading steadily for fellowship, but with a growing desire for the work of the ministry evidently uppermost in his thoughts. There are hardly any letters at this period, but his journal is full of the holy aspirations of the young man’s heart.
The following June (1835) found him at Keswick intent upon his studies, and at the same time full of increased longing to help others in spiritual things. Writing thence to his mother, he alludes to a brief visit to his rooms at Trinity, where he spent a busy week preparing and collecting papers to take with him. Almost all his old friends were gone, but his influence had reached men of junior standing, and the consequence was—
“I was quite delighted and touched by the warmth of affection which I received there. Goulburn and Merivale were both out, but I could compare my reception to nothing but the prophet’s in Israel. I thought there were no friends left, but there were nearer seven thousand, and most affectionate they were. Mr. Simeon especially was full of love and kindness; he spoke of you with the deepest interest, and said he longed to see you, and that he thought he could be a help to you as the messenger of the Gospel; and he spoke to me most beautifully about the Three Persons of the Trinity all assuming to themselves at different times the character of our Comforter, as also upon the fellowship existing between Christians through the Saviour.”
In the same letter, speaking of Keswick, he writes:—
“I regard this opportunity as likely to be one of great usefulness, and I look forward with great pleasure to the prospect of quiet repose, withdrawn from all active service, as a preparation of my own mind and a thorough sifting of the foundations, before I enter upon the more active duties to which I trust it may please God before long to call me.”
He was not content with mere meditation, however. Being desirous to give some help to the parish clergyman, he was asked to take some cottage lectures in a neighbouring farmhouse. As an old man he often referred with great joy to this time as the beginning of his ministry. The farmhouse was an old building with low rooms, having great deep beams running across the un-ceiled kitchen. The tall young figure could not stand erect in the low-pitched room, except by fitting his head between the beams!
But the difficulty and humour of the scene were both forgotten in the sight of the crowded, attentive listeners, and the evident signs of the presence of the power of the Holy Spirit in the midst. Long, long afterwards Canon Hoare revisited the place, found the farmhouse, entered the very room, and was overjoyed to meet some who had never forgotten the addresses of the earnest young collegian more than fifty years before.
Having failed in his fellowship examination, Edward Hoare was in perplexity as to the right course for him to pursue. His heart longed for the ministry. On the other hand, his former College tutor and many old friends urged him to stand again, saying that it was impossible for him to fail in obtaining fellowship. For three months he was in sore perplexity, looking for guidance, sometimes inclining to one plan, sometimes to the other. At last the leading came. The Rev. E. G. Marsh, Incumbent of Well Walk Chapel, Hampstead, called upon him, and his conversation settled the matter at once; the fellowship was given up, and Edward Hoare began to think of a curacy and speedy ordination.
Just at this time, and as if to try and hinder the young earnest heart from entering upon active work, the great enemy of souls assailed him with vehemence.
There was a long struggle, dark and intense. Probably the most faithful have had to go through terrible times of testing, and have known what it was to endure dark hours, aye, and days and weeks, “when neither sun nor stars appeared, and all hope that we should be saved was taken away.” It may be a comfort to many who in his ministry have been upheld by the firm faith of their teacher to know that Edward Hoare once passed through a time like this. It is no breach of confidence to give here the following lines written in his journal at this time:—
“Forsake me not, my God! my heart is sinking,
Bowed down with faithless fears and bodings vain,
Busied with dark imaginings, and drinking
Th’ anticipated cup of grief and pain:
But, Lord, I lean on Thee; Thy staff and rod
Shall guide my lot;
I will not fear if Thou, my God, my God,
Forsake me not.“Forsake me not, my God!
Though earth grow dim and vanish from my sight,
Through death’s dark vale no human hand may take me,
No friend’s fond smile may bless me with its light;
Alone the silent pathway must be trod
Through that drear spot—
For I must die alone—oh there, my God,
Forsake me not!“Forsake me not, my God! when darkly o’er me
Roll thoughts of guilt and overwhelm my heart;
When the accuser threatening stands before me,
And trembling conscience writhes beneath the dart,
Thou who canst cleanse by Thy atoning blood
Each sinful spot,
Plead Thou my cause, my Saviour and my God!
Forsake me not!“Forsake me not, O Thou Thyself forsaken
In that mysterious hour of agony,
When from Thy soul Thy Father’s smile was taken
Which had from everlasting dwelt on Thee:
Oh by that depth of anguish which to know
Passes man’s thought,
By that last bitter cry, Incarnate God,
Forsake me not!”
But the storm passed, and was followed by “clear shining after rain.” The adversary meant it for harm, but God overruled it for good; and surely one of the secrets of Edward Hoare’s great power of helping troubled souls, for which he was so remarkable in after-life, lay in the fact that he had passed through the time of spiritual darkness, and had come out into the light.
After taking my degree at Cambridge I continued to reside there for a time, taking mathematical pupils and reading for a Trinity Fellowship; but not having succeeded in my first examination, and being anxious to be at work in the great calling of my life, I could not devote another year to the study of mathematics. So I threw my whole heart into immediate preparation for the ministry.
In those days there was no Ridley or Wycliffe, and I was thrown upon my own resources for my study; but I worked hard and brought all my Cambridge habits to bear on the great subject of theology. If I had learnt nothing else at Cambridge, I had learnt never to be satisfied till I got a clear view of what I was about, and that habit of mine, acquired through mathematical study, has been of the greatest possible benefit throughout my life.
During those important months, to use Cambridge language, I “got up” some of our best books, such as Butler, Pearson, and Hooker. What I learnt from the latter especially has been invaluable to me through life. Butler’s “Analogy” has again and again been helpful to me, when there has been a tendency to a shaking of the faith. But that which helped me most during that time of preparation was the study of great doctrinal truths from Scripture itself. I took up such subjects as The Divinity of our Lord, Justification by Faith, Baptism, The Lord’s Supper, Election, and Final Perseverance, one at a time; and I read the whole New Testament through with especial reference to the one subject which I was studying, carefully noting every passage referring to it. I then analysed and grouped those passages, keeping careful records of results. Having thus dealt with one subject, I went on to the second, then to the third, and so on. I have no words wherewith to convey the immense value these studies have been to me throughout life. They have told upon the whole of my ministry. After more than fifty-two years I am habitually using the results first obtained in that preparation period.
I cannot speak too strongly, therefore, of the vast importance of our young men, when preparing for the ministry, devoting themselves to the careful study of theology. I see dear young men, full of zeal and holy earnestness, who seem, indeed, so zealous that they cannot wait to study; and they are to my mind like men who are in such haste to fire their guns that they cannot wait to put any shot in them! The result is that, when they are sent forth as ministers of the Gospel and as teachers of the truth, they are themselves ignorant of the clear definitions of the truth they are going to teach, and, while they can make fervent appeals, are utterly unable to build up others in great fundamental truths of the Gospel. It is not fervour only that makes a minister valuable, but a fervent exhibition of truth; and if we are to be able ministers, we must be able ministers of New Testament truths.
I consider, therefore, that an immense benefit has been conferred upon the Church of England by the foundation of Ridley Hall at Cambridge, and Wycliffe Hall at Oxford. How thankful should I have been myself to have been under the teaching of either of the two able Principals of those Halls; and how earnest should we all be to secure to our young men the benefit of these institutions, and not to let them go forth as evangelists or scripture-readers, to be giving out before they have taken in, and to be teaching others before they have learnt themselves.
At length the day came for my ordination, and I had the inestimable privilege of being ordained as curate to my revered and beloved uncle, Mr. Francis Cunningham, Vicar of Lowestoft and Rector of Pakefield. An ordination in those days was a very different thing to what it is now. At that time Bishop Bathurst was Bishop of Norwich, and too infirm to undertake his own ordinations. He therefore gave his candidates dimissory letters to the Bishop of Lincoln.
I cannot say that much was done to deepen the impression on the minds of the candidates. As we all had to go to Norwich first for examination, and to Buckden for ordination, it was necessary to show some consideration for us, as there were no railways then. I often think that the Chaplain showed a great deal of good sense in his examination. It began on Wednesday morning, and he told us that he should give us hard questions at the beginning, that they would grow easier and easier during the three days of the examination, and that he should let us go as soon as he was satisfied. So we had a good stiff paper on various subjects at the first sitting, while he walked about the room and looked over the papers as we were writing, but having nothing to look over from a great many of the candidates. It was a great satisfaction to me, when that first sitting was over, to be told that I might go, and that I should find the necessary papers at Buckden.
Most of us Norwich men had to put up at Huntingdon, as the little inn at Buckden was full of the men from the Lincoln Diocese; and as I imagine that the Bishop did not like to have the Norwich men in addition to his own, he gave us no share of any of the privileges that his own candidates may have enjoyed. We signed our papers, etc., on the Saturday morning, and were told that we Norwich men were not wanted any more till the next morning. Accordingly the next morning we were in the church at the appointed hour, and that evening, to my great joy, I read prayers at the parish church of Huntingdon. How wonderfully different is the careful pains taken by all our present Bishops ere young men are admitted to the ministry, and what a wonderful improvement has taken place in this respect!
Letter from Rev. E. G. Marsh, on his entering the ministry:—
“Hampstead, February, 1836.
“My dear Friend,—Knowing with whom you are connected in the great work which you have now undertaken, I feel that I might fairly excuse myself from saying anything to you upon an occasion so interesting to all your friends; and my natural indolence would readily yield to the suggestion, and withhold me from interfering where others are more competent to advise. Yet on the whole I could not be quite easy if I suffered you to enter upon an office, far too high and holy to be approached by a sinner, but for that infinite condescension and love of our Saviour which has called us to it, without saying to you, in the words of St. Paul to Archippus, ‘Take heed to the ministry which thou hast received in the Lord, that thou fulfil it!’ This is indeed a solemn charge, even more so than that which you have just received from the Bishop. I can add nothing to its weight, and can only pray my God to forgive all our deficiencies, and to supply all our need, according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus. Nevertheless there are one or two hints which I will venture to suggest, in case they should help you in taking a practical view of the obligations thus laid upon you. In the first place, although this is a work which can only be successfully prosecuted in the spirit of prayer and in the strength of the Saviour, it is very desirable that the greatness of it should not dishearten us, or render us insensible to the duty of doing what we can. My simple advice to you in the beginning of your ministry is this—never to let a day pass, if it be possible, without doing some act in fulfilment of it. I mean some act having respect, not to your own personal salvation, but to the salvation of those to whom you are an ambassador for Christ: to your parishioners, while you are among them; to others, when you are absent. And this act, whatever it be, should be made the subject of special prayer. My second advice is to give sufficient time to each act, that it may be done properly, and rather to let many be neglected than to do any one perfunctorily, for on that which is performed indifferently and without due attention we cannot consistently expect a blessing. To do one thing at a time is the only way, either in spiritual duties or in temporal, to do many things well. Do not, therefore, attempt too much at once. Many break down and are discouraged by this error. Again, I would say, ‘Attend more to the living than to the dying.’ However important may be the clinical department of ministerial duty, we must always be greatly on our guard against encouraging the notion that the work of religion may be done, as doctors’ degrees are sometimes taken, per cumulum, or that anything can be done by a clergyman at the last hour which can reasonably be expected to produce a change in the spiritual condition of a person who has neglected to seek it before. Thus the ministry which you have received may be continually carried forward, independently of those occasional calls, caused by the alarm of sickness or the apprehension of death, which are most valuable seasons indeed, but on which too much stress may be easily laid, to the neglect of more hopeful opportunities. I hardly intended to say so much, and indeed, on what I have now said you may naturally ask me whether these have been my maxims in the course of my own ministry. But, alas! my dear friend, I do not propose myself as an example to you. I rather wish to see you avoid my errors and supply my defects; and happy shall I be if, in the arduous duties on which you are now embarking, you can derive the least aid from a single word of mine. Commending you to God and to the word of His grace who alone can make you an able minister of the New Testament,
“I remain ever, my dear friend,
“Your faithful and affectionate fellow-labourer,
“E. G. Marsh.”
From Mrs. Hoare to Mrs. Catherine Gurney on Edward Hoare’s first sermon:—
“I must send thee one line, dearest Catherine, to tell thee what a remarkable day of interest we passed on Sunday. Our dearest Edward read the service in Well Walk in the morning and in the evening preached. It was deeply interesting, and I longed to have my heart melted in love and gratitude. Such heartfelt satisfaction to have this dear child so devoted, and adorned with so childlike, lovely, and devoted a spirit, and thus enabled in our own chapel, amongst our friends and neighbours, to proclaim with grace and fervour the great salvation of the Gospel of Christ! This appeared to me to be remarkably the case with him, and, independent of a mother’s feelings, his countenance and manner, his manly grace and childlike humility and simplicity, were striking. The congregation had, I believe, much fellow-feeling with us, and the expression of it from different friends has been touching to us. Never was I less disposed to boast, and deeply can unite in that expression ‘Where is boasting?—It is excluded’; and yet I long to say with the Psalmist, ‘My soul shall make her boast in the Lord,’ and in the blessing He has been pleased to vouchsafe. Of course we feel the prospect of parting with Edward; one of the many cheering points in the prospect is his vicinity to Earlham, and to thee and our dearest brother. How kind has Joseph been to him, and what an opportune visit was his last to Earlham!
“I went to see Anna Tooten yesterday at Tottenham, as I had left Upton before the arrival of thy letter. Catherine has been very much cast down lately, and I am but a poor helper. The dear babes are with me to-day, while their mother is in Devonshire Street.
“My dearest brother and sister, nephew and niece, and dear Rachel included, I know they will all unite with us in the interest of Edward.
“Your truly affectionate
“L. H.”
It was not long afterwards that I went to my curacy. Pakefield was a bleak village on the top of a cliff, and I never shall forget what the guard on the coach said to me as I was approaching it for the first time. I had complained of cold, and he said to me, “Don’t talk about the cold yet; wait till you get to Pakefield—there you catches it genuine!” And so we did. Aye, and I witnessed many a gale of wind, and during the year that I was curate, there were no less than fifty shipwrecks off the coast of my own parish.
But no words can express my thankfulness to God that He placed me at the outset of my ministry in that village. My dear uncle had laboured there for more than forty years. In his day there were none of the new plans for evangelisation; the high-pressure system had not yet dawned. He had worked hard with parochial work, and he had faithfully preached the old-fashioned Gospel. There was no particular brilliancy about him; his sermons were not equal to his character, but they were like himself, full of Christ, and he and his most remarkable wife lived such a life of Christian holiness in the midst of those rough fishermen, that the late Rev. Henry Blunt once told me that he considered Mr. Francis Cunningham and Mr. Haldane Stewart to be the two holiest men he had ever met with in his life. And what did I find in that village? I found large congregations of fishermen and their families; but more than that, I went diligently about from house to house, and was soon acquainted with every house in the parish, and there I saw unmistakable evidences of the blessing that had rested upon my uncle’s ministry.
There were noble men among the fishermen, nobly working for God and for the cause of truth, and there were refined and well-instructed women in the different homes, many of whom had been brought up in those schools. There was a most marked and unmistakable difference between the converted and the unconverted, so that it was impossible for a young man to go from house to house without seeing with his own eyes the manifest results of a faithful Evangelical ministry. I have no words to express what the benefit was to myself. I learnt in that village what I was to expect, as well as what I was to do.
I saw in Mrs. Cunningham the most beautiful example of a clergyman’s wife, and I saw in numbers of young women of the parish the conspicuous evidence of God’s blessing on her work amongst them.
There were amongst those men fine, noble, rough, powerful fellows—men who, till Mr. Cunningham went there, had been living without God in the world, but now devout consistent believers, and splendid men for dashing through the surf to save life from shipwreck, knowing not what fear was, yet who would kneel together in devout Communion at the Table of the Lord. I never can forget one fearful snow-storm accompanied by a heavy gale. Two of these true men, Nath Colby and Robert Peck, brought in their boats through the gale, wet, cold, and half-frozen, but there I saw them at the service on the Thursday evening, drinking in the Word of Life, and evidently regarding it as their greatest pleasure to be able to be present on that occasion.
That was the last time I ever spoke to dear Robert Peck. He went out again in command of his large fishing boat, and early in the following week I heard that his boat had been found bottom upward. It was my solemn duty to walk through the village, where, everybody being so awed by what had happened, no one spoke a word, to go up to that cottage to tell the poor woman her husband and her son were gone. As I went up the alley where she lived, I heard voices in one of the cottages; turning in, I found some Christian friends assembled there, praying for the poor bereaved woman. I then went into her cottage, and I suppose she read in my face what had happened, and she said to me, ere I could open my lips, “Then they are both lost?” Then she added: “‘A bruised reed shall He not break, and the smoking flax shall He not quench.’ These were the last words that Robert spoke to me—and I am sure the Lord will never fail me!” Oh that every young curate had the opportunity of learning as much from his Rector, and his Rector’s family, as I did from Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham! I do not hesitate to say that their example, and the blessing which God gave to their ministry, have given character to the whole of my own ministry for the last fifty-two years.
These were not the only advantages I enjoyed in Pakefield, for I was within easy reach of Earlham, the seat of my dear Uncle Joseph John Gurney. He was a very remarkable man, and his home was one of the most charming homes in England. He used to collect there many of the most distinguished men of the day. Nothing could be more delightful than the great gatherings under his hospitable roof on the occasion of the Norwich Meetings which were held every autumn.
I had a horse at that time which taught me a great lesson in practical life. It was a splendid trotter, but pulled like a steam-engine if I pulled against it; but if I treated it gently and with confidence it was as gentle as a lamb. How often have I seen the same effect produced amongst mankind! Try to force them, and they resist; deal gently with them, and they will be your most active and kindest helpers. So I used as often as possible to ride over to Earlham.
There I had three friends. There was my uncle, who was far in advance of the Quakers of his day in theological knowledge, being a good Biblical critic and well made up in the great doctrines of the Gospel. The great point in his conversations with me was the Divinity of our Lord and Saviour. It was he that taught me of the goings forth of the pre-existent Saviour with the Name and Attributes of Jehovah. Then there was Mr. William Forster, the father of the late statesman, who was most earnest with me on the importance of definite theology. He recommended certain books for my study, and at his advice I purchased Brown’s “Natural and Revealed Religion,” Guise’s “Expositor,” and Dwight’s “Theology,” which three books have been of the utmost value to me throughout my ministry. The latter book indeed has been made the text-book for my son’s theological students in China. Thus is Mr. Forster’s advice being still acted upon in that far distant region.
Besides these two men was my very dear friend the Rev. Robert Hankinson, at that time Curate of Earlham. He was a man of remarkably sound judgment, as well as fervent piety; and never can I forget the profitable hours which I spent with him in the Earlham Parsonage, learning from him maxims of practical wisdom to carry home for my ministerial work.
But that was not all that happened to me at Pakefield; for while I was there it pleased God to take home to Himself my dearest mother. My dear brother Sam had died of consumption in the year 1833, and she deeply mourned his loss—nor could we wonder, for he was a noble young man, full of high principles, dutiful to his father and mother, and devoted to the Lord. His influence over us his younger brothers was of infinite value to us all, as we had ever before us a spotless example. He had married most happily, was settled in his home near to our father’s house, when he was suddenly seized with hæmorrhage, and very rapidly sank, full of faith in God. I remember well, when I sat up with him on the last night of his life, how he spoke to me of the bright hope of the coming Resurrection, how he exhorted those around him to be ready for their Saviour.
I believe it was the shock as well as the sorrow of parting with him that so deeply wrung my mother’s heart. She was in his room with him on the morning of his death, and thinking that his dear wife required attention, she went out for a few minutes to see after her, and when she returned, to her surprise, he was gone. That was in the autumn of 1833, and for nearly three years we saw her gradually fail, till at length in the summer of 1836 the end came.
There was something most interesting in the character of my mother. She was not one of those who spoke much of present salvation and present peace; such subjects were not spoken of so much throughout the Church in those days as they are now. Good men in those times seemed to think more of the future than the present salvation. I am not sure that we have not drifted rather too much into the dwelling on the present, to the forgetfulness of the future life, and surely it is important for us to keep the balance. But while there was very little of the modern language of assurance, there was in its most perfect form the great reality of the hallowed Christ. I can never forget the language of that dearest mother to me as I stood by her bedside during her dying illness: “I can reverently say, with the deepest humility, ‘Lord, Thou knowest all things, Thou knowest that I love Thee.’” And she did love Him with her whole heart and soul. How well do I remember her words in the garden at Hampstead in the afternoon of her son’s death! While she wept over his loss, she exclaimed, “How little it is in comparison with sin!” [66]
“Pakefield, June 20th, 1836.
“My dearest Mother,—Having paid my bills and seen after the schools, I commence my usual Monday’s letter. . . . As for myself, it is needless to give you my history, for you know it already, the life of a country curate not being subject to much external variation. The internal changes, however, are indeed numerous—more frequent and uncertain than those of our most changeable climate. I never had an idea how many ups and downs there are attendant on the ministerial work. At times it is delightful; all seems easy and pleasant, and the only difficulty is to keep within bounds. At others there is a deadness and barrenness which words cannot describe. I speak under a very vivid recollection of this low estate, for I was down at the very bottom yesterday. I fought my way pretty fairly through the morning sermon (on Isa. xxviii. 16), but in the evening I had a real trial of my faith. I had good notes, and had well considered my subject. But as soon as I began it all appeared to leave me. I was much in the position that Robert Hall was when he broke down, and I thought I must have stopped. There were my notes, but they seemed to tell me nothing, and I had the pain of going through my lecture hardly knowing while I was delivering one sentence whether I should ever find another to follow it. You may easily imagine, from such a description of the performer, what was the character of the performance. However, I can look back to it, painful as it was, with great thankfulness: for (1) I know that in weakness He is strong, and the good done may perhaps be greater than that which would have followed a clear and well-delivered lecture; and (2) if it did no one else any good, it was a fine lesson for myself, and one that I wanted. I knew I wanted to be kept down, and had prayed for it. This was the appointed means.”
Writing to his mother at various times upon his work at Pakefield there occur passages such as these:—
“Preaching is becoming more and more a pleasure to me. The great difficulty of addressing people appears to pass away. The knowledge of all the congregation is partly the cause, and also the encouragement derived from visiting.”
“You see there is a good deal doing here, but what is it all if the Spirit of God be absent?—a sounding brass and tinkling cymbal. It is there that the difficulty lies. Nothing is easier than to get through the duties of a parish, and to get through them, as man thinks, well; but to go to your work in the Spirit of Christ, carrying with you the unction from the Holy One, there is the difficulty. May God forgive my great shortcomings! Sometimes I dread Jeremiah xlviii. 10.”
Upon the spiritual life he writes to his sister:—
“The characteristic of the new life is that we have fellowship with the Father and with His Son Jesus Christ; it must therefore follow that all interruptions will increase a deadness of faith, and total separation cause death. It is one of the privileges of my office that all my work is for God (though He only knows how little I keep this end in view), and therefore the busier I am the more I am compelled to pray. This, however, is not sufficient, though delightful. We cannot live without that ‘freedom of speech,’ translated ‘boldly’ in Hebrews iv., in which we pour out our heart before Him. When we know that we know in truth that God is a refuge for us, this is the balm of Gilead that can heal every wound, the power that can say to the troubled waters, ‘Peace, be still!’ In order to the attainment of it let us allow nothing to impede our private communion with our God.”
Writing one Sunday evening to his mother he says:—
“I have had somewhat to contend with in myself from very cloudy views of the doctrines I was preaching. At the same time I have found comfort in the recollection that the work is not mine nor dependent upon my own feelings. I began work at a quarter before nine by opening the boys’ school; at ten I was really refreshed and humbled by just dropping into the prayer-meeting; there was a most beautiful spirit amongst them, and they were praying most delightfully for me. I left them deeply impressed with the sense of their far greater fitness to teach me than mine to be their minister.”
In the postscript of a letter dated August 1st, 1836, he writes: “Congratulate Uncle Buxton upon the glorious events of this day.” An entry in his journal dwells joyfully upon it also—and well might his and every Englishman’s heart be stirred by the thought that from that day every slave standing on British soil was free!
But my Pakefield curacy was soon to terminate. Whether it was the cold, or whether it was the pressure of ministerial interest, which I have often known to break down young men in the outset of their ministry, or whether it was the death of my dearest mother, or the three together, I cannot say; but I had a bad cough, and I went away for a time to my father’s home to nurse it. I had no idea at the time of leaving Pakefield, but my kind and valued friend the Rev. J. W. Cunningham, brother to my Rector, recommended me, without my knowledge, to the curacy of Richmond, Surrey.
He was a true friend to me and to my family. He was a very different man to his brother; he had taken a high degree at Cambridge, and he was a polished scholar, one of the best writers of the English language that I ever met with, an admirable friend as a scholarly critic to a young man entering the ministry. I am much indebted to his advice, and only wish I had followed it more carefully. It was his doing that introduced me to the Rev. W. Gandy, Vicar of Kingston and Richmond; and through him the curacy was proposed to me.
I must say that it was a desperate experiment on his part, for there were peculiar circumstances connected with the position, and I had never run alone in the ministry, but always had the friendship and counsel of my beloved Rector.
The position of the parish was this. There were four parishes lying together along the banks of the Thames—Kingston, Petersham, Richmond, Kew—all in the gift of King’s College, Cambridge. It had been thought desirable that there should be only two Vicars instead of four, and therefore it had been arranged to group them, two and two. Of course the most natural arrangement would have been to have put together the small parish of Petersham and the large parish of Kingston to which it was adjacent, and the small parish of Kew and the large parish of Richmond which also adjoined. But in those days there used to be a good deal of jobbery, and, for some reason or other which I never could explain, it had been decided to unite together the two large parishes, Kingston and Richmond, skipping over Petersham; and the two small parishes, Petersham and Kew, skipping over Richmond; so that the Rev. Mr. Gandy was Vicar of Kingston and Richmond, while another gentleman was Vicar of the other two smaller ones.
Mr. Gandy was a man altogether incompetent to have the charge. He was a most interesting man, and a deep student of Scripture—a man of heavenly mind, one in fact who seemed so occupied with heavenly views that he was unfitted for the practical business of this lower world. Mr. Simeon once said of him, “All of us are going stumping along on the surface of earth, but Mr. Gandy rises right into Heaven!”
It may easily be imagined that he found his great double charge far too much for him, so Mr. Cunningham advised him practically to give up Richmond into the hands of some trustworthy curate, who should find his own assistant, and undertake the entire responsibility of the work. This was the charge to which I was called by the providence of God in those early days of my ministry. I have just said it was a desperate experiment, and looking back to that time I can see plenty of mistakes, and I learn from my own experience that it is a possible thing to mistake the irritation produced by our own blunders for opposition to the Gospel which we preach; a man may be true to the Gospel, but he may not infrequently make very great mistakes in his mode of putting it forth.
In looking back to those days I am thankful to believe that I went to Richmond true to my Master, and I am profoundly thankful for the help given me; but I should make a great mistake if I were to lead anybody to suppose that, in my earnest desire to exalt my Saviour, I never did anything to irritate. At one time I had great difficulty with one of the churchwardens, which led to a considerable correspondence. I kept that correspondence carefully, and after ten years I looked it over. That revision taught me a great lesson, for I found that in the heat of the controversy I had written very differently to what I should have done in the calmer review of ten years afterwards. That was one of the lessons I learnt at Richmond.
That which I look back upon with the greatest thankfulness is a confirmation by my Richmond experience of the great lesson I learnt at Pakefield respecting the results to be expected from the ministry. Mr. Gandy had been Vicar for some twenty-five years, during which time he had appointed a series of curates, the first of whom was the Rev. Stephen Langston, who resigned the curacy about twenty years before I was appointed. But when I set to work in the parish, the first thing that met my observation was a body of Christian men and women who owed their conversion, through God, to Mr. Langston’s ministry. There they were living consistent lives and most truly glorifying God, in some cases under sharp opposition, and the twenty years that had elapsed since Mr. Langston left only tended to confirm their faith and establish their character.
Both in Pakefield and Richmond, therefore, it was my unspeakable privilege to see the effects produced by the faithful ministry of the Word of God. And yet the two cases were entirely different. Mr. Cunningham was an admirable pastor, but not a particularly interesting preacher; Mr. Langston was a poor pastor, but the grandest preacher I ever heard. I have heard many able men preach many excellent sermons, but there was a richness, a fulness, a power about Mr. Langston’s such as I never met with in any other to whom I have listened. The two instruments, therefore, were entirely different, but God made use of them both. They were both blessed by Him; and it taught me the lesson that I must be prepared to meet with great differences of administration, but in the midst of those differences it is our privilege to look for a blessing. God did not withhold from Mr. Cunningham His blessing, because he had not the preaching power of Mr. Langston; nor did He withhold His blessing from Mr. Langston, because he had not the pastoral zeal of Mr. Cunningham.
The lesson taught me was not the only blessing bestowed upon me through the friendship of those excellent people. I had in it the enormous advantage of the ripened experience and tried wisdom of some of the most excellent Christian people living. Never can I forget the friendship of Sir Henry and Lady Baker, of Dr. Julius and of Mrs. Delafosse, to whose loving sympathy and Christian counsel I used continually to resort; and amongst the humbler classes there was Mrs. Abbott, a grand old Christian who had loved the Lord before she heard the preaching of the Gospel, and the moulding of whose faith was drawn from the Prayer-Book. She often used to express to me her astonishment that when people were brought to Christ it did not make them love their Prayer-Book more.
And down a row of cottages at the bottom of Water Lane there lived a blind woman named Mrs. Woodrow, whom I shall ever regard as one of the best of my many friends. I had been preaching one day on the importance of praying for the ministry, and when visiting her a few days afterwards I said, “I’m sure you pray for me.” “Indeed I do,” she replied with great emphasis, “morning, noon, and night.” She spoke with such earnestness that I could not refrain from asking her what she prayed for, when she said, “They tell me you’re a very young man, so I pray that you may be kept from the sins of young men.” How much do I owe to the prayers of that blind widow!
In addition to these advantages I enjoyed the intimate friendship of my beloved and honoured friend the Rev. James Hough, founder of the Tinnevelly Mission. After his return from India he had settled in the incumbency of Ham, and I never can forget his first visit to me. I had taken a lodging just beyond the bridge, and I had scarcely finished my breakfast on the first day after my arrival when the venerable man entered the room. He spoke very kindly to me, and before he would say a word upon any other subject, he told me that many Christian friends had been praying that the right appointment might be made, and afterwards for me when they heard that I was appointed, and that he had come on the first possible occasion to commend me solemnly to the Lord. He then fell on his knees and pleaded for me before God that I might have grace and wisdom for the difficult post to which I had been called. His subsequent intercourse with me was in harmony with that beginning. His house was always open to me, and whenever I wanted counsel I always used to go to him, as I never failed to find in him one who seemed to bring his wisdom fresh from the throne of grace.
With these advantages I set to work. I wonder at the grace of God that kept me from making more blunders than I did; for having had no experience I had not the slightest fear of difficulty. Things in those days were very different to what they are now. Ritualism had not then been invented, nor had that loose vague system now so popular under the name of Undenominationalism.
Among those who professed to be Churchmen there were only two classes—those whose Churchmanship consisted in maintaining things as they were, who were living for the world; who, if they cared for their own souls, were utterly unconcerned about the souls of others; who showed not the slightest sympathy in any Christian object, and who seemed to consider that anything that disturbed them must of necessity be unorthodox. To avoid such disturbance one of those gentlemen stumped out of church every Sunday morning as I went up to the pulpit, and others used to take refuge in the chapel of Archdeacon Cambridge on the other side of the river.
On the other hand, there was a body of people, drawn from all classes of society, who “had passed from death unto life,” who had been quickened by the Spirit of God, and who were taking their stand nobly on the side of their Saviour. Thus there was a much wider line of demarcation between the converted and the unconverted than we meet with in modern times, and a clergyman’s work was simpler than it is now, inasmuch as there was much less to entangle and confuse the application of the message to individual souls.
But there was in some cases sharp opposition. It may seem extraordinary to some that at the visitation of the late Bishop of Winchester, [77] then Archdeacon of Surrey, I was publicly presented before the Archdeacon by one of the churchwardens for having been guilty of giving a Wednesday evening lecture in the infant schoolroom! What was more extraordinary still was that, when I was called up before the Archdeacon and all the clergy to answer for my fault, the Archdeacon said with great solemnity that it was an important matter, and he must refer it to the Bishop. And what is more wonderful still, in consequence of that reference I had to give up the lecture.
The Bishop was in a great difficulty. He thoroughly approved of such lectures, and had advocated them in a charge recently delivered, but he believed that they were not strictly in accordance with the Act of Uniformity, so that he felt it impossible to support me, while at the same time he did not at all wish to have the responsibility of stopping me. This led to a somewhat painful correspondence with that excellent man, and after full consultation with my dear friend Mr. Hough, I thought it best to give up the lecture, stating that I did so in obedience to the Bishop’s wish. One blessed result of that whole transaction was that a bill was carried through Parliament distinctly legalising all such services.
But of all those whom God raised up as counsellors and friends, there was no one to be compared to the beloved one whom God gave me to be my loving wife, [78] on July 10th, 1839. She combined the ability of her father with the devotedness of her mother, and it is perfectly impossible for me to say what she was to me in the parish, in her home, and our own private intercourse. One thing only I would especially mention respecting her, viz. that it was to her that I owe what I believe to be the most useful characteristic of my ministry—I am thankful to say that from the very beginning I always quoted a great deal of Scripture in my sermons, but I used to do so interweaving those texts with my own composition. But she taught me the use of proof texts—she said that my preaching was not so profitable as that of the Rev. H. H. Beamish, to which she had been accustomed, and instead of merely quoting a passage, he used to give a chapter and verse, and allow the people time to look it out in their Bibles.
As he was constantly engaged in the exposition of the Word of God, and laid a solid foundation of the truth taught, I was thoroughly convinced of the wisdom of her words; and for the last fifty years I have systematically acted on her advice, so that, although I never heard Mr. Beamish in my life, I have always regarded his ministry as the model on which my own has been formed; and when I have seen the blessing which the exposition of Scripture has been made to very many souls, I have never ceased to thank God for that dear young wife who did not shrink from pointing out to her husband his defects.
It was during the period of my Richmond curacy that I had the high honour of being invited by my dear friend the Rev. Henry Venn to become a member of the Committee of Correspondence of the Church Missionary Society. I think it was in the year 1844. I am not quite sure respecting the date, but I have no hesitation in expressing my thankfulness to our Heavenly Father for the wisdom, the fidelity, for the true missionary spirit with which the affairs of that great society have been conducted during the many years of my intimate acquaintance with its business and its leaders.
My love for it when I was at Richmond once brought me into a serious difficulty with the late Bishop Wilberforce, and taught me his marvellous power in controlling the minds of men. He was at that time Archdeacon of Surrey, and as such he proposed a scheme for doing away with all especial interest in particular societies, and to raise one general fund to be laid “at the feet of the Apostles,” and divided by them according to their discretion.
We did not exactly know who the Apostles were. We thought that probably they were to be the Archdeacon and the Bishop, as they were to be the distributors.
Against this scheme the friends of the Church Missionary Society rose as one man. We held a meeting to consider what should be done. We decided that we would all attend the Archdeacon’s meeting in order to oppose the plan, and engaged conveyances accordingly. When the morning came I had such a headache as I never remember to have suffered from, either before or since, and I was utterly unable to leave my bed, so off drove the others, full of zeal and holy courage. But what was my astonishment when they returned in the afternoon, and one of the most faithful, earnest, and trustworthy of the whole party came to tell me the result. He said they had found the plan was not so objectionable as they had thought, and at length reluctantly acknowledged that the Archdeacon had not allowed them to separate till he had made every one of them, dear old Mr. Hough included, sign a paper agreeing to the introduction into their own parishes of the Archdeacon’s scheme.
So then I stood alone, and thanked God for the headache which had saved me from the fascination.
But Richmond was the parish that was doing more than any other in the rural deanery for Missions, and it was most important for the success of the plan that Richmond should be included. So nothing was left undone that could induce me to join the others. But I was still free, as all my other brethren began to wish they were, and I stuck to my point. I was invited in the most cordial manner for a visit, with my dearest wife, first to Alvenstoke and then to Farnham Castle. I was addressed in the language of warm affection, not only towards myself, but to my beloved mother. But I considered that by the Providence of God I had been preserved from the fascinating power, and that my only wisdom was to keep clear of it when I was free; so we went on independently till the next visitation of the Bishop. My heart was filled with thankfulness when I heard him announce in his charge that he had advised his beloved friend, the Archdeacon, to give up his scheme.
This curacy I held for more than nine years, for seven of which I had the unspeakable help of my dearly beloved, most faithful, and most able wife. During the time I had different livings offered to me, and I believe that, if I had regarded my worldly interest, I should have accepted some of them. But I had a great conviction of the importance of my position, and strong belief that the Lord had called me to it. So we both agreed that we were most likely to do His will if we persevered in the curacy.