When I first saw Windsor in the winter of 1830–31 how different the town appeared from what it did afterwards! All about Thames Street and Castle Hill was crowded with old houses and shops on both sides of the way, and the walls bounding Lower Ward were hidden from view, except where the Clock Tower, which stood in advance, looked down upon the passers-by. A large plain brick mansion, called the Queen’s Lodge, long since removed, occupied the right hand of the road leading to York and Lancaster Gate, while old-fashioned tenements lined the approach to the royal precincts. On the night of my first arrival patches of snow covered the roofs, and dotted the pediments of doors and windows; over Henry VIII.’s gateway hung a gorgeous hatchment in memory of George IV., who had not long before left this life. It was slow travelling from London to Windsor in those days, especially when the waters were out, and the roads were heavy, and thick fogs rendered the leaders invisible to the coachman; whilst deep ruts clogged the wheels and now and then an icy flood came up to the axles. In the town I heard a great deal about “Windsor of the olden time,” when highway robbers were rife, and gentlemen who took to the road would lie in wait under cover of a plantation, and, galloping over a field, stop the traveller and lighten him of his purse. According to one informant, a tradesman in High Street, at the latter part of the eighteenth century, kept a swift-trotting nag, which he mounted after dark to do a little business on the road, and then returned richer than he went. People at that time, as I heard some of them say, did not think of riding or driving over Hounslow Heath alone; but, when approaching that ill-famed spot where gibbets lingered by the roadside, were careful to wait till a number was formed able to defend themselves against the attack of thieves. The sobriety of many inhabitants in the royal borough did not stand high, and at mayors’ feasts the guests did not think they sufficiently honoured the hospitalities of the evening, unless they drank so much as made it difficult for them to find their way home.
Anecdotes of George III. were rife. I heard that he used to rise early, take a walk before breakfast, and sit down in a certain bookseller’s shop, looking at publications on the counter. But one morning he saw a book by Tom Paine lying there; after that he paid no more visits. Sometimes he said very shrewd things. A Bow-street runner, named Townsend, liked to attend early prayers when His Majesty was present, and to make himself heard in loud responses. One day he was running about after service looking for something he could not find. “Townsend, Townsend, what are you after?” “I have lost my hat, please your Majesty.” “You prayed well,” was the monarch’s rejoinder; “but you did not watch.” The king had a wonderful memory; and once, as a troop of yeomanry rode past in review, he pointed out a man amongst them of whom he had bought a horse twenty years before, and whom he had not seen afterwards.
An old inhabitant, who became my father-in-law, vouched for the truth of some of these stories; and bore testimony, not only to the condescension and familiarity of George III., but to the kindness and consideration of George IV. One remark which my friend and relative used to make as he was walking through the apartments of the castle, produced a startling effect. Stopping before the picture of Charles I., he would say: “He looks just as he did when I last saw him.” The fact was that my relative was present when Sir Henry Halford superintended the exhumation of the beheaded king; and he first caught a glimpse of the royal face, because he assisted in cutting open the coffin lid. The face was perfect, and exactly resembled Vandyke’s famous portrait of Charles I. When exposed to the air the dust crumbled away.
After preaching at Windsor, as a student, several times, I received an invitation to become co-pastor of the Congregational church. The Rev. A. Redford, a man of singular consistency of character, who by his conduct as a Christian minister won the respect and confidence of the town generally, as well as of his own little flock, had been in office for many years, and needed assistance in his sacred calling. He won my heart; and as a son with a father I laboured with him in the gospel. George III., who had a domestic or two in his household attending on this good man’s preaching, was heard to say: “The clergy are paid by the country to pray for me, but Mr. Redford’s praying is without pay.”
In the prospect of my becoming co-pastor, the congregation in 1832 determined to build a new chapel, the one in existence being not sufficiently large; and as a sign of the honour in which the senior minister was held, I may mention, that Church-people, as well as Dissenters, contributed to the fund. The late Earl of Derby, then Mr. Stanley, who represented the borough, subscribed £50. The other member gave a like sum. The vicar and almost all the leading inhabitants were found on the list. The fact is now mentioned to indicate the good understanding between different classes of religionists which then existed in Windsor.
I was ordained the day after the new chapel was opened, at the beginning of May 1833. It was a service long to be remembered. Such services were thought more of in those days than they are now. Ministers and friends came from a great distance, and a large congregation was sure to assemble. Generally the spirit was devout. An introductory discourse illustrated the grounds of Nonconformity. After this several questions were answered by the candidate, as to his Christian experience, doctrinal sentiments, and reasons for believing he had a call to the ministry. A deacon of the Church related the steps which had led to the present choice, and, afterwards, the ordination prayer was offered with a solemn laying on of hands. In my case, my venerated co-pastor fulfilled this duty; and it was interesting to me that, in like manner, he had been ordained by Rowland Hill. A charge to the inducted minister followed; then came a sermon to the people, pointing out their duties. The holy influence of that day rests on me to this hour, after the lapse of more than fifty years.
The fresh impetus now given to our religious work served to stimulate friends in the Establishment, who had so helped us in our department of the one great cause. A Sunday evening service was commenced in the parish church, and a new Episcopal place of worship was erected in Eton, where it was much needed. In addition to the vicar of Windsor and his curates, some of the masters at Eton College came forward in parish work, rendering help by sermons at a third Sunday service then recently commenced. The Rev. T. Chapman, afterwards a Colonial bishop, took the lead, and did much to revive religion in the town. But the most distinguished labourer at the time was the Rev. G. A. Selwyn, then connected with Eton, who was afterwards one of the most heroic missionary bishops of modern times; with him it was my privilege to co-operate in the establishment of the Windsor Infants’ School.
lie would fain have induced me to enter the Establishment, but though he did not succeed in that respect, he ever treated me with a brotherly regard, which I sincerely reciprocated. Before he embarked for his distant field of labour he wrote a farewell note in which he said: “On the few points in which we differ, I thank God we have been enabled to dwell, often at some length, without one particle of that acrimony which often discredits controversy, and proves it to proceed rather from human passions than from zeal for the truth of God. I cannot recollect, throughout all our intercourse, one single word which can be considered as a breach of charity between us. For this I am especially thankful, that when I go to offer up my gift upon far distant altars, I shall have left no brother at home, with whom I ought first to have been reconciled.”
I had a ticket for St. George’s Chapel when William IV. was interred. The interior of the building was dark, except as illumined by torches in the hands of soldiers who lined the nave, and by numerous lights within the choir. When the procession drew up about nine o’clock, at the south entrance, the blaze of outside torches was seen through the stained windows; then the appearance of heralds in their tabards followed: next the slow march of mourners close to the coffin, the Duke of Sussex being most conspicuous; afterwards a funeral dirge echoed from the fretted roof. The silence was further broken by the Burial Service and the repetition of royal titles. “Sic transit gloria mundi” came last, and left an ineffaceable impression.
I was further favoured with a ticket to see the coronation in Westminster Abbey. When the procession entered the nave, officers of state and foreign ambassadors appeared in rich costume. Diamond-decked coats and rich mantles made a grand show, yet they chiefly served to set off the simple dignity of the queen in her early girlhood, whilst a spell of loyalty touched spectators looking down from lofty galleries. The coronation shout of “God save the Queen” needed to be heard that it might be fully understood. Afterwards, a stream of dignified personages, with mantles and coronets, issued from the choir and covered the nave with a tesselated pattern of rich colours.
To the coronation succeeded the royal marriage, honoured at Windsor by extraordinary festivities; and at night the cortége of the bride and bridegroom, on their way to the castle through decorated and illuminated streets, evoked a rapturous welcome from assembled thousands. But what above all other incidents of that occasion lives in my memory at the present moment is the sudden view which I caught a day or two afterwards of the wedded pair in a pony carriage, driven by the bridegroom as his bride nestled beside him, under his wing, with simplicity which gave exquisite finish to the chief pictures which passed before me that summer.
Another incident may be mentioned. At a town meeting it was proposed that an address of congratulation should be presented to Her Majesty by the mayor and others. The presentation followed at a levée. It was interesting to see notabilities assembled in St. James’s Palace at the first public reception by Her Majesty after the royal marriage. Amongst a crowd of noblemen in the ante-room were pointed out, in particular, Dr. Phillpotts, Bishop of Exeter, with an eagle eye indicative of his intellect, and Joseph Hume, the sturdy economist; both of them much talked of at that period. Others I have forgotten. After waiting we were ushered into the presence, the Queen, with Prince Albert at her side, occupying a place near a window not far from the entrance door. Since that I have knelt before Her Majesty more than once, but how great the difference between the first and last occasions—the girl become a matron, the sparkling bride a sorrowful widow, and the newly-married wife a mother with sons and daughters standing round in reverence and affection.
If I may here anticipate a Windsor ceremonial of later date, let me mention the royal presentation of colours to a regiment of Highlanders to which I acted as chaplain. The colours were bestowed in the quadrangle of the castle on the day when the christening of the Prince of Wales took place. The Prince Consort, the King of Prussia, and the Duke of Wellington, with several other grandees, formed a group under the shadow of the castle porch. As chaplain to the regiment I was allowed to stand near, and was struck with the Prince’s German accent, which he seemed to conquer in later life, when he spoke almost like a born Englishman. The Duke addressed the soldiers in his accustomed plain style, giving them very good advice. Preparations for the banquet in St. George’s Hall, which a number of people were allowed to see, were very magnificent, tables being covered with gold and silver plate. Some antique pieces brought from the Tower were of special interest. In the evening I joined the non-commissioned officers, to whom a dinner was given, and I was glad of an opportunity to recall to their minds the Duke’s address. This Highland regiment while in Windsor attended worship in our chapel, when the band accompanied the singing, and Highland bonnets hung round, outside the galleries. I visited the barracks, conversed and prayed with the sick, and baptised the children. My relations with the colonel and the officers were pleasant during the whole time that the Scotch remained in Windsor.
Going back a few years, let me notice “Eton Montem,” then witnessed in all its splendour. Approaches to the college were guarded by boys in fancy costumes: coloured velvet coats, yellow boots, caps decorated with graceful plumes, appeared on the scene. The youngsters levied a tax on all comers, calling it “salt,” which they deposited in bags suspended from their necks. As royal carriages swept across Windsor bridge, picturesque sentinels received handsome donations from royal hands. The gifts, together with a large number of others, formed a fund for the captain of the school to defray his expenses at Cambridge, whither he was sent in prospect of a fellowship. The procession of boys to Salt Hill, where the captain waved a flag after a prescribed fashion, excited immense interest, and was witnessed by multitudes. The sight in the college gardens as the day closed, afforded perhaps the best of the pageant, for these lads, attired in Turkish, Greek, Italian, and other showy garbs, mixed with their friends so as to form a picture of animated life, with old trees and old buildings for a background.
I had not been long in the town before I became intimately connected with the British and Foreign Bible Society, which laid a strong hold on my affections as a boy, and to which I firmly adhered, after I became a man. Our auxiliary was a flourishing one. Some relatives of Lord Bexley, president of the parent society, lived in our neighbourhood, and used to come over to our annual gatherings in the Town Hall. One of them, the Rev. Mr. Neal, of Taplow, was a constant visitor. He typified a class of men now almost extinct. They loved the Establishment, and, judging of it by its formularies, identified it with the cause of evangelical religion. They knew much less of Anglo-Catholic theology than of Puritanical works. Owen and Baxter occupied a conspicuous place on their literary shelves, by the side of Latimer and Calvin. The Evangelicals were nevertheless faithful to their own ecclesiastical order, preferring episcopacy to any other form of government. Not on social or literary grounds had they sympathy with Dissenters, or from what is now recognised as “breadth of opinion,” but they cultivated union, on purely evangelical grounds.
At our Bible Meeting, with good old Mr. Neale, other evangelical clergymen were present, also one of our borough members, Mr. Ramsbottom, M.P. (who always took the chair), and Sir John Chapman, a strong conservative Churchman, was sure to be on the platform. I cannot say that the speeches were brilliant, though the deputation from London interested us much. First came Mr. Dudley, who had been a Quaker, but was then an Episcopalian; and, to the facts he detailed, there were added peculiarities of utterance, which gave a flavour to what he said. He slightly stuttered; and once, as he described how the blind were taught to read with their fingers the pages of embossed Bibles, he said it reminded him of the words, “That they should seek the Lord, if haply, they might feel after Him and find Him.” Hesitation of speech made the quotation increasingly effective. After him came Mr. Bourne, who had, I believe, been formerly a stipendiary magistrate in the West Indies; and he had a singular click in his voice. He told a story of some ladies who had coloured their maps so as to distinguish, by a pink colour, the countries where the Bible was circulated—thus “pinking the world for Christ.” The good man’s click told curiously on his pronunciation of words; and I used, sometimes, to make my Bible Society friends smile, by inquiring whether they offered a premium for agents with a “diversity of tongues.” The Rev. Sydney Godolphin Osborne—the famous “S. G. O.” of The Times newspaper—had at that period a living near Windsor, and took great interest in our auxiliary. He was a fine, tall, aristocratic young man, of straightforward character, strong common sense, and a racy style of utterance. He made capital speeches, and in many ways helped on our work; in one way especially, which deserves distinct mention. He thought it would be a good thing to obtain royal patronage for our auxiliary, though Her Majesty’s name was not identified with the parent society. He wrote to Lord John Russell, then a Cabinet Minister (whose brother, Lord Wriothesley Russell, after he became Canon of Windsor, lovingly supported our cause). When Lord John laid the request before Her Majesty, she graciously gave her name as local patroness, and sent a donation of twenty guineas. It is worth mentioning that this occurred at a time when party politics were running high. Two letters communicating the Queen’s kindness may be here inserted.
The first was addressed to the Honourable Godolphin Osborne.
“Sir,
“I have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of your letter respecting ‘The Windsor Auxiliary Bible Society,’ on which the Queen was last year pleased to bestow her patronage, which I have submitted to the Queen, and though Her Majesty does not usually grant a donation to those institutions to which Her Majesty’s patronage only has been given, yet, the Queen, taking into her consideration that the establishment in question is in the immediate neighbourhood of Windsor Castle, has been pleased to direct me to forward twenty guineas as a donation. I beg to enclose a draft for that sum, and request you will have the goodness to acknowledge its receipt.
“I have the honour to be,
“Your most obedient servant,
“H. Wheatley.”
This letter was conveyed to me by the person addressed, who added the following note:—
“I wrote to Sir H. Wheatley about a donation from the Queen to the Bible Society. I have received a satisfactory answer, and a draft for twenty guineas. If it meets your approbation, I would wish that the fact should not be known to any but ourselves just now. At the present moment the country is so party-mad, and there is such a determination to catch at anything for party purposes, that I am anxious to avoid giving a handle of any sort to either side in a matter which has no real reference to politics. I only wrote last week from Wales, and got an immediate answer, which I have acknowledged, saying, at the same time, that at the anniversary meeting a more official acknowledgment will be sent.
“I remain,
“Yours truly,
“Godolphin Osborne.”
This letter sheds light on the state of public feeling existing at that day.
In connection with the town of Windsor, let me mention two or three traditions I received from the lips of my beloved wife, who became the light of my dwelling on May 12th, 1835. Her good old father, Mr. George Cooper, had long been a sort of Christian Gaius, receiving as guests under his hospitable roof several men and women of renown. Often would she speak of Rowland Hill, who repeatedly visited her home on his way to Wotton-under-Edge, where he spent the summer months. He delighted to preach in our little chapel in High Street, where the Eton boys would attend to see and hear the eccentric old clergyman, who in his youth had been one of their predecessors as a schoolboy. He would tell Mr. Cooper how he used sometimes to steal at eventide beyond Eton bounds, to attend a prayer-meeting in a cottage, which he could reach only by leaping over a ditch with the help of a long pole. He allowed the good woman who lived there an annuity, which Mr. Cooper used to convey as long as she lived. Rowland Hill liked to hear at High Street Chapel the Hundredth Psalm in Watts’s Hymn-book, and the youngsters who came used to alter the last verse, shouting: “When Rowland Hill shall cease to move.”
I remember hearing how Charles Wesley, the son of the great hymn-writer, visited the town, accompanied by his sister, and spent an evening in Mr. Cooper’s house, greatly to the joy of my wife as a girl. They arrived in a sedan chair, dressed in Court costume. His execution on the piano was surprising; and those who watched his thick, short fingers, as they swept over the keys, said it was miraculous how he played.
Before I conclude what I have to say of my life in Windsor, let me advert to attempts I made to promote intellectual and literary improvement, according to methods then beginning to be popular. There was an Institute formed in the adjoining town of Eton for the encouragement of reading amongst such as had not enjoyed the advantages of early education. A room was opened, furnished with a few books, where inducements to what is termed mutual improvement were provided, and there the famous astronomer Sir J. F. W. Herschell delivered an inaugural lecture, which gave it at once a character of distinguished respectability. I was invited to join in the infant enterprise, which I did with pleasure and satisfaction, and felt it an honour to become one of its lecturers. The effort made at Eton was followed at Windsor. I threw myself into the enterprise, and worked on its behalf as long as I remained in the town. The committee honoured me with an invitation to lecture in the Town Hall, where my effort was kindly accepted by a large audience; a short course on the History of the Castle and Town followed. This, by request, was published in a volume dedicated, by permission, to the Prince Consort. In its preparation assistance had been furnished through books, documents, and advice, by residents in the town, and by officials in the castle.
In concluding this chapter, I am constrained to notice some friendships which were enjoyed by me during my Windsor residence. Poyle is a small hamlet on the Great Western road not far from Windsor, near Colnbrook. Sixty years ago a long line of mail coaches passed every night the turnpike-gate, as cottagers heard the blast of the guard’s horn, and stepped out to see the coachmen, in like livery, handling the reins which guided their teams. Hard by the spot there was a paper mill, spanning a pretty little river, the Coln, which kept the machinery in motion. The whole formed a picture common in the early part of this century, not so common now. Close to the mill were two goodly residences, occupied by two brothers named Ibotson, of an old Nonconformist stock, who could trace back religious ancestors to Puritan days. What pleasant gatherings of congenial friends I met with at Poyle!—neighbouring pastors, and the Rev. Joshua Clarkson Harrison, born not far off, and at the time building up a goodly reputation in London and its environs, were of the number.
In contrast with these bright circumstances, I must notice incidents of a far different kind. My dear wife lost about that time two brothers in early life by what we call accidents; but, worse still, while I was from home one summer, my beloved mother, who lived with me, set fire to her muslin dress, while the servant was absent, and immediately became enveloped in flames. Some one passing by endeavoured to render assistance, but it was too late, and the next morning she expired. Bright summer weather was for a long time after that, to my eyes, covered with a pall of darkness; and to look on the blue sky and the gay summer flowers only made me more sad.
Being disposed beyond immediate pastoral duties to help in religious work outside, I found ample opportunities for doing it. Sir Culling Eardley was at that time zealous in the furtherance of village preaching. Coming to Windsor, he offered to help us in purchasing a tent for services in the neighbourhood. It was procured and employed, but with less success than had attended his enterprise of the same kind in Hertfordshire. I undertook, at his request, a fortnight’s tour in that county, and one evening preached near a wood, where John Bunyan, in days of persecution, addressed the neglected peasantry.
Revivalism at the period now referred to, attracted attention in England, in part owing to the circulation of American books, and the preaching of American divines. A great awakening occurred at Reading, Henley, Maidenhead, and Windsor. Streams of people might be seen on dark winter mornings, lantern in hand, on their way to the place of prayer. Chapels were thronged, ministers were in full sympathy with each other; all worked with a will. Looking back on the whole, I believe genuine good was done; yet in some instances the effect was transient. Conversion was insisted upon, and peace with God through Jesus Christ was offered; but whether moral improvement in the details of human life was proportionally emphasised, and practically carried out, I am not prepared to say. Certainly, appeals respecting holiness in general were not wanting. Rightly to adjust the balance, so as to guard against self-righteousness on one hand, and the neglect of personal responsibility on the other, requires vast wisdom. To induce people to look at themselves and to Christ also, cannot be accomplished without thought and discrimination in promiscuous gatherings. Whatever might be defects in the movement, assuredly they did not come from artificial arrangements. No one can be said to have “got up the thing.”
At all times in the course of our ministry “cases of conscience” occur. One in particular I may mention. I was once sent for to visit a dying person. The home, the people, the surroundings, excited revulsion, as well as a determination to improve a strange opportunity. I found a young woman on her deathbed, and another sitting by, who used phraseology indicative of evangelical sentiment. She offered to leave the room that the patient might unburthen her mind to me. It was obvious some secret of guilt lay on the sufferer’s conscience. I had no wish to be a father confessor, and pointed her to the only One who can pardon sin. At last the dying creature uttered a piercing exclamation, which seemed to me an acknowledgment of sin. What the secret was she did not disclose. Presently she entered “the silent land.” When I called again, I intimated to her attendant my surprise at what she had said, for I could not doubt that she was leading an immoral life. She frankly confessed she had fallen into vice, after expressing a belief that she had been converted, and had been a “child of God.” The incident was affecting, instructive, and admonitory.
Public questions interested me much, and I took part in those which belonged to philanthropy and religion. Amongst them at the time I speak of, negro emancipation stood foremost. From boyhood it laid hold on me. Speeches at Norwich, by Joseph John Gurney and others, had left an abiding impression; and when the great controversy became ripe for settlement, I threw myself into the struggle. The excitement throughout the nation was intense, and it laid hold chiefly of the religious section of the British public. Missionaries had been at work amongst negroes, and had seen the horrors of the system. The persecution of Smith, a missionary in Demerara, who died in prison, evoked passionate sympathy; and the appeal of Knibb, another missionary, who came over as an advocate of emancipation, struck the nail on the head, and drove it into the centre of this colossal wrong. Nothing is more manifest, to those who witnessed what went on in England half a century ago for slave emancipation, than that, however manifold the arguments employed, however numerous the methods and agencies in motion, it was Christianity which lay at the heart of the movement. Quakers were amongst the most zealous co-operators in this advocacy for freedom, and I much enjoyed the fellowship into which I was brought with followers of George Fox, early family associations strengthening bonds of friendship between us. Deputations went up to London to wait upon Mr. Stanley, Colonial Secretary, afterwards Earl of Derby, and I well remember the crowd gathered in a large room in Downing Street, to strengthen the hands of that gentleman in his chivalrous enterprise. The history of steps which led to the final victory it is not for me to tell in these pages, but I may mention the third reading by the Lords of the Emancipation Bill in August 1833. It filled multitudes with joy; and on August 1st, 1834, the Act took effect, when a solemn celebration of the event occurred in England, as well as the West India Islands. That day I preached at Windsor from Jer. xl. 4:—“And now, behold, I loose thee this day from the chains which were upon thine hand.”
In 1839 the Anti-Corn Law League took shape. I distinctly recollect the scene presented at a great bazaar in Covent Garden Theatre, in aid of Free Trade, when there was a wonderful gathering of notabilities and other folks. Stalls, articles, and ornaments, were varied and imposing; and as that exhibition appeared before the present age of bazaars was fully inaugurated, it had a more dazzling and bewildering effect than efforts of the kind can have now that they have become so common.
Dissenters’ grievances, too, were exciting subjects in those days. Certain disabilities had an irritating effect on those who felt them, and legislation was sought for their removal. No doubt, in the heat of the conflict things were said on both sides which, on calm review, cannot be justified; and I am in my old age more than ever convinced that union of the suaviter in modo with the fortiter in re, is the best method of conducting controversy.
My holidays, whilst I was a Windsor pastor, were spent in preaching; but there were two exceptions, when I broke ground as a tourist. Travelling in Nottinghamshire and the neighbouring counties, I visited Newstead Abbey with a fresh remembrance of Washington Irving’s description of the place. I had a gossip with an old domestic, who told me stories of Lord Byron, whom she knew as a boy, and used to carry on her back on account of his lameness. He pricked and otherwise tormented the patient creature, so as, on one occasion, to provoke her so much, that she boldly ventured on a rather amusing act of retaliation. Leaning over her shoulders to look into an old chest full of feathers, she, to use her own words, “copped him over, and he came out for all the world just like a young owlet.” What I then heard of his early days gave me an unfavourable idea of that child of genius, so caressed and tormented, so flattered and persecuted, so early thrown into unfortunate circumstances, and altogether so badly brought up. What a contrast between two poets, whose memories came vividly before me during this tour!—Byron and Scott, both of them lame for life; one a stranger to the other’s purity. Years afterwards I heard Dean Stanley preach a sermon to children, in which, with his characteristic felicity of thought, he spoke of the contrasted influences of physical deformity in these two instances—how the club foot of the first was an occasion of mortified pride and ill-nature, and the club foot of the second was borne with patience and contentment. The story of Byron’s club foot is now treated by some I hear as a popular delusion; but, at all events, he had something the matter with his foot which irritated his temper and made him disagreeable. Therefore the Dean’s moral lesson remains untouched. In connection with good humour and kindness, a physical defect may be only a foil to set off moral excellence.
After passing through Yorkshire, Durham, and Northumberland in company with my dear friend Harrison, we reached Edinburgh by coach at midnight to find ourselves in the morning amidst grand preparations for the Queen’s first arrival in the Scottish capital. The view at noon from Calton Hill, as the arrangements for receiving royalty had reached their acme, was most magnificent. Princes Street, from end to end, presented multitudes of people in holiday attire, military uniforms, tartan, kilts and feathered bonnets, gave rich plays of colour. The crowd waited and waited, but no Queen appeared. Night fell, and the expectants went to bed disappointed. Next morning every one was taken by surprise, for Her Majesty, having been detained at sea, landed at Leith, whilst the Lord Provost was still asleep. My friend and I afterwards went to Stirling, and identified historic points which dot the field of Bannockburn—then to Perth, Dunkeld, Killiecrankie, and Blair Atholl.
In the course of numerous journeys I had opportunities of seeing the real state of Nonconformity in rural districts. It was then much better than some people suppose. There were then families of influence identified with country places of worship, who have not left behind them sympathetic representatives. The revival of religion in the National Church has produced a considerable change in the relative position of ecclesiastical parties. Sunday evening services in cathedral and parish church, and the pastoral activity of incumbents and curates, with numerous missionary and other organisations, have produced effects very visible in the eyes of old people, who can look back on the religious condition of England during the first quarter of the present century.
My first Continental tour occurred before I left Windsor. I visited a family at Rotterdam into which a fellow-student had married, and had pleasant insights into Dutch life. After peeps at the Hague, Leyden, and Amsterdam, abounding in a gratification of antiquarian and historical taste, slowly proceeding up the Rhine, I felt all the enthusiasm incident to a young traveller as he first gazes on castle-crowned hills which line the river. Many and many a ramble since on those romantic banks have increased rather than diminished my admiration of the Rhine.
Friendships have through life been essential to my enjoyment, I might almost say to my existence. Intimate acquaintance with people of remarkable character in my Windsor days was a source of intense gratification.
The Rev. W. Walford, for some years minister of a Congregational Church at Yarmouth, then classical tutor at Homerton College, and finally pastor of the old Meeting House, Uxbridge, was one of the most remarkable men I ever knew. I see him now, with his handsome face, bald head, well-knit form, keen eyes, compressed lips, rather tottering in gait, and brusque in manner. What walks and talks we had! In conversation he expressed himself with singular accuracy on theological and metaphysical subjects. He had Butler and Jonathan Edwards at his fingers’ ends, and could pack into a few words some of their most abstruse definitions and arguments. He had a habit of turning round when you walked with him, and standing face to face, when he would, in a most luminous style, state his propositions and adduce his proofs. He read Sir William Hamilton with immense admiration, though he did not in all respects adopt his views; and, at a period when looseness of religious thought was becoming prevalent, it was a treat to see him make a stand, figuratively as well as literally, for a distinct utterance of what people believe. From no man’s conversation have I derived more instruction and advantage. I can never forget his reading to me, with tears in his eyes, a translation he had made of Plato’s “Phaedo.”
One day an old gentleman called to say he was about to reside at Old Windsor, and intended joining our worship at William Street Chapel. He had a cheerful, lively expression of countenance, with a few short grey locks on each side of his bald head, and showed in his gait signs of paralytic seizure. Full of humour and kindness, he made a pleasant impression. Thus began my friendship with Mr. Samuel Bagster of famous Polyglot memory. Notwithstanding his lameness, he could at that time walk from Old Windsor to our house with the aid of a stick, only asking a helping hand at the commencement of his pedestrian attempts. Thus started off he would steadily pursue his journey dressed in a short cloak and wearing a very broad-brimmed hat. He was one of the chattiest, most amusing friends I ever had. He possessed a large fund of anecdotes, which he knew I liked; and from time to time, as I visited his house, he doled them out with no niggard hand. He had lived on books, and books were his delight. Many choice editions in handsome bindings lined the walls in his rambling, quaint sort of residence, where also flowers, gathered in his little garden, formed conspicuous ornaments. There he would sit nursing his foot, complaining of pain in his great toe, and would launch out for a pleasant sail over the lake of memory, and take me from one point to another. The old books he had bought and sold, the circumstances connected with the origin of his Polyglot and Hexapla, the fire which occurred on his premises in Paternoster Row—these he would narrate in a characteristic way.
He often talked about the French Revolution and events connected with it in our own country. Clubs of a more than questionable description were established, and he told me that, invited by a person of his own age to attend a meeting held in an obscure street, he was surprised, on his entrance, to find a number of men ranged on either side of a room, sitting by long tables, with a cross one at the upper end. There sat the president for the evening. Several foaming tankards were brought in, when the president calling on the company to rise, took up one of the pots, and striking off the foam which crested the porter, gave as a toast: “So let all . . . perish.” The blank was left to be filled up as each drinker pleased. The avowed dislike to kings entertained by these boon companions suggested to Mr. Bagster the word “kings” or “tyrants”; and at once he gladly left the place, not a little alarmed, lest he should be suspected of treasonable designs. With characteristic caution, he took care not to observe the thoroughfare through which he passed on his way back, that he might be able conscientiously to declare he did not know the situation of the place. He also related that his father had a workman in his employ, whom he knew to be a disaffected subject. He expostulated with him on the horrors of a revolution as illustrated in France, and dwelt upon the confusion which would ensue upon outbreaks on established order. The man lifted up the skirt of his threadbare coat against the window, and significantly asked: “Pray, sir, what have I to lose?” My friend was no Radical, no Whig, but a Tory of the old-fashioned type, who approved of things as they were, without, however, any consciousness of wishing to tyrannise over other people. He was a great admirer of Izaak Walton, and had made a collection of drawings illustrative of his “Compleat Angler,” of which he intended to publish a new edition, with a life of the author. When he had completed his “Comprehensive Bible,” which, by permission, he dedicated to George IV., he was allowed personally to present it to His Majesty; and I have heard him say that on that occasion he was introduced to the royal presence by the Archbishop of Canterbury. The publisher was already paralysed, and could walk only with a tottering step; but the Primate gave him his arm, and led him up to the so-called first gentleman of Europe, who received him very graciously, and accepted at his hands the handsomely-bound volume.
There were other people I met with at Windsor whom I may mention. At the house of Dr. Ferguson, a Scotch physician of good birth and high culture, I met with his son-in-law, the Rev. Mr. Moultrie, Incumbent at Rugby, and friend of Dr. Arnold. He was a man of genius and piety, and gave a conviction of personal goodness, which made me value his volume of poems even more than I had done before. I like to look at authors through their books, and then again at books through their authors. In some cases the personal damages the literary judgment; but in many cases I have enjoyed works much more after knowing the worker.
Mr. Jesse, the naturalist, was another of my acquaintances. He held an office in connection with royal parks and palaces, and I spent pleasant hours as he drove me in his little pony gig from Windsor to Hampton Court, in the restoration of which he felt great delight. An amiable disposition, gentlemanly manners, and large information, made him an excellent companion. From the account he gave of his early life I found his father was a clergyman, a friend of Lady Huntingdon’s, and an occasional preacher at Spafields Chapel. Mr. Stark, the eminent landscape artist, was one of my hearers, a man of decided religious convictions, and conscientious in art as in other things. He and Mr. Bristow, the animal painter, were amongst my friends; and in Windsor Forest they found subjects for their united skill, Stark putting in the trees, Bristow dogs and horses.
Amongst London friends at that time, and long afterwards was John Bergne, brother to my fellow-student Samuel Bergne, already mentioned. Clerk in the Foreign Office, he rose to the superintendence of the Treaty Department. Full of knowledge respecting European affairs, he often amused me by his taciturnity whenever they came on the carpet,—abstinence from communication of office secrets having become to him second nature. His mind was rich with information on various subjects; and in the science of numismatics he was well skilled. His collection of coins was of great value, including examples of English money from the earliest time, and valuable portions of “great finds” in Greek states. His affluent conversation, overflowing with humour, his rapid utterance and command of language surpassed what I have heard from many good talkers, whom it has been my fortune to meet with during a long life.
With other remarkable persons, I became intimately acquainted after my removal to Kensington. These I shall notice in their proper place.
In 1833 arose the Puseyite or Tractarian controversy as it was called. Of this a full account is given by Dr. Newman, in his “Apologia”—an account, of course, proceeding from his own point of view. The strife both inside and outside the University of Oxford, where the masters of the Tractarian movement lived and worked, was of the hottest kind; and those engaged in it on both sides, under the influence of party feeling, failed to appreciate each other’s position, and to estimate correctly the tendencies involved. The Anglo-Catholics did not believe they were so near Rome; the staunch Protestants did not calculate on the wonderful effect which the controversy would have in stirring up the latent energies of the Church, and in modifying forms of worship, even amongst Evangelical parties. An amusing story I remember hearing when the famous Tract, “No. 90,” was published. The then Bishop of Winchester (I think) wished to see it, and wrote to his bookseller to forward a copy, but from illegibility of penmanship “No 90” was mistaken for “No go”; and the poor bookseller, after inquiring in the Row for a pamphlet with that title, wrote to inform his Lordship, that there was no such tract in the market. The story ran its round, and the Evangelicals pronounced “No. 90” “No go.”
Dr. Newman condensed within the space of a few years the Romeward tendencies of Christendom during successive ages: starting with Tractarian doctrines, it was consistent for him to become a Roman Catholic in the sequel; and Dr. Pusey, in pausing where he did, never explained the grounds of his practical inconsistency. I felt it my duty to point out the unscriptural character of the Tractarian movement in a course of lectures, afterwards published under the title of “Tractarian Theology.”
I was quite satisfied with my position at Windsor and had no thoughts of leaving it, when Dr. Vaughan of Kensington accepted the principalship of Lancashire College, and at the same time overtures were made by his Church to me that I should succeed him in the vacant pastorate. I can truly say that my desires were on the side of remaining where I was. I only wished to know the Divine Master’s will. I felt unwilling to accept what looked like preferment; but after visiting Kensington and preaching there, the path before me appeared pretty plain. I accepted the call I received. “It seems like a dream,” I wrote to my predecessor. “Yes,” he replied; “but it is like Joseph’s—a dream from the Lord.”
It was a curious coincidence that the Church at Windsor and the Church at Kensington were both in their origin connected with a coachman in the service of George III. His name was Saunders, and he enjoyed his royal master’s confidence. They used to talk together about religion, and, encouraged by the King’s good opinion, the servant put tracts in the carriage pocket; and when His Majesty had read them he asked for more. As the royal residence was sometimes in town, and sometimes at Windsor, the home of Saunders varied accordingly, and he felt an interest in both neighbourhoods, especially as it regarded the humbler class. He probably caught the revivalist spirit prevalent a hundred years ago, and did what he could to gather people together for religious impression. In this way a room called “The Hole in the Wall” came to be the cradle of Windsor Congregationalism; and a “humble dwelling,” mentioned by the Kensington historian, was birthplace to the congregation which afterwards assembled in Hornton Street. “When the faithful servant begged permission, on account of age, to retire from His Majesty’s service, that he might reside at Kensington, it was not without an expression of regret on the part of the monarch; but the request was granted, and as often as the King afterwards passed through the place he took the most kind and condescending notice of his coachman.” [77]
In “Poems by John Moultrie,” there occur these lines—
“I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.”
During the first three years of my Kensington residence, there were three little children taken from us, and translated to that mysterious world, where our time reckonings are lost in an incomprehensible eternity. Altogether six children were brought with us from Windsor; and to these were added five more in the first few years after our removal—making the domestic flock at the time I speak of eleven. Of that number only four remain on earth at this time, [78]—a fact which tells of joy, and of much sorrow, at the hands of our Heavenly Father. Three were taken from us between 1843 and 1849.
During my Windsor life I began to take a deep interest in the writings of Dr. Arnold, and afterwards, when his Life appeared, written by his admiring pupil, Dr. Stanley, that interest increased. As I read these memoirs I little thought that I should share in the Biographer’s friendship; and my admiration of the two men was so deep that I attribute any improvement in my mind and character since, greatly to their combined influence. Through life I have been more than ordinarily benefited by their works, and as to the Master of Rugby School, I have always been eager to learn what I could from any Rugby pupils I happened to know. At this moment there comes to my recollection an anecdote related by a friend who had been a Rugby boy. He told me that some accident happened at chapel in the upsetting of Bibles or prayer-books, and their fall from the gallery created much disturbance. Boys who were suspected of having a share in causing what happened were called up by the Master, and my informant was of the number. He told me that Dr. Arnold trusted a boy who denied any offence of which he was accused until clear proof appeared to the contrary. This was designed to keep up mutual confidence. In the instance under notice the boy accused felt sure that Dr. Arnold was not satisfied with the denial; yet he allowed the matter to pass, because he would promote confidence between master and pupil. The anecdote confirms what I have since read. He was never on the watch for boys, and he so encouraged straightforward and manly action, in trivial as in great things, that there grew up a general feeling, that “It was a shame to tell Arnold a lie, for he always believed one.” [80]
Kensington, at the time of which I speak, was famous for its number of ladies’ schools, and in them several daughters of Nonconformist parents were receiving their education. They formed an interesting part of my congregation, and my pastoral relation to them prepared for lifelong friendships. Of this group of families were the Dawsons of Lancaster, the Rawsons of Leeds, the Cheethams of Staleybridge, and the Sharmans of Wellingborough. With all of them I became intimate, and their friendships have proved no small comfort to me in later life. Parents of these families were distinguished by usefulness in many ways. Mr. Rawson was the well-known gifted hymn-writer; and Mr. Cheetham was M.P., and took an active part in the repeal of the Corn Laws. Daughters of these gentlemen were under my ministerial care while pupils at Kensington, and afterwards became earnest Christian workers in different ways, and their continued affection is a comfort to me in my old age. A son of Mr. Dawson married a daughter of Mr. Rawson, and immediately they went to China for mission work; but the broken-down health of the husband compelled his speedy return to England. He is now doing good work as one of the London City Mission secretaries.
In connection with Kensington, I would further mention other helpers: Mr. and Mrs. Coombs of Clapham were so. Mr. Coombs helped me especially by a large donation to the fund for building my new chapel. In other ways I was brought into relation with him. He was Treasurer of New College, and an active member of the British and Foreign Bible Society, the Religious Tract Society, and the London Missionary Society. His intelligence, aptitude for conversation, and kind-hearted intercourse made his friendship a privilege of more than ordinary value. It was intensified by his family relationship to some of my Kensington flock, the Salters and the Talfourds, whom I shall mention elsewhere in these reminiscences. Amidst preaching and pastoral work, it was a relief to spend a short holiday under Mr. Coombs’ hospitable roof at Clapham, where I found a large collection of books. He died before I left Kensington, but my friendship with his wife and daughter continued till they died.
Archdeacon Sinclair, who had accepted the vicarage just before I removed to Kensington, paid me a visit of welcome, and thus laid a foundation for subsequent intercourse. He was son of the well-known Sir John Sinclair, and brother of the authoress, Catherine Sinclair. All the family were remarkably tall. The Archdeacon was a man of eminent culture, and of extensive aristocratic connections. His great-grandmother, though a loyalist, was the noted lady who aided in the escape of Prince Charlie, after the battle of Culloden. This same ancestress lay buried in Kensington Church, in front of the pulpit. Archdeacon Sinclair was well read in theology, widely acquainted with the controversies of the day, and a thoroughly orthodox Churchman; also rich in family and Scotch traditions. He told me the MSS. of David Hume came into his hands, and from perusal of them he was confirmed in his suspicion, that the celebrated historian and philosopher had no deep convictions of any kind, but only played with subjects he handled, doubtful about his own doubts.
Returning to the notice of my ministerial life, it comes in chronological order to mention that we had at Kensington, in 1843, British schools, which, being undenominational, received help from Church-people and Dissenters. They had long been patronised by distinguished personages, and not long after I had become resident in the neighbourhood application was made by the committee to the Duchess of Inverness, widow of the Duke of Sussex, to become patroness of the schools. This circumstance led her Grace to invite me to call on her, which I did. I was shown into an old-fashioned drawing-room, furnished in the style of the last century, the walls being decorated with portraits of George III. and members of his family. Entering the apartment was stepping back, as it were, to “sixty years since.” An old lady of diminutive stature, in black silk and a small cap, presently appeared, who entered into pleasant conversation about her late husband, and Mr. Ramsbottom, M.P. for Windsor, whom I knew very well. Both of them were zealous Freemasons. Her Grace had caught their spirit, as far as a lady could do it, and inquired of me whether I was a Mason. No doubt, could I have answered in the affirmative, I should have risen in her estimation. My visit was fruitful in reference to our schools, for she sent a donation of £20, apologising for not doing more at that time. Kensington Palace was then inhabited by other distinguished persons; and one of the secretaries of the Propagation Society, I think, at that time performed the duties of a chaplain to those resident within the walls.
It is appropriate in connection with the early part of my Kensington life to mention religious societies with which I closely associated myself. There is no doubt some truth in the lines that,
“Distance lends enchantment to the view,
And clothes the mountain with an azure hue.”
In looking at benevolent work, remote in time or place, we are apt to paint it in fairest colours; but of the great importance of the religious work going on fifty years ago in London and the neighbourhood, there can be no question whatever.
The British and Foreign Bible Society I always regarded as lying at the very foundation of our religious activity. It had a comprehensive Auxiliary in the West End from the commencement of the society’s operations, and annual meetings were held in the Haymarket, under the presidency of royal dukes. This Auxiliary was broken into parts, and Kensington had a leading place amongst them. Traditions of earlier days were cherished when I began to live in the royal suburb, and they invested our local gatherings with some dignity, as families when divided derive honours from their common ancestry.
The Missionary Society, as it was originally called—the London Missionary Society, as it was afterwards named—had from the beginning been supported by our Church; indeed, fathers and founders of the one appear amongst early workers in the other, and through the ministry of Mr. Clayton, Dr. Leifchild, and Dr. Vaughan, foreign missions found zealous supporters at Kensington. The London City Mission, then in its early age, had engaged my sympathies at Windsor. There we had a town missionary, who brought us into connection with work going on in the Metropolis. Consequently, when I came to Kensington, I took much interest in the annual meetings of the society, and was brought into intimate relations with its officers and supporters. Annual gatherings were held in Freemasons’ Hall, Queen Street, where signs of the Zodiac, and portraits of Grand Masters, adorned the ceiling and walls, suggesting to speakers allusions, obvious or far-fetched, till they became rather threadbare and wearisome; but, from the beginning, narratives by the missionaries formed a chief source of interest.
The Young Men’s Christian Association was formed soon after I came to my new charge, and with it I had connection from the beginning, being first on the list of lecturers in the City, before the annual courses at Exeter Hall commenced.
The Evangelical Alliance was founded in 1843, and as a desire for union has ever been with me a “passion,” I joined the Alliance from the beginning. There was great simplicity in the earliest gatherings, and an air of novelty gave additional charms. However, some members professing catholic sympathies on the platform pursued an exclusive line of conduct on other occasions, and this circumstance provoked unfavourable comments. Plausible objections, moreover, were made to the society’s constitution—the platform, too wide for some, being too narrow for others. I could have desired a wider basis and the furtherance of Christian unity apart from all controversy with those who differed from us. On the whole, however, it was a move in the right direction, and the gatherings of its early friends in town and in other parts of the country were of an eminently joyous description. Sir Culling Eardley and others, in private as well as public, promoted the interests of the Alliance. At that time several influential clergymen and leading Dissenters used to meet, not only on the platform, but in the homes of distinguished lay members, who threw themselves very heartily into the movement.
Brought into the neighbourhood of London, and already known by some brethren there, I soon found myself surrounded by many friends. For more than a century there had been in existence an association of Dissenting ministers, who took the title of Sub Rosa, from the confidential character of their intercourse. There were some of the most distinguished London Congregational ministers in the brotherhood at the time now referred to; and they discussed points of importance, and for the most part, as to denominational matters, acted in harmony. Some of the departed were men of great ability, conspicuous in the pulpit and on the platform; but the remembrance of them by the public is being gradually crowded out by new names and new questions of religious interest.
To turn to a very different subject, which synchronises with the period under review; let me notice that the month of October 1845 witnessed the stirring event of Newman’s secession to the Church of Rome. It was an event of singular importance. I have noticed on a previous page that the Tractarian Movement was regarded by many as distinctly tending in the direction of Romanism. For a considerable time such a tendency was denied on the part of its abettors generally; yet, even as early as November, 1835, Dr. Pusey, who had such confidence in Newman, wrote to his wife: “I almost see elements of disunion, in that John Newman will scare people”; [88a] and, in 1836, Newman himself incidentally wrote: “As to the sacrificial view of the Eucharist, I do not see that you can find fault with the formal wording of the Tridentine decree. Does not the Article on the sacrifice of the Mass supply the doctrine, or notion, to be opposed? What that is, is to be learnt historically, I suppose.” Besides the question of Eucharistic doctrine, Pusey’s correspondence at this time gives clear evidence of other questions, more or less difficult, in respect to doctrine, practice, or terminology, arising out of a more general appreciation of Church principles and order. [88b] That which was called Puseyism prepared for Popery; and this was obvious to most people, though Pusey himself could not see it. Inconsistently, as I think, he remained where he was; and, now that he declined to follow his friend, it is surprising he took no steps to satisfy the public as to grounds on which he himself remained in the Church of England. His attachment to what he deemed the Church of his fathers, however, was very strong, and he thought well of those who remained in that Church, though holding opinions different from his own. For instance, he wrote: “Ever since I knew them, which was not in my earliest years,” “I have loved those who are called Evangelicals. I loved them because they loved our Lord. I loved them for their zeal for souls. I often thought them narrow, yet I was often drawn to individuals among them, more than to others who held truths in common with myself, which the Evangelicals did not hold, at least not explicitly.” [89] There is a ring in these words which shows the sympathy which Pusey retained for those who loved the Saviour, though, in ecclesiastical matters, widely differing from High Churchmen. It appears to me that, if Pusey had been as consistent with his Tractarian principles as Newman was, Pusey would have followed Newman to Rome, but, happily, his loving spirit for Christian goodness kept him in communion with a Church where he saw piety beautifully manifested by some who differed from him in ecclesiastical opinion. I cannot make this reference to Dr. Pusey without saying that, with all my repugnance to his ecclesiastical opinions, and the conviction I have, that while he never became a Romanist, he greatly helped on the movement which carried many in the popish direction, the perusal of his memoirs has given me a high estimate of his personal piety. His devoutness, his love to Christ, his unworldly habits, his affectionate disposition, and his self-denial in the ordering of his domestic affairs, so as to enlarge his pecuniary contributions to religious purposes, are worthy of their imitation who regard with sorrow his High-Church peculiarities. Might not domestic and social ties, as well as strong attachment to the Church of England from his childhood, have had something to do with his final course?
The Revolutions of 1848 brought with them an immense amount of excitement in this country, as in others. The month of April in that year can never be forgotten. An outbreak was feared in London. Special constables were sworn in. On the Sunday before the 10th of the month my friend, Mr. Walford, preached a remarkable sermon in Kensington Chapel. His text was Isa. xii. 2—“Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and not be afraid.” Having unfolded the sentiment of the passage, he applied the principle to passing events, and spoke of the political excitement in this country at the time of the French Revolution, which he well remembered. He assured us that the excitement then surpassed anything which existed at the time when he spoke, and expressed his confidence in the rectitude and love of the Almighty, who maketh the wrath of man to praise Him. The preacher’s age, and his vivid recollection of what he had witnessed, gave force to his exhortations, as tears were falling from his eyes.
Trust in Providence, touchingly enforced by personal recollections, was honoured by what occurred on the following day. The meeting on Kensington Common, so much dreaded, broke up in confusion. Ringleaders were alarmed, the mob was scattered without the interference of soldiers who had been provided against an outbreak, but were concealed in public buildings, through the Duke of Wellington’s wisdom. A day which opened in fear was spent in peace and confidence.
During a visit abroad in that year, 1848, I reached Geneva, with letters of introduction to Cæsar Malan, Gaussen, and M. St. George. Merle D’Aubigne was from home. In company with friends, on the Sunday afternoon, I attended at Cæsar Malan’s little chapel. We had mistaken the hour, and, on our entering, he recapitulated the early portions of his sermon. Then, in his own pleasant parlour, he engaged in fervent discourse on his favourite tenet of Christian assurance. On parting he singled me out for the privilege of a double French kiss, and on my expressing a hope that we should meet in the Father’s House, he rebuked me for using the word hope. With him it was a matter of assurance. Then I reminded him of the difference between present and future, and quoted St. Paul: “For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.”
I parted from relatives, who had been my fellow-travellers, and made my way next morning alone by boat to Vevay, thence travelling to Basle and Strasburg. Traffic was interrupted, and relics of revolution were seen in marching troops and handcuffed prisoners.
In 1849 a movement occurred for meeting religious needs in Kensington. A chapel was much needed on Notting Hill, and one of my deacons, who lived there, promised a large donation for the purpose. A few friends met in Hornton Street vestry, and opened a subscription list, which at once secured £1500. With that we went to work.
At first, there was some notion of incorporating members of the two congregations in one Church, with a copastorate; and Dr. Vaughan, I think, indicated willingness to become my colleague. I should not have objected to such union, but feared lest the moral effect of our movement should be thereby impaired. The scheme might have been looked upon as one of self-aggrandisement, while it was meant as an act of self-sacrifice. The latter it proved to be, for we drafted off about fifty members, as the nucleus of a new Church. Also we missed about two hundred seat-holders, who took pews in the new edifice, and, of course, there arose a certain éclat around Notting Hill which left Hornton Street a little in the shade. But soon things revived; our chapel became as full as ever. Funds recovered, liberal things were devised, and one morning I found a handsome cheque on my library table. Everybody seemed to be growing in kindness, and Hornton Street rose to more than its previous prosperity. It was an illustration of the principle—true of communities as well as of individuals—“There is that scattereth and yet increaseth.”
In connection with my early residence at Kensington I may mention a circumstance which interested me. I observed several times, sitting near my pulpit, an old gentleman. Upon inquiry, I found it was the Rev. Michael Maurice, father to the Rev. F. D. Maurice, then at the height of his influence as author and preacher. I never had the pleasure of conversing with my venerable hearer, but I learned from different sources much relative to his character and career. Though descended from a thoroughly orthodox family, he was educated for the ministry under Dr. Abraham Rees, Dr. Kippis and Dr. Savage—the first two being Arian divines, and the last a moderate Calvinist. He became afternoon preacher at Dr. Priestley’s Meeting House; and after officiating in other Unitarian places of worship, retired from pulpit work altogether. But he habitually associated with orthodox Nonconformists during the time he lived at Southampton. He also joined the British and Foreign Bible Society, and spoke for it on the platform. I wondered he should worship in Hornton Street, but information subsequently obtained served to explain the circumstance. He appears to have been a devout man with a large measure of Evangelical feeling. I mention him as a type of no inconsiderable class of sincerely religious people.
I knew but little of his distinguished son, only having met him a few times at Dean Stanley’s, and at Baldwin Brown’s. I used sometimes, on a Sunday afternoon, to hear Mr. Maurice preach at Lincoln’s Inn, and was much struck with the earnestness with which he repeated the Lord’s Prayer. The difficulty he felt in making himself understood is amusing. Some of the principles, he said, which his friends attacked, were those he strongly objected to himself, and those which they held as against him, were just those on which he rested his own faith and hope. “I could not make them the least understand what I meant,” he went on to say; “and if I did they would only dislike me for it.” It was not obscurity of style, as many thought, which made him unintelligible; but obscurity or confusion of thought arising from complexity of perception. He saw so much that it puzzled him how to express it. I respected him greatly as an honest thinker, more anxious to commend himself to the Searcher of hearts than to his fellow-men.
It must have been, I think, in 1846 or 1847 that I received an invitation to preach the annual sermon on behalf of Newport Pagnell College, and thither I went in the month of June. The Rev. Thos. Palmer Bull, president, and his son, the Rev. Josiah Bull, were living under the same roof, their house and garden full of comfort and convenience, beauty and fragrance. The old gentleman had a good library, and in nooks and corners were MSS. and relics of Cowper and Newton, friends of his father, the Rev. William Bull. The father was the “Taurus,” and his son the “Tommy,” immortalised in Newton and Cowper’s letters. When I had fulfilled my public duty I intensely enjoyed conversation with my elder host, as he showed me letters written, and relics possessed by the two celebrities so closely connected with his father’s name. He told me how he used, when a boy, to accompany his father to Olney, where he dined with the poet; that when grace was said, Cowper would play with his knife and fork, to indicate he had no share in acts of worship; that he would cheerfully converse on a variety of topics, but shunned all reference to religion. Notwithstanding, he would sometimes join in an Olney hymn; and then check himself as one who had neither part nor lot in the matter. He would kindly talk with little Tom, who accompanied his father on those visits, and they, on their way to and from the now world-known town, would join in singing a psalm or hymn, to a familiar tune. The old gentleman, I was informed, sometimes indulged in the use of a pipe, as he drove along the accustomed road. Full of such memories, I made an excursion to Olney, stopped at the house near the park of the Throgmortons, saw the room in which the poet slept, traced his writing on a pane of glass, and thought of the despair to which, in that chamber, he was so pitiable a victim. Then I was taken to the unpretentious abode in the main street of Olney, where he cultivated a close intimacy with John Newton, and kept rabbits in his little garden,—which garden, at the time I think of, remained much in its former state. The summer-house, described by the bard, was still in existence. Here, pausing for a moment to gather up another memento of Cowper, I may mention, that a relative of mine pointed out a house in East Dereham, which was Cowper’s residence; and told me that he remembered when a boy peeping through the keyhole of a door, and seeing him sitting in his chair. Cowper died at the residence of his kinsman, the Rev. Mr. Johnson. A friend of his gave me a leaf, in the poet’s handwriting, from the translation of Homer.