Besides the sectional conventions, an enormous general meeting was held in Brooklyn, when extempore addresses were delivered in free and easy style. But perhaps the most deeply affected audience was a crowded one in the Academy of Music the last Sunday night, for prayers and short addresses. A prima donna, I heard, was present: certainly there was one voice of pre-eminent sweetness and power in that vast congregation.
All the newspapers gave reports of the proceedings as fully as The Times does of our parliamentary debates. One afternoon two gentlemen, who had been clergymen, spent some time beforehand in preparing a report of what I meant to say in the evening. There was no other way, they said, of getting the report ready for the next morning. The interest taken in our proceedings by all classes greatly surprised me. Newspapers, representative of churches out of sympathy with our proceedings, noticed and criticised what went on: the secular press also took up the matter, and conveyed abundant information. What appeared in New York papers was transferred to others all over the States, and thus religious news of that week spread far and wide.
The whole report, published afterwards, was a curiosity for size and cheapness; but such voluminous accounts of a conference must not be taken to mean more than this—that Americans like to know whatever is going on, in every circle. It appeared to me that our transatlantic brethren are so fond of hearing public speakers, and of reading what they say, that they do not confine their thoughts to such discussions as are germane to their own convictions and tastes. They are curious to hear what anybody has to utter, if he speaks to the purpose, no matter what the topic may be. We should be mistaken, if we measured religious belief in New York by popular attention given to the Alliance.
The President, Dr. Woolsey, was a distinguished constitutional lawyer, consulted at times about international claims by European authorities; numerous professors of erudition and power, authors, orators, politicians, merchants, gathered round him in 1873; the European continent contributed such men as Dorner, Christlieb, and Krafft from Germany, Prochet from Genoa, Carrasco from Madrid, Bovet from Neuchatel, Stuart from Holland. Some of our own distinguished countrymen have been already mentioned. Ward Beecher delivered a wonderful oration in Dr. Adams’ church on the subject of preaching. He was like a man stopping you in the street, and getting “hold of your button” so as to compel attention. I met him several times in America, and received acts of kindness, when his face was lighted up with an expression of rare beauty.
Nor were churches and halls the only “pleasant places.” One evening Mr. Dodge had a reception to which eight hundred persons were invited, and at one moment, he told me six hundred were actually present. Introductions, handshakings, recognitions, questions, answers, observations and stories were incessant; whilst a band of musicians played at one end of a suite of apartments, it could not be heard at the other.
On Monday, all the delegates were conveyed by special train to Philadelphia. On the way we stopped at Princeton. Students of colleges assembled at the station, and uttered their characteristic cheers—in imitation of ascending and descending rockets—followed by such huzzahs as we do not hear in England. We marched in procession through the streets to the church, where a crowded congregation awaited our arrival.
We reached Philadelphia about three o’clock. There a long train of carriages awaited our arrival to convey delegates to the Hall of Independence. The city authorities represented by one of the judges, expressed a welcome, after which we were escorted to the Continental Hotel capable of containing the whole party. We all started next morning for Washington.
On the way we were delighted with surrounding scenery, especially when we came to Chesapeake Bay, into which the Susquehanna pours its waters. Woods were clothed with autumnal tints, crimson maples flashed their fires amidst manifold hues of decaying foliage; and the sunny prospect, as we skirted the bay, was beautiful beyond description. At the Baltimore station brethren from Washington invested us each with a white ribbon badge; then on we swept past homesteads, recently the abodes of slaves, many a hut serving as an original illustration for “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
We talked in the train with a black bishop, who entertained us with descriptions of negro excitability. He said coloured congregations would exclaim in church, as the preacher proceeded with his discourse, “That’s true, Massa”; and a man once shouted, under the influence of what he heard, “Massa, that’s like going up Jacob’s ladder.”
A distant view of the Capitol is not unlike that of St. Peter’s at Rome, as seen from the Campagna. We saw a few city lions—the Capitol and Smithsonian Institute being chief; and we found this metropolis, not without form, for it is artistically laid out in thoroughfares radiating from the Capitol; but it is certainly “void,” for nominal streets were there, but at that time without houses. We drove a long distance, across an open country, suggesting the idea of a city which is not, but only about to be. How it looks now, I do not know. Yellow dust was blowing in clouds, and lying in thick drifts on the steps of the Hall of Assembly.
General Grant carried in his face the signs of an indomitable will, and without any personal assumption behaved as one conscious of representative power. After my return home, Dr. Adams, who was then in England, told me that he acted as chaplain to the forces at the time of the great war, and rode by the General’s side, when he reviewed the troops. As illustrative of his memory for little things, I may refer to the General’s conversation with his old chaplain, when they met in England, and he alluded to the colour of the horse, the latter used to ride, informing him of the animal’s death, which had just occurred. The General seems to have possessed the royal gift of not forgetting those to whom he had been once introduced. Let me add, he was proud of having commanded such an immense army as he did, and said to the Duke of Wellington—who repeated this to Dr. Stanley, my informant—“Your father was general in chief of only forty thousand men; I led as many as half a million.”
We visited a great number of institutions in New York—colleges, schools, hospitals, and reformatories. Colleges, architecturally, were not imposing; but the libraries and scientific apparatus possessed by some of them, were of a choice and costly kind. I was told of one gentleman who had contributed £100,000 to educational objects. Schools are immense buildings; and at New York and Philadelphia it was a sight indeed, to behold pupils, gliding to their appointed places, and then upturning some eight hundred happy countenances towards the visitors come to see them. The examination of classes was most satisfactory, and the resources and adroitness of the teachers most admirable. Hospitals in the city are abundant, beyond what the necessities of the population seemed to require, and the reformatories afforded encouraging examples of discipline and improvement.
Parks and cemeteries are on a scale of such magnitude, and are so picturesquely laid out, that English visitors surveyed them with surprise. As to American scenery in general, justice had never been done to it.
We felt gulpy in taking leave of friends, and ending a visit so memorable.
The sea was calm, and the weather bright, as we steamed out on our voyage home, but a gale followed, and we had violent storms during several days. Serious accidents occurred in consequence, which gave a maimed appearance to some of the passengers. My dear friend Harrison had a serious fall. Waves rose many feet high, and they supplied a key to some of Turner’s sea pictures, and also to Ruskin’s eloquent language in describing the “truth of water”—the power, majesty, and deathfulness of the open, deep, illimitable sea.
A friendship I formed in America deserves a notice here, on account of the person’s eminence and the obligations under which he laid me by his subsequent handsome gifts. Dr. Sprague had the largest collection of autographs in the world. The number was immense, amounting, I am told, to about 100,000. He was living at Flushing at the time I was in New York, and I had charge from a friend in England to call upon him. Though having never met him before, yet from previous knowledge of each other, we were at home, immediately after I had crossed his threshold. It is an American characteristic to treat as friend any one who has been known by kindly report beforehand, or who can present credentials of character. Dr. Sprague’s wife and daughter received us at once as if we had belonged to the family. We crowded an immense deal of talk into a short space, and before we parted he made reference to his huge collection of autographs. As we had little time to spare, I had covenanted with my companion, Mr. Harrison, that I would avoid that tempting topic, as it would detain us too long; but the ice being suddenly broken, there was no help, and I found myself plunged—I must say not unwillingly—into a subject which prudence had decidedly proscribed. Dr. Sprague found that I was one of the craft, but a minor member; and forthwith he profusely offered assistance, asking whether there were any letters of his countrymen I particularly desired to possess. What an overture! I modestly replied, I should be glad of a few lines written by Washington Irving. Before I left America there came a most interesting letter from Irving to his publisher, respecting a new edition of his works; and after my return to England, post after post brought most valuable contributions to my store of autographs. The very first included a letter signed by General Washington of historical value. It relates to the close of the War of Independence, and gives direction for cessation of hostilities immediately after the surrender of Lord Cornwallis, in 1781. Letters in the handwriting of Franklin, Jonathan Edwards, and a number of other celebrities, came to England from time to time, enriching my stores, almost to the period of Dr. Sprague’s death. He was a popular preacher, a distinguished divine, a prolific author, and a man of widespread influence in the States.
In closing this account of American friends, I must say a few words about members of Harvard University. I had met with the Greek Professor at the Mountain House, on the Catskills, who spoke much of the principal, Dr. Peabody, for whom I felt a high respect. My friend, Mr. Harrison, and I were most courteously received by the Doctor at his residence, and were shown over the University buildings, especially that bearing the name of Stoughton, a Governor of Massachusetts. I was anxious to see the poet Longfellow, who resided in an old-fashioned house not far from the college. Unfortunately he was not at home, and I could not refrain from dropping him a line. I received the following reply:—
Cambridge, October 7th, 1873.
“My dear Sir,
“I have this morning had the pleasure of receiving your friendly note, and hasten to say how much I regret that absence prevented me from seeing you when you were in Cambridge.
“We should have lived over again that bright summer afternoon at Mrs. Fuller Maitland’s, which I so well remember, and you would have told me of many friends whom I should like to hear of again.
“Perhaps I may still have the pleasure of seeing you before you return to England. If not, I beg you to present to Mr. and Mrs. Maitland my best regards and most cordial remembrance of their kindness and hospitality.
“With greatest esteem,
“I am, my dear sir,
“Yours truly,
“Henry W. Longfellow.”
Mr. and Mrs. Fuller Maitland, members of a well-known old Nonconformist family, were members of my church at Kensington; and at their house I used to meet distinguished and interesting people. The occasion referred to in the foregoing letter made upon me a most pleasant impression. A large company had assembled to greet the American poet, and there was plenty of handshaking, which I feared would rather weary him, especially as so many of us were total strangers; but he assured me that I was quite mistaken, and that it gratified him much to be surrounded by so large a party, composed of those whom he regarded as English friends. Americans are in some respects more cosmopolitan and genial in new society, than Englishmen, and I was struck with this repeatedly in my transatlantic trip. I was quite affected with the kindness met with everywhere. Among those who showed special courtesy were some of the well-known Abbot family, and other professors at Yale, Andover, and Princeton, as well as at Harvard, and Mr. Winthrop, of Boston fame. Before I conclude this account of my American tour, one more incident remains to be mentioned. At some of the meetings in New York, I met with an intelligent and interesting Quaker. I found he was acquainted with Friends in England, and in the course of conversation mention was made of the Gurneys, when he informed me that Mrs. Gurney, widow of Joseph John Gurney, of Earlham, was residing in the vicinity of Burlington, in New Jersey. She was an American lady who became the wife of the Norwich philanthropist, and retired to her own country after her husband’s death. Finding that I knew Mr. Gurney, his widow was informed of the circumstance, and presently I received a kind invitation to visit her at her own residence. My friend and I, after a pleasant journey, reached the outskirts of Burlington, and were welcomed by our hostess at a handsome house with picturesque surroundings. We had much conversation about Earlham, and I was shown into a comfortable library stocked with books, brought from the Hall which I had seen in my boyhood. She told me about a visit which Mr. Forster, father of the distinguished politician, had paid her, not very long before,—a visit speedily followed by his death, and interment in the neighbourhood. On the walls of the drawing-room I noticed a facsimile of the famous letter written to Mrs. Gurney, by President Lincoln, respecting the great war going on, in which the question of negro slavery was so inextricably involved. She and some other ladies had been favoured with a special interview on the subject of emancipation, and it was to this interview, and its associations that the facsimile referred. She asked, if I should like to have a copy of it, and then not being able at the moment to find what she sought, she took down the framed copy and presented it to me as a memorial of my visit. I carefully brought it to England, and as it is not known here, as it is in America, I subjoin the contents, showing the importance which Abraham Lincoln attached to the conversation of the zealous Quaker on the occasion mentioned.
“Eliza P. Gurney.
“My Esteemed Friend,—I have not forgotten, probably never shall forget, the very impressive occasion when yourself and friends visited me on a Sabbath forenoon two years ago. Nor has your kind letter, written nearly a year later, ever been forgotten. In all, it has been your purpose to strengthen my reliance on God. I am much indebted to the good Christian people of the country for their constant prayers and consolations; and to no one of them more than to yourself. The purposes of the Almighty are perfect and must prevail, though we erring mortals may fail to accurately perceive them in advance. We hoped for a happy termination of this terrible war long before this, but God knows best and has ruled otherwise. We shall yet acknowledge His wisdom and our own error therein. Meanwhile we must work earnestly in the best light He gives us, trusting that so working, still conduces to the great end He ordains. Surely He intends some great good to follow this mighty convulsion, which no mortal could make, and no mortal could stay.
“Your people—the Friends—have had, and are having, a very great trial. On principle and faith, opposed to both war and oppression, they can only practically oppose oppression by war. In this hard dilemma some have chosen one horn, and some the other. For those appealing to me on conscientious grounds, I have done, and shall do, the best I could, and can, in my own conscience under my oath to the laws. That you believe this I doubt not, and believing it, I shall still receive, for our country and myself, your earnest prayers to our Father in Heaven.
“Your sincere Friend,
“A. Lincoln.”
In the year 1874 I lost my old friend, Thomas Binney. His pre-eminent position amongst Dissenters was attested by copious notices in newspapers, and, by the scene at his funeral. That position arose from several causes—his character, abilities, pulpit popularity, and personal appearance, manifold and far-reaching sympathies, and a genial nature, characteristic of the best Englishmen. His influence in the Congregational denomination throughout the country was aided by the central position of the Weigh-House when London was different from what it is now; [230] by strangers from the provinces who flocked there as to a centre; by visits to various parts of the country at Nonconformist festivals; and by the transfer of so many members of his Church to other congregations throughout the land. Nor do I forget how his name came to be known, beyond that of any other of our ministers, throughout the British colonies, owing to his being the father and founder of the Colonial Missionary Society, and the guide and counsellor of many youths going to seek their fortune in America or the South Seas. Still further was his popularity owing to a visit he paid some years ago to Australia. Also, when I was in Canada, I often heard of a less public visit paid to that country at an earlier period.
Amongst the many subjects in which my friend felt interested, was that of improvement in conducting Nonconformist worship; he gave his views respecting it in an appendix to a work on Liturgies, by the Rev. E. H. Baird of New York. I refer to this subject particularly, because to a considerable extent I sympathised with him; not, however, in consequence of his arguments, but from previous convictions, which, during late years, have become stronger than ever. The authority for excluding all liturgical worship from our places of assembly, neither he nor I could ever understand. I see nothing in Scripture which ties a Christian down to this perverse one-sidedness. On the contrary, both methods are sanctioned in the Old and New Testaments. My experience since retiring from the pastorate has strongly confirmed my previous impressions. When leading public worship, as I did for so many years, my utterances of devotion were spontaneous, and I am sure imperfect; but what was obvious enough before, though sometimes overlooked, came home to my feelings when listening to words in public devotion, often unadapted to inspire or guide supplication and praise. Further, extempore words, though free to the speaker, are, to all intents and purposes, a form to the hearers; and if a form in extempore speech, when thoroughly suitable, be proper, why is not a form in written language? Since I have become deaf, and often cannot catch a brother’s supplications, a form which I can read must obviously be preferable to one which I am unable to understand. Extempore public devotion, under many circumstances is of priceless value; but under some circumstances so is liturgical service. Attempts amongst Dissenters in the latter direction, I am aware, have in some instances failed, owing largely to prejudices handed down through past generations; until those prejudices melt away—some day perhaps they will—an alteration, such as to others like myself, seems quite hopeless. [233]
In the years 1874 and 1875, I took part in commemoration of two world-known Nonconformist celebrations.
The first was the unveiling of Bunyan’s statue at Bedford. I went down with the Dean of Westminster, Lady Augusta Stanley, and Dr. Allon, who all did wisely and well the parts allotted them. Her Ladyship gracefully unveiled the bronze figure of the wonderful dreamer; and her husband uttered immediately afterwards the following effective words:—“The Mayor has called upon me to say a few words, and I shall obey him. The Mayor has done his work, the Duke of Bedford has done his,” (he gave the statue,) “and now I ask you to do yours, in commemorating John Bunyan. Every one who has not read the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ if there be any such person, read it without delay; those who have read it a hundred times, read it for the hundred and first time. Follow out in your lives the lessons which the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ teaches; and then you will all of you be even better monuments of John Bunyan, than the magnificent statue which the Duke of Bedford has given you.”
The Dean and Dr. Allon delivered elaborate addresses at the Corn Exchange, and it was allotted to me, to propose, after a public dinner, “The Memory of John Bunyan.” The thought struck me, that his genius was equally imaginative and realistic. People rise from reading his dream, with impressions of character, as lively as those derived from perusing Shakespeare or Scott. They see in his delineations just such folks as walked the streets of Bedford, and plodded through Midland country lanes, two hundred years ago. I heard gentlemen at table say they thought Bunyan took his conceptions of scenery from neighbouring places. But I said I did not think so. He had never beheld hills like “the Delectable Mountain,” nor a vale or plain like that of “Beulah.” In fact, he took his scenery from Scripture, and gave it reality by allusions such as we employ, when touching on objects of every-day life. He was “Christian,” “Evangelist,” “Greatheart,” all in one—a pilgrim to the Heavenly City and a preacher of the Gospel.
I may here add that two years afterwards brazen doors were given to Bunyan meeting by the Duke, and were opened with due solemnities, the Mayor and Corporation attending on the occasion.
The unveiling of Baxter’s statue at Kidderminster occurred in July 1875, when Dr. Stanley represented the Church of England at the request of the town authorities; and, at the same time, they requested me to speak on behalf of Nonconformity. It was a gala day; shops were shut, flags were hung out, people wore holiday clothes, and a procession of the Corporation, the Bishop, and the speakers marched to the spot where the statue was placed.
Soon after the Kidderminster celebration I visited a worthy friend of mine at Bridgenorth, the Rev. Daniel Evans. Whilst there I received a letter from Dr. Stanley saying that he had heard me mention a design I had of visiting Madeley. He said he found in his interleaved Bible, opposite Dan. iii. 19–27, the words “Fletcher of Madeley,” and asked if I could discover at Madeley a key to this enigma, as it seemed to him. Mr. Evans and I had visited Madeley together, and in conversation recalled to mind an anecdote in Benson’s “Life of Fletcher.” A man threatened to burn his wife if she went to hear the vicar again. She went notwithstanding, and the preacher chose for his sermon one of the lessons for the day, instead of the text he had thought of previously. The lesson was in Daniel on the deliverance of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the fiery furnace. The man followed his wife at a distance to find out what it was in Fletcher’s preaching that so attracted her. When the poor woman returned she found her husband on his knees praying by the side of the fire he had prepared for her martyrdom. I wrote to the Dean and told him the story, as recalled to my mind by my friend Daniel Evans. The Dean sent back his kind regards and thanks to Daniel, “who had discovered his dream and the interpretation thereof.”
I have brought the Bunyan and Baxter celebrations together because of their similarity; and the Madeley incident because it became connected with the last of them.
In 1874, the year between the two celebrations, I resigned my charge at Kensington, when a meeting was held to present a testimonial, to which Archdeacon Sinclair contributed, and the Dean of Westminster, with other Churchmen, besides Nonconformist friends in large numbers, uttered loving words I can never forget.
The following report appeared in The Times:—
“Dean Stanley and the Nonconformists.
“On Thursday evening, April 15th, 1874, the Rev. J. Stoughton, D.D., an eminent Dissenting minister at Kensington, retired from the pastorate of his congregation there, after a connection with them extending over the long period of thirty-three years, during which he has had the reputation, while upholding the principles of Nonconformity, of maintaining the most kindly relations with the neighbouring clergy, and is understood to have enjoyed the respect of the whole community of Churchmen as well as Dissenters. The ceremony of last evening was held in Kensington Chapel, a handsome building in Allen Street, Kensington, where Dr. Stoughton has long ministered, and his congregation attended in great numbers on the occasion. Mr. Samuel Morley, M.P., acted as chairman, and there were present, among others, the Dean of Westminster, Sir Charles Reed, Sir Thomas Chambers, M.P., Mr. James Spicer, the Revs. W. H. Fremantle, M.A., J. Angus, D.D., W. M. Punshon, D.D., Donald Fraser, D.D.; F. J. Jobson, D.D., Henry Allon, D.D., Samuel Martin, and J. C. Harrison, the last-named of whom, on being called to address the meeting, took occasion to say that their reverend friend, Dr. Stoughton, though acquainted with every form of religious thought, had ever held fast to the Gospel; that, as a minister of religion, it had been quite a passion with him to be thoroughly fair and impartial; and that he had all along panted for union among all religious denominations. Later in the ceremony, the Dean of Westminster, having been called upon to speak, presented himself to the meeting, and was much cheered. He said there might perhaps be several reasons why he had been asked to address them. He could not plead the same long acquaintance as the previous speakers had claimed with their venerable pastor; but still, during the last few years of his acquaintance with him, he could truly say that there had been no occasion of joy or sorrow in his life on which he had not received some kind sympathy from him. There was another reason for his addressing the meeting. As a Churchman, and as a minister of the Church of England, he felt called on to express his gratitude towards one, not exactly of his communion, who had never once let fall from his lips a word of bitterness against the community to which the Dean belonged, and through whose heart he verily believed the destruction of Westminster Abbey would send a pang. He only trusted that when the twenty-first century arrived, and some future pastor of the chapel should write the history of Queen Victoria’s reign, he would treat his communion with the same courtesy and appreciation as their present pastor had treated, alike, divergent ministers and pastors of the Church of the Commonwealth. He felt he had come there that evening not so much as a personal friend or as a minister of the Established Church, but rather as her representative of common friends through the writings of Dr. Stoughton and himself. He came there to express obligations which dear old friends of them both, who lived two hundred years ago, would have wished to express on an occasion such as that—Chillingworth, Jeremy Taylor, Sir Matthew Hale, and many more whom his friend had brought to one common platform. They had had before his time histories of the Puritans, where they heard of nothing but Puritans; they had also histories of the Church of England; but the work of Dr. Stoughton was the first that had brought those famous men together. There was, he knew, a charge brought against his friend and himself that they were not sufficiently good haters. However that might be, he was sure that Dr. Stoughton hated, as he did, party spirit, the want of candour, all untruthfulness, and insolent vulgarity, whether in Church or Nonconformity. All these the Dean hated with a detestation so complete that, if it were possible, he would be willing to curse them thirteen times a year. He could not part from that assembly or from that occasion without saying one word on the peculiar aspect of the farewell on which the previous speakers had so touchingly dwelt. Surely it was a transition of life which all of them might envy as they approached the term of their allotted existence, to be able to secure for themselves a margin of life and of comparative quiet before the great end came at last. There was a custom in old monasteries—he trusted it would not be altogether inappropriate to mention it at a meeting of Congregationalists—that when any of the ancient monks had served a term of thirty or forty years—he forgot which—they were then to be relieved altogether from their arduous labours; they were to be called by a gentle name which meant ‘playfellow’; and one condition of their existence was that nothing that was disagreeable should ever be named in their company. Such to their friend Dr. Stoughton was the tranquil period through which he was now passing; and although they might still anticipate for him long years of active usefulness, whether by pen or by voice, there must be a delightful sense on his part in looking forward, having accomplished one period of his existence, to a more undisturbed time in which he might look back on what had been, and forward to what was to be to him and all alike. The Dean’s speech, of which this is necessarily a summary, was repeatedly cheered during its delivery. A valedictory address, expressed in flattering terms, and reviewing the long connection between their pastor and the congregation, was afterwards presented to Dr. Stoughton by Mr. R. Freeman, on behalf of the Church and congregation, accompanied by the spontaneous gift of a purse containing £3000.”
Besides others who were present on the occasion, as noticed in The Times, let me mention my excellent friend and neighbour the Rev. J. Philip Gell, formerly Vicar of St. John’s, Notting Hill. He referred to the well-knit efforts of pastor and people, which had constituted the strength of the Church at Kensington, and remarked that it was little known how the force of public opinion acts and reacts on the life of a large permanent congregation. “The love which was thrilling that night was the Church’s strength, and so long as that lived and flowed on the part of the people, and was sustained by the pastor’s wisdom, so long would the Church live and prosper.”
Dr. Morley Punshon, President of the Wesleyan Connexion, travelled from Leeds, where he had preached that morning. He trusted that the Church would be Divinely guided in choosing a successor. It was encouraging to witness such a presentation as that just made, the like of which many present had never seen before.
The years I spent at Kensington were very happy. I can say from experience that the life of a Congregational minister, in connection with a large and liberal Church—when full play is given to the social affections, elevated and purified by culture as well as religion—is an enviable lot, and calls for the devout gratitude of any one who has enjoyed it.
The friendships formed with many of my flock, a very few of whom are still living, have been amongst the choicest privileges afforded me by Divine Providence. Loving memories of them linger in my heart, amidst sweeping obliterations of names and faces incident to an age of fourscore and more, and those who survive me will, I trust, accept an acknowledgment of obligations deeply felt as these lines are written. I took special interest in some, now goodly matrons, who were school girls at Kensington in my time, and whose happy fortunes I have sympathetically followed through life. If they read these lines, they will understand the fatherly feeling with which they are written. Their parents, now at rest in the eternal home, were no small joy to me, and as they passed away, one after another, they left blanks not to be filled up in this world.
Two deceased friends I may here notice. At an early period in my Kensington pastorate, a gentleman called upon me in the vestry with a transfer to our Church from a communion he had joined in Manchester. At the time he was a rising engineer, and afterwards took part in the construction of railways over the Alps and in South America. He was a botanist, and came to possess a large garden and conservatory where he lived. He received the honour of knighthood, and as Sir James Brunlees became well known. He took a deep interest in our Congregational affairs, and after his change of residence from Addison Road, Kensington, still continued, with his family, to worship with us on Sundays. He was an intimate friend of John Bright, both of them being anglers; and I was entertained by stories of their success, as brethren of the rod. I often spent a few restful days at Argyle Lodge, where he and his kind-hearted lady made me as much at home as I felt at my own fireside. She died suddenly, after my retirement, when she was visiting a friend. I was immediately summoned to meet and comfort the mourning family. Another friend—George Rawson, of Bristol, the gifted hymn-writer—also died after my retirement, leaving memories of intelligence, humour, and affection, which I shall fondly cherish as long as I live. His beloved wife, daughter of the Rev. John Clayton, one of my predecessors in the Kensington pastorate, died some years before at Bristol. The touching memory of her funeral, and of the company then present, passes before me as I write these lines.
When I wrote this chapter, I asked my dear daughter Georgie to give me some results of her own experience whilst visiting the poor. She returned the following notes:—
“Instances of unselfishness are sometimes very touching. I knew a Christian woman who suffered for years with weak sight, and had several operations on both eyes, so that she could only distinguish outlines of different objects. She heard of two little children, distant relations of her husband, being left orphans, and as she had no children of her own, she suggested that they should adopt these little girls, and lead them in early years to a knowledge of Christ. The husband was so touched at his wife’s readiness, with failing sight, to take this burden upon herself that, though a common labourer, he was willing to incur the extra expense, and ever since that home has been one of the brightest I know.
“A poor woman expressed a strong desire that some one would speak to her sailor boy, who was wild and unmanageable. An opportunity occurred not long after, but the lad manifested great disgust at being talked to, and afterwards whenever I called he left the room. When about to start upon a voyage, I went to bid him ‘Good-bye.’ On leaving I said, ‘The time may come when you will feel the need of a true friend; remember that Christ is ready to receive you, for He has said, “Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.” These words may fill your heart with gladness some day.’ I did not hear anything of him for a long time, but one evening I received a note saying he was lying ill in a hospital, and would I go and see him. I complied, and found he had never forgotten the Saviour’s words which I had quoted. He resisted, he said, the voice calling him to forsake his sins and cleave to Christ till he could bear it no longer. At last he yielded, and the change produced in him was remarkable. During a long illness he manifested patience, unlike his old self, and the lad’s cheerfulness and readiness to help his mother were very beautiful. He died in her arms, singing ‘Safe in the arms of Jesus.’
“Many of the poor have seen days of prosperity, and have forgotten God; but, when adversity comes, like frightened children, they rush to the Father’s arms. One man, possessing at one time over £20,000, with a hundred men under him, lost all. Then, when reduced to the greatest distress, he listened to the Divine voice.
“I remember that on Lord Chichester’s library table there always stood a large card, with the words:
‘Lord Jesus, make Thyself to me
A living, bright reality.’“And such words unite the rich and the poor. One of the poorest women I ever met, had a strong realisation of Christ’s constant presence; and it so beautified her life, that all who entered her humble home felt such a prayer had been answered in her experience. I never talk to her but my mind is carried back to the Stanmer library.”
At the end of this chapter, which closes my Kensington ministry, I venture to speak of my methods of preaching.
The main object of my ministrations was the illustration of God’s Holy Word. Archbishop Whately preferred “to set his watch by the sun”; and, therefore, tested the results of his own thinking, and other teachers, by a comparison of them with the decisions of Scripture. When Scripture was plain, the subject on which it pronounced a distinct judgment was regarded as fixed for ever. That method it was my desire habitually to pursue. I made it my aim, not only to interpret the meaning of a particular verse taken by itself, but to catch, and fix in my mind, the drift of Apostolic thought in particular instances. It has been said, irreverently, that some expositors, when persecuted in one verse, flee to another, and the connection between the several parts of a paragraph is overlooked and lost.
It was my desire to look at long trains of thought in the writings of St. Paul as a sacred landscape, in which here and there a verse occurs as a lofty hill, which serves as a commanding point for surveying a landscape of thought round about. A single verse is often a key to an entire paragraph.
It was my habit to go over now and then a large extent of Scripture—doctrinal, biographical, historical. “Stars of the East, or Prophets and Apostles,” formed a series of personal sketches in the Old and New Testaments, afterwards published by the Religious Tract Society. Another course, called “Lights of the World,” were illustrations of character, drawn from records of Christian experience and action, such as “William Tyndale, or Labour and Patience”; “Richard Hooker, or a Soul in Love with God’s Law and Holy Order”; and “Robert Leighton, or the Peacefulness of Faith.”
Besides such methods I did not scruple to lay under contribution to the pulpit, condensed summaries of Puritan works, such as Baxter’s “Now or Never”; also I may mention that a course of Sermons on “Pilgrim’s Progress” excited much interest, and three or four of these I repeated at the close of my pastorate.
As to the real value of a sermon, form must never be confounded with substance. It is vain to vote the mantle into majesty. A royal robe depends for effect on the richness of the material, not on the adjustment of its folds. Toller’s “Sermons” [248] so eulogised by Robert Hall, depend for their impressiveness, not on a careful selection of words—in this respect they are open to criticism—but upon the intrinsic majesty of such thoughts as they express.
There is an obvious contrast between French and English preachers in this respect. They are more attentive to form than we are. I have witnessed effects in Parisian, and in Italian churches as well, produced by modes of delivery, such as I never saw in our own country. Young preachers in England might make their sermons more effective than they are, by greater attention paid to a mode of delivery.
Let me add a word or two as to preparation from week to week. At the beginning of a week I chose subjects for the following Sunday; and then gathered up from day to day, in reading and talking, arguments and illustrations suggested by books, scenery and conversation. One’s mind may be brought to such a state as to gather together what is valuable and useful from time to time, as the magnet attracts to itself grains of precious metal over which it sweeps. And, let it not be forgotten, we may sometimes build up a sermon by adding one thought to another; and at other times plant a sermon through an idea which takes root and grows into a goodly tree. My method then was, on a Saturday evening, to review and revise what I had prepared, to criticise its substance and arrangement, and alter it in matter and form, so that on Sunday morning it could be poured out to the people in freshness and force.
On week-night services, I sometimes took up Church history, or archæological illustrations of the Bible. Bible-classes, of course, were held; but in the latter part of my Kensington pastorate, I was greatly helped in this, as in other respects by my worthy friend, the Rev. J. Alden Davies, who was for a few years my assistant minister. [250]
In my last chapter I brought together two celebrations—one in honour of John Bunyan, the other in honour of Richard Baxter. Another celebration now claims attention, not of an English Nonconformist, but of a Protestant Reformer, whose fame covers the world—Martin Luther. English commemorations of his character and work were held late in 1875 and early in 1876.
Before I mention any particulars respecting the Luther celebration, I repeat what I have said elsewhere:
“There is no other man of a similar order whose fame touches so many topographical points, and sweeps over so wide a surface. The local reminiscences of Shakespeare and Milton, even taken together, are few, and cluster round a metropolis, a provincial town, and two or three villages. But how many cities, castles, and houses there are in Germany scattered far and wide which may be said to have Martin Luther for their presiding genius! Guide-books call attention to some spot where he went, some fortress or tenement which gave him shelter, some church in which he preached, some locality which his name has made famous; and there are scenes and houses unmentioned in guide-books, over which lingers the spell of his memory. One comes across mementoes of Charles V. in divers directions; but even they are fewer, less interesting, and less honoured than those of the monk who gave the emperor so much anxiety, and who by his devotion, and energy accomplished the reformation of the Teutonic Church. Certainly no king, no kaiser, can vie with him as to the place he occupies in the thoughts of his own people, and indeed of the whole Christian world.” [252]
Washington Irving concludes his essay on “Shakespeare and Stratford-on-Avon,” by remarking it would have cheered “the spirit of the youthful bard that his name should become the glory of his birthplace, that his ashes should be guarded as a most precious treasure, and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become the beacon towering amidst the gentle landscape to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb.”
It is no depreciation of Shakespeare’s genius to say that above his aspirations after fame, whatever they might be, rose the aims and desires of Luther—a man absorbed in zeal for the salvation of souls, and for the glory of his Saviour; but it would have filled him with wonder, could he have foreseen the place he was to occupy in the history of the world, and how the double tower of the Stadt Kirche, in which he preached, would become a beacon to guide tens of thousands from both hemispheres to the Augustinian monastery, where he lived, and to the Schloss Kirche, where he lies buried.
The Luther Commemoration in England was enthusiastic.
Soon after I left Kensington an immense assembly gathered in Exeter Hall, to take up points in Luther’s character and work. If I remember rightly, I dwelt on that occasion at some length on his domestic life, often assailed by his opponents, but held in admiration by Protestants all over the world. In lectures and addresses, delivered at Norwich, Peterborough, Bedford, and elsewhere, I dwelt on his manifold excellences and achievements, at Leipzig, at Worms, in the Wartburg, and his Wittenberg home. My remarks accorded with those I have now introduced.
After the close of my pastorate in Kensington, Ealing became my home. The professorships at New College were continued. Sundays were spent in preaching the Gospel. Literary studies were pursued to a larger extent than they had been when pastoral duty claimed chief attention.
In 1876 I was grieved by the death of Lady Augusta Stanley, for she manifested towards me kindness which could not fail to inspire my warmest gratitude. I never knew any other person who had so much dignity and sweetness of demeanour, one who, with many-sided sympathy, could make her numerous guests feel how sincere were her friendly demonstrations. It often surprised me, as it did others, how she paid marked attention to all her guests, however numerous they might be. Her tact was admirable. Nobody could leave the Deanery with the idea of having been neglected.
Her “At Homes” were extraordinarily popular, for every one was sure of meeting with notabilities of Church and State, literature and science. Her husband was in full sympathy with her in all these respects.
She was intimately acquainted with foreign celebrities, and her conversation about them was of much interest. She and her mother, Lady Elgin, spent some days in Lamartine’s house at Paris, when violent mobs, during the Revolution, assembled in front of the residence. The President behaved bravely, but expressed fear lest any insult should be offered to English ladies under his roof. Mother and daughter, if I remember right, had been offered refuge by the President when the utmost peril filled the French capital. Lady Augusta related interesting anecdotes of Lamartine; and I gathered that he habitually indicated no small confidence in himself, feeling that he was the greatest man in France, as no doubt, at the time, he really was.
Her Ladyship and the Dean were well acquainted with M. Guizot, and gave interesting accounts of that distinguished statesman, and of his habits and studies after retirement from public life. I happened once, when talking of Earl Russell, to make the remark, that I had heard of his cold manner to political acquaintances. Her countenance lighted up, and she spoke with enthusiasm of what he was in the bosom of his family, and the circle of intimate friends. Bishop Thirlwall was a great favourite with her, and she related interesting anecdotes of that distinguished man, indicating a warm heart, in union with a keen intellect.
Lady Augusta’s visit to St. Petersburg with the Dean, at the marriage of the Duke of Edinburgh, proved too much for her strength, and at Paris in the following autumn serious illness set in. From time to time amendment and relapse excited hope and fear, until all prospect of recovery vanished. She spoke of friends, sent kind messages, and talked calmly and with humble confidence of the other world, saying, “Think of me as near, only in another room. ‘In my Father’s house are many mansions.’” I had a touching note from the Dean asking me to be a pall-bearer at the funeral. All chosen for that office indicated causes, classes, and places in which she felt an interest. Religion, literature, and philanthropy, the neighbourhood in which she lived, and Scotland—each had a representative.
The assembly of mourners in the Jerusalem Chamber; the spectacle in the Abbey; the procession up the nave whilst the Queen occupied a little gallery not far from the western door; the calm submission of the bereaved husband, as he sat by the coffin; the solemn entrance into Henry VII.’s Chapel; the ray of sunlight falling on the coffin as it sank into the vault; and especially the words, “I heard a voice from Heaven,” sung by choristers invisible at the moment, as if music came from the Upper Temple—these incidents can never be forgotten.
It was by royal command that this lady, descended from the royal Bruce, was buried in a chapel reserved for royal persons; and immediately after the interment wreaths from the Queen and her children were strewn over the grave. The three benedictions—the Mosaic, the Pauline, and the Ecclesiastical—which the deceased loved to hear were pronounced, at the close of the service, by the Dean from a desk in the nave. She had said to him, “Think of me as you repeat the holy words.” He did, when she was gone as when she was living.
The Dean sometimes referred to his visit to St. Petersburg in company with her ladyship, and spoke of his having before him, as he tied the nuptial knot on that memorable occasion, no less than four princes, each of whom was expectant of a crown—the Prince of Wales, the Crown Prince of Prussia, the Crown Prince of the Netherlands, and the Czarevitch; and he also mentioned this circumstance—that after the wedding party had passed in state through a magnificent hall, where no provision for a banquet could be seen, within an hour and a half they sat down to a feast of sumptuous splendour, reminding him of Belshazzar’s, not in point of excess, but in point of regal display. The fact was, the side-tables had been concealed behind screens and drapery. The middle one had in that space of time been fixed and adorned.
I may here mention that one day, during a visit to the Deanery, I had much conversation with Miss Stanley, the Dean’s sister, an agreeable companion, who freely indulged in some common recollections of dear old Norwich, and some friends whom we had both known. She told me a great deal about her good father, the Bishop, dwelling with admiration upon his exceedingly simple habits, and his determination never to give at the Palace grand dinners, but only such as combined hospitality with Christian unostentation.
Two or three days previous to Lady Augusta’s funeral, I breakfasted at Lambeth, when Archbishop Tait, amongst other things, spoke of his desire for some union with Protestant Dissenters as far as it was possible; and this led to proceedings which, as they have not been reported in any fulness, may be recorded here.
It was a delicate question who should first move in the matter. The Archbishop wished to invite brethren to Lambeth, but what reason was to be assigned for taking such a step? At length it was arranged that some communication should be made to him, indicative of a disposition on the part of Nonconformists to confer with Episcopalian brethren. On such a ground the Archbishop considered he might bring together bishops, ready to join in a conference. I undertook to prepare a letter and get it signed, so that Dr. Tait might feel he had sure footing for what might follow. It was based on a recognition of pleasure felt by Nonconformists, in consequence of passages in his recent charges touching religious union. The letter went on to express willingness to meet brethren for consultation respecting co-operation in religious service so far as it might be possible and wise. It was signed by well-known ministers, and was acknowledged by the Archbishop under the term of “memorial,” an expression which, if I remember rightly, had not been employed by us.
Four Nonconformist ministers accordingly went down to Lambeth to converse on the subject. Previous to this interview, it was my conviction that to discuss the subject of union by itself was by no means desirable, as it might raise questions which would defeat the end in view. In harmony with this, the following opinion was expressed by a friendly prelate:—“Such a neutral subject as the progress of irreligious thought, would do well as a basis for a friendly meeting.”
In a note received from the Archbishop before we met, he said, “I beg leave to assure you that all the bishops whom I have consulted agree in the extreme importance of this movement, and in an earnest desire that by proper preliminary arrangements your proposal for a conference may be brought to a satisfactory result.” The proposal for a conference, I think, did not originate with me, though I quite approved of it, and was glad the Archbishop had kindly arranged for its being held.
I subjoin the following record, received from Lambeth, respecting a conference which the ministers named held with the Archbishop beforehand:—
“May 24th, 1876: The Archbishop of Canterbury saw the Rev. Dr. Stoughton, the Rev. Dr. Angus, the Rev. Newman Hall, and the Rev. Dr. Aveling.
“The gentlemen present having heard from the Archbishop what had passed with the bishops who met at the Ecclesiastical Commission, it was the opinion of those present that there was ample room for united efforts to stem growing infidelity and ungodliness.
“1. Therefore that a united conference as to the best means of attempting to spread the knowledge of the answers to materialistic and atheistic sophistries might be attended with very beneficial results.
“2. That such a conference might with great advantage consider the lamentable ignorance and indifference as to religion which prevails amongst masses of the community, and the best modes of meeting these evils.
“3. That such a conference might also with advantage consider what efforts are needed to rouse the classes above the artisan class to a greater appreciation of the realities of religion.
“4. That it would be desirable that at such a conference those present should come prepared to state their experience as to the difficulties to be met, and the proposed remedies. It was agreed that a day after the first week in July would be suitable for such a conference.
“The result of this was reported by the Archbishop to an informal meeting of certain bishops at the Room of the House of Lords: present, the Archbishop of York, the Bishops of London, Winchester, St. Asaph, Llandaff, Gloucester and Bristol, and Carlisle; and Monday, July 4th, at twelve noon, was fixed for our gathering.”
We assembled accordingly on July 4th, and there were present besides the Primate, the Bishops of London, Winchester, Peterborough, Gloucester, Bath and Wells, Drs. Allon, Raleigh, Punshon, Rigg, Aveling, Angus, Cumming, Robertson of Edinburgh (an old schoolmate of Dr. Tait); the Revs. J. C. Harrison, Newman Hall, Josiah Viney, and several others whom I cannot call to mind as, unfortunately, I have not kept a list.
The Archbishop presided, read the Scriptures, and offered prayer. He opened the proceedings by an appropriate address, and then requested me to give some account of the steps which had led to our meeting together. I could not help referring to some remarkable gatherings in the Jerusalem Chamber, March 1640–1, convened by Dr. Williams, at that time Bishop of Lincoln, and also Dean of Westminster, when several other dignitaries met certain Presbyterian divines. “This,” I remarked, “was done by order of the House of Lords, with a view to settling points of difference between ecclesiastical parties of that day. A scheme of comprehension was contemplated. It came to nothing, though the intercourse seems to have been pleasant, and they were hospitably entertained by the convener.” “This was the last course of all public Episcopal treatments,” said the witty Thomas Fuller, who added: “The guests may now soon put up their knives, seeing, soon after, the voider was called for, which took away all bishops’ lands.” I emphasised the fact that we had assembled for a very different purpose, not to discuss any plan of comprehension, but to see how parties, remaining ecclesiastically as we were, could, notwithstanding, unite in defence of our common faith against those who opposed it.
“We have a common cause,” it was added; “and let us aim at extending the influence of our common Christianity—this would bring us into spiritual and practical fellowship, the most enduring of all bonds.” The Bishop of Bath and Wells followed and spoke on the specific point—how we should meet doubts and difficulties in reference to religion. The Bishop of Peterborough discussed the subject generally, with great eloquence and force. The Bishops of London and Winchester made practical suggestions as to guarding Christians against scepticism, and rousing people at large from indifference and neglect. Drs. Rigg, Angus, and others, combatted infidel objections and enforced attention to the subject before us. A spirit of harmony pervaded the meeting.
We broke up the morning conference at two o’clock, and then lunched together; reassembling at three o’clock, when the Bishop of Gloucester, Dr. Punshon, and several besides, resumed the conversation. No representatives of the press were present, and no report, that I am aware of, was taken and preserved. We wished to prevent the controversial treatment of what took place. Two of those who were there, together with myself, received and complied with a request to prepare some brief statement for The Times, on the character and purpose of our meeting. Of course, the whole matter was criticised afterwards, chiefly however in private. I do not remember that it was taken up controversially in religious periodicals. To correct some misapprehensions—expressed in a Dissenting newspaper—I, at the request of an esteemed brother, wrote a short letter of explanation.
When we separated, gratification was expressed by those who were present. Some Nonconformists did not enter into the movement; others did, and that most heartily. From several Episcopalian friends we received assurances of approval and sympathy. It issued in no united action; no fresh organisation had, as far as I know, ever been intended. The purpose designed was accomplished by interchanging thought, collecting information, and encouraging one another in ministerial work.
For Archbishop Tait I had great respect and affection. He was singularly kind and conversable, without affecting any official superiority. Under his grave countenance, and habitually serious demeanour, as one who lived ever “in his Great Taskmaster’s eye,” there were veins of cheerfulness and humour in his familiar intercourse—I felt deeply, his gentle sympathy, expressed in a letter of condolence, on my dear wife’s death; and the last time we talked together, being interrupted by another person, he broke off in the opening of what seemed an amusing tale. He appreciated the relative position of Church and Dissent, better than any other dignitary I have met with. He would say that Nonconformists had their traditions, organisations, endowments, and influence, which gave them a status they were not likely to surrender by bringing over what belonged to them, into an Episcopalian organisation. A fraternal modus vivendi, he regarded as the object to be aimed at, not an absorption of Dissenting bodies into the Establishment. He, no doubt, would have preferred to see One Great Church in England, under a moderate Episcopacy; but he seemed to cherish little hope of any such object being accomplished.
On a former page allusion was made to Mr. Bagster, of Polyglot fame. In the year (1877) his venerable wife, at the age of 100 within a few hours, died at Old Windsor; and her accumulated years attracted the notice of Her Majesty, who honoured her with a visit just before her decease. I called at the cottage in which she expired, after the royal visitor had been there, and there heard the particulars of the interview. Her Majesty I was informed, brought with her the Princess Beatrice; and, on their entrance into the bedroom, where the old lady was lying, she at once expressed her gratitude for the signal favour bestowed by her Sovereign, saying that “she was looking forward to her own speedy dismissal to the immediate presence of the Saviour, where she hoped hereafter to meet Her Majesty.” Pleasant conversation followed, in which Mrs. B., at the Queen’s request, related her memories of George III., Queen Charlotte, and the Royal Family, as they used to walk on the Castle terrace, in the presence of a large number of loyal spectators. The Queen manifested interest in particulars respecting the good old lady, related by her daughter; and in consequence of the report she gave on her return home, Prince Leopold, as I was told soon afterwards, paid a visit to Old Windsor, and wished for a rehearsal of what had been communicated by his Royal Mother. Repeated gracious inquiries from the Castle followed. At the funeral service a note was put into my hands, written by the Duchess of Roxburgh to Miss Bagster, tenderly touching on that lady’s sorrow, for her late bereavement; and concluding with the words: “The Queen begs you to convey to all the members of your venerable mother’s family, the assurance of Her Majesty’s condolence.” This note was read to the mourners.
In 1877 I made two pilgrimages which left memorable impressions. All my life I have been an enthusiastic shrine-seeker, loving to trace out spots sanctified by footsteps of heroic and holy men. I heartily adopt the words of Dr. Martineau, “No material interests, no common welfare, can so bind a community together, and make it strong of heart, as a history of rights maintained and virtues uncorrupted and freedom won; and one legend of conscience is worth more to a country than hidden gold and fertile plains.”
At different periods I have visited the birthplaces of Shakespeare and of Raleigh, of Cromwell and of Wesley; the homes of Knox, Hampden, Milton, Baxter, and Howard; the haunts of Johnson, Goldsmith, Watts, and Cowper; the graves of Bunyan, Burns, Scott, and Chalmers have all had attractions for me.
The pilgrimages I made in 1877 were the following:—
The first to the Vosges district in France, searching for Ban de la Roche, the scene of Oberlin’s labours, and the resting place of his remains. [268] From Strassburg my daughter and I went to Mutzig, situated amidst a theatre of red sandstone hills mantled with woods and vineyards. Then from Mutzig we proceeded to Fouday, through valley after valley, if not exactly picturesque, yet really pictorial, and finally approached the parish of the model pastor. In the heart of the village of Ban de la Roche, are the church hallowed by his preaching, and the grave where he sleeps. Three broad slabs lie on the green turf, side by side, the middle one inscribed with the words, “Il fut 60 ans père de ce canton.—‘La Mémoire du juste sera en benediction.’” An iron cross bears the name “Papa Oberlin.” We were surprised to find the spot, though highly situated, so rich in beauty as summer waned; an afternoon sun warming the crisp air, and lighting up objects with varied tints. At Walderbach, a Swiss-like village, full of cottages and fruit trees, we found the parsonage house in which the good man lived and died. We were welcomed by the present clergyman’s wife, whom we had met before, without knowing her. The good lady took us over the rooms associated with her husband’s predecessor. There was the study where he worked, and the bedroom in which he slept. Some of his furniture is preserved, with a collection of toys he made for children, and a large jar full of still fragrant rose leaves, a few of which were gratefully accepted as a memento of the visit.
The other pilgrimage was in England to Broad Oak, Shropshire, where Philip Henry resided and where his son Matthew was born. It stands where the Wrexham Road is intersected by a lane leading to Whitwell Church. It is a small farmhouse, part of a larger one, with heavy beams, and a broad chimney corner, like what one sees in Anne Hathaway’s cottage near Stratford-on-Avon. When in its primitive state, it must have been spacious, for, says the famous Puritan, “I have room for twelve friends in my beds, a hundred in my barn, and a thousand in my heart.” Here he resembled “Abraham sitting at his tent door, in quest of opportunities to do good. If he met with any poor near his house, and gave them alms in money, he would, besides, bid them go to his door for relief. He was very tender and compassionate towards poor strangers, and travellers, though his candour and charity were often imposed upon by cheats and pretenders.”
The mention of Broad Oak occurs repeatedly in the Life of the father, written by his affectionate son. The latter tells of his father’s removal to Broad Oak, and the providences concerning him there, of “the rebukes he lay under at Broad Oak,” and of the last nine years of his life, in “liberty and enlargement at Broad Oak.” At a time when ministerial engagements were by no means so numerous and diversified as they are at present; when habits of home study, quiet visitation of the flock, and catechising the children, rather than preaching on public occasions, attending large meetings, and travelling to and fro along the length and breadth of the land, distinguished both town and country clergymen; when those who were connected with the Established Church, and had no restraints put upon their activity, spent what would be now considered very retired and monotonous lives; what must have been the secluded and stationary position of an ejected minister between the Restoration and the Revolution! No wonder, then, that almost every incident and effort belonging to Philip Henry’s career belonged to the farm at Broad Oak, where he lived and died, and wrote and suffered, and walked and taught, bringing up his children, and receiving his friends, and paying visits to his neighbours, under the shadow of the umbrageous trees which gave a name to his pleasant homestead.
I drove over to the house, or rather that part of it which still remains, a part of the kitchen, as I suppose, in which the good man used to preach. The people of the house showed me some relics—the pulpit cushion, and, I think, the pulpit itself, or some portion of it; also some buttons which belonged to Philip Henry’s coat.
At Whitwell is a chapel containing Philip Henry’s monument, which once stood in the parish edifice of Whitchurch.
At the end of the Whitwell epitaph are the words, “In dormitorium hic juxta positum demisit June 24, Anno Dom. MDCXCVI, Ætatis LXV.” Was it in imitation of this, that the words were introduced in Matthew Henry’s monument in Holy Trinity Church, Chester, “Confectum corpus huic dormitorio commisit 22 die Junii, 1714, Anno ætat 52”?
Dr. Howson, Dean of Chester, who was staying with me at Crewe Hall when this visit was arranged, intended to be my companion, for he was a great admirer of the Henrys; but illness prevented him.
In 1877 I was invited by Dr. Stanley to deliver a missionary lecture in Westminster Abbey, one of a series he had arranged, in which some friends of his, not clergymen in the Establishment, took part.
In 1877 I gave a lecture in the room of the Society of Arts on the prospects and perils of modern civilisation. One of the audience was a native gentleman attached to the Chinese Embassy—a very intelligent person, speaking English well, and showing by his conversation how clearly he grasped points of the address he had just heard. It was a singular circumstance that a representative of the largest empire of the world—which not long ago counted all other nations as barbarous—should listen to a barbarian as he represented the good and evil of European civilisation.
Just before Christmas (1877) two or three days were spent at the Deanery of Westminster, and on the Sunday afternoon Dr. Stanley walked with me on the terrace of the Parliamentary Houses, where we had some interesting talk. He pointed to the palatial edifice at our back as we looked across the river, and said, “This is the palace of the nation”; turning attention to St. Thomas’ Hospital, he remarked, “That is the palace of the poor”; and next, looking towards Lambeth, he added, “There is the palace of the Church.” We discussed the state and prospects of the Establishment, and he, as a staunch advocate for its continuance, propounded schemes of reform, which, looking at the state of parties, seemed to me quite impracticable. He was filled with an idea of comprehension, if not within wide Episcopalian limits, then by a State union of different denominations—for example, thus: He would have been glad to see a Presbyterian Moderator, a Congregational Chairman, and a Wesleyan President sitting in the House of Lords on a bench with the bishops. He further thought that, as Charles II. was willing to have Nonconformist chaplains, after the Restoration, so an English sovereign might now, without any impropriety, do the same; and if the Uniformity Act were modified so as to allow a Dissenting minister to enter a pulpit of the Establishment, there would be no legal bar in the way. My friend had the widest sympathies possible, and union, with him, was a passion.
In some respects I have a feeling like the Dean’s, but I hold theological and ecclesiastical principles such as he did not adopt. One fundamental difference between us was that he overlooked the exercise of Church discipline, to which I attach great importance. The study of State organisations has convinced me that the “union of Church and State” creates insuperable barriers in the way of ecclesiastical discipline. If the Church be linked to the State, so that a subject of the State becomes thereby legally entitled to membership and communion,—that forms a strong bar to a faithful correction of moral misconduct and fundamental disbeliefs. It was a great difficulty under the Commonwealth. The devoted and holy Thomas Wilson, Bishop of Sodor and Man, found it so in carrying on his diocese. He said in his famous “Ecclesiastical Constitutions” that his desire was “We may not stand charged with the scandals which wicked men bring upon religion, when they are admitted to, and reputed members of, Christ’s Church; and that we may, by all laudable means, promote the conversion of sinners, and oblige men to submit to the discipline of the Gospel.” But for myself, let me say I have not found any difficulty in the maintenance of discipline in Congregational Churches. Whatever might be the basis of Dr. Stanley’s far-reaching comprehension, it appears to me there might be a much broader range of religious sympathy and co-operation between distinct religious bodies connected with the maintenance of well-accentuated beliefs, and the exercise of ecclesiastical discipline.