1843–1850
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.
Soon after my return from this excursion I was chosen to fill up a
vacancy in the important Nonconformist Trust of William Coward, a London
merchant, who appointed Dr. Watts, Dr. Guyse, and Mr. Neal, author of the
“History of the Puritans,”—with another person who was a
layman,—administrators of property which he bequeathed for charitable
purposes. Much of it consisted of Bank stock; that having risen, the
revenue had become very considerable.
Dr. Doddridge was a special friend of Mr. Coward’s, and had under his
care several ministerial candidates, supported by that gentleman.
According to tradition, the merchant was very punctual, the minister less
so; and when the former invited the latter to dinner, if he did not come
exactly at the hour, the footman was ordered not to admit him. A
gentleman who lived opposite was aware of this peculiarity, and his
footman arranged with Mr. Coward’s footman, that when Dr. Doddridge had
been invited to dinner, mention should be made of it to the servant on
the other side the road, that a dinner might be prepared for his
reverence there. Other curious stories were told of our founder, which I
have forgotten. The perpetuation of Dr. Doddridge’s academy in different
places, and under different forms, led to a transfer of the institution
from Wymondley in Hertfordshire to Torrington Square, London, where, in
association with London University College, it existed at the time of my
accession to the trusteeship. For about two years I assisted in
conducting the business of Coward College, as a separate institution.
Then came a change. There were at the time three independent academies,
as they were then called, in London and the neighbourhood—Homerton,
Highbury and Coward. There were three sets of tutors, three boards of
administration, three distinct buildings, and three distinct sources of
expense. Previous attempts to accomplish the union of these institutions
had failed; but at the time to which I now refer, an opportunity arrived
for accomplishing the union. After conferences between “Heads of Houses”
for some months, it was determined to sell the three buildings, then
occupied by the students, and to erect one large new edifice, where they
might be instructed together. The erection of New College St. John’s
Wood, was the result. In the negotiations connected with this change,
Dr., afterwards Sir William, Smith zealously co-operated with the Coward
trustees. My dear old friend, the Rev. William Walford, took a great
interest in the accomplishment of this business, but he died before it
was completely effected.
He spent his last days in writing an autobiography, and after his death I
found it was written in letters addressed to myself, with a request that
I would edit the publication. This I did with a melancholy satisfaction.
He had suffered acutely from mental depression, and the malady returned
with violence shortly before his death. My last visits were most
painful. He refused all consolation, and passed away under a cloud, like
that which attended the sunset of Cowper. There were gleams of light,
followed by dense darkness. Then he sank into silence, if not torpor.
Days and nights rolled on, so different from their “tranquil gliding”
which he described in his letters; but it was the happy confidence of his
friends, notwithstanding his own fears, that the angry billow, no less
than the gentle wave, was bearing the weather-beaten barque to the
celestial shore. He died on June 22nd, 1850. The poor body looked like
a wreck, but faith could see at rest the soul which had such hard work to
pilot the vessel beyond reach of storms. A post-mortem examination
proved that his depression arose from the condition of the brain. He was
a good Greek scholar, and delighted in reading Plato.