1854–1862
ON April 4th, 1854, I started the first time for Rome, provided with
letters of introduction to Gibson, the sculptor, Penry Williams, the
landscape painter, and two Roman Catholic dignitaries, one a Monseignor,
the other president of the English College. All these gentlemen were
polite and helpful to me.
My companions were Dr. Raffles, Dr. Halley, the Rev. Spencer Edwards, and
another friend. The first of them was wonderful for relating stories,
which he always told _secundum artem_. He kept us awake one whole night
with his amusing anecdotes; but, as we were travelling through France at
a time when espionage was prevalent, he would not allow us to make any
political allusions. I was surprised at the retentiveness of his verbal
memory; whilst he repeated long pieces, in which the amusement consisted
of odd words, connected with no rational meaning, when put together.
It was Holy Week when we reached Rome. On Thursday there was the
feet-washing at St. Peter’s, and the supper afterwards: the Pope, as
“servant of servants,” ministering to the poor, but with great pomp on
both occasions. We arranged to see the former, and found a transept on
the right hand, fitted up for the occasion. Rank, fashion, beauty,
arrayed in mourning, found accommodation in galleries commanding a good
view. Ladies were veiled, gentlemen wore evening dress. Admission to
that part of the edifice could be obtained on no other conditions. Pio
Nono, a pleasant, genial-looking old man, who won a good opinion as soon
as you looked at him, did his part well. He read the Gospel (John xiii.)
in tones wonderfully musical and distinct, and then washed the pilgrims’
feet with grace and reverence. The whole was artistically and solemnly
done. “One can laugh at these things, as described in books,” said Dr.
Raffles—a staunch Nonconformist—“but _not_ when witnessed, as now, in
this magnificent place.” Still, on a calm review, nothing like _worship_
appears in any part of the ceremony. Then the _Miserere_ in the
afternoon! Those who did not witness it years ago can have no idea of it
now; or of the gorgeous procession, amidst a blaze of light, to the altar
of S. Paulo, and the prostration of the Pontiff and his Cardinals on the
floor, in the midst of darkness, candles having been extinguished, one by
one. The scene on the grand staircase was striking as the dignitaries
returned, varying in appearance and character—an ascetic monk, a man of
the world, another looking studious and reflective, a fourth keen and
statesmanlike. Nobody could deny the Italian scenic skill in such
matters. I have been at Rome in Easter, since then, much struck with
subsequent changes. When all was over on my first Easter in Rome, I went
to the English Episcopal Church, where the Lord’s Supper was administered
according to Protestant rites, and I could not but be impressed by the
contrast between the two services. It illustrated the change effected by
the Reformation. I mentioned this once to the Rev. Frederic Denison
Maurice, who, of course, agreed with me; and, talking of Rome, he
happened to relate an anecdote which I do not remember having seen in
print. Pio Nono, after the suppression of Latin nunneries in Poland,
received a visit from the Emperor of Russia. “You are a great king,”
said the former to the latter, “one of the mightiest in the world. I am
a poor feeble man, servant of servants; but I cite you to meet me before
the Judge of all, and to answer for your treatment of helpless women.”
There was the old assumption of authority; but there was a touch of
grandeur in the words.
I saw the catacombs, following my guide, taper in hand; and in one of the
strange passages was accosted by name. “Who could have expected to be
recognised in this dark underworld?” I exclaimed. It turned out to be a
person who had lived at Eton, and been a hearer of mine at Windsor.
Other recognitions have occurred to me of an odd kind, when visiting
several places.
I became so attracted by what I saw in Rome, and drank so deeply into the
spirit of Arnold’s letters, written there, that my last day was spent in
pensive leave-takings of ruin after ruin, church after church. I have
been there twice since, each for a longer time than the first; but not
with quite the impression which I felt in the first instance.
We proceeded to Naples, stopped at Cisterna, at Terracinia, at Gaeta, and
at S. Agata. Whoever has travelled the same road must long remember the
fragrance of the orange-groves and the coloured dresses of the peasantry.
We had no trouble at custom-houses on the way, for my two companions and
myself travelled in humble fashion. Otherwise did the two doctors,
already mentioned, fare. Large sums were demanded of them on the
Neapolitan frontier; and when they refused to pay, their luggage was
searched, and a coloured pen-wiper being found, the officials declared it
was a _revolutionary cockade_, and that books in their portmanteaus were
no doubt full of treason and heresy. There was no alternative but to
stay where they were, or to allow a soldier to accompany them in charge
of the suspected articles. All this trouble was followed by apologies on
reaching Naples, after an appeal had been made to the English Consul.
We saw the picture galleries and museums in Naples, and explored the city
as well as we could during our short stay. Religious services of a
special kind were being held in one of the churches; and I remember
entering it on an evening when it was crowded with people, listening to a
friar, who was earnestly preaching. Next morning, on revisiting the
place, it was crowded as the night before, and the same priest occupied
the pulpit. We drove along the old coast road, by the so-called Tomb of
Virgil to Castellamare, Sorrento, Posilipo and Pozzuoli (the Puteoli of
the Acts), and had dreams of the luxurious life once spent on these
shores, and of Paul’s disembarkation on his way to Rome. We also spent a
day at Vesuvius, where clouds of vapour were rolling upward; and I, with
one of our party, crawled down to the crater, as near as we could, much
to the dismay of our senior companions. On our way back to Naples we
tarried as long as possible at Pompeii, looking at the wonders of that
memorable spot.
An important step was taken at Kensington on my return from Italy. The
“swarm” sent to Notting Hill did not permanently reduce the numbers of
our congregation. On the contrary, they considerably advanced. The old
chapel became more than ever inconvenient, and we resolved to build a new
and much larger one.
I must now pass from local and personal affairs to notice a movement in
Congregationalism at large. Independency leads to isolated action on the
part of local Churches. It is unfriendly to cohesion and co-operation.
It provides for freedom, and nothing else. Old Independents saw this,
and checked the evil by maintaining local fellowships between Church and
Church, by the employment of “messengers” one to another. {126}
About 1830 the wiser heads amongst us had clearly seen the evil, and
endeavoured to overcome it. They concluded that centrifugal tendencies
should be met by a centripetal force. Mr. Binney used to say, we were a
collection of limbs—legs, arms, feet, and hands—all in motion, but not an
organised body. To frame a body out of so many members, was the design
of the Congregational Union. Algernon Wells may be regarded as its
founder. He was one of the most beautiful characters I have ever
known—intelligent, well read, sagacious, with extensive knowledge of men
and things, and a profound attachment to evangelical truth. He had a
rare order of eloquence, and wove pleasant tissues of thought in his
sermons and speeches. If his speeches were not always sermons, his
sermons were almost always speeches. There was a great charm in his
conversation, and it often overflowed with wit. Though a decided
Congregationalist, he was full of charity, and cultivated harmonious
intercourse with other denominations. His policy as to the newly-formed
organisation, was to make the meetings fraternal rather than
controversial—a brotherly society to promote edification rather than an
ecclesiastical army to fight with soldiers outside, or a council to
settle disputes inside. The early meetings were held in the
Congregational Library, and did not muster more than a hundred members.
“Business” received at times a look askance: spiritual edification
excited desire, and stimulated expression. Now and then came touches of
humour, as when after talking about the state of the denomination till we
were hungry, one brother rose and gravely asked “whether any intelligence
had arrived from the Sandwich Islands.”
Good Algernon Wells died in 1851, and soon afterwards I was requested by
a sub-committee to meet them in conference on an important matter. It
was to propose my election as Mr. Wells’ successor. Now, secretaryships
have always been my aversion—from an instinct, I suppose, such as guides
inferior animals to shun what they were never made for. The
secretaryship of the City Mission had been pressed upon me soon after my
arrival in London, but I steadily refused it, from a conviction of utter
incompetence; and, for the same reason, I declined to entertain the
proposal just mentioned. He who proposed the office for me accepted it
for himself, and we worked together pleasantly through several years. I
was elected chairman of the Union in May 1856, amidst much excitement.
There have been strains on its strength more than once, but this first
was the greatest.
Dr. Campbell had been for some time a prominent member. Hard-headed and
hard-handed, of a bold, open countenance, and with a habit of planting
his foot pretty firmly on the ground,—the outer man well indicated the
inner; kind-hearted and affectionate at home, but not the same on a
platform, or with an editorial pen in hand. He then gave no quarter to
anybody who opposed him. “You are a good fellow,” it was once said to
him by a loving spirit; “but I don’t like that great club you carry.”
That great club he swung about, much to the terror of many, and
consequently he exercised a despotic sway, to which they were indisposed
to submit. He held the doctrines of Calvinistic theology with a firm
grasp, and looked with alarm upon certain opinions springing up amongst
his brethren. He considered that there was looseness of sentiment, and a
range of thought too free, existing amongst younger men, which imperilled
the evangelical soundness of the Churches. He gave it the name of
_Negative Theology_. The name took, and was bandied about to the
annoyance of persons to whom it was applied, many of them holding
positive truths as firmly as Dr. Campbell himself. It happened that in
1856 Mr. Lynch, a man of genius and sensibility, with a mind cast in a
mould the opposite of Dr. Campbell’s, published a small volume of poetry
entitled “The Rivulet.” Some of the hymns it contained excited
admiration, and are now extensively used; but the book, as a whole,
aroused Dr. Campbell’s wrath beyond measure. He wrote a criticism upon
it, which awakened indignation in those who had read “The Rivulet” with
approval. Fifteen brethren drew up and signed a protest against this
style of review.
There existed, no doubt, a tendency on the part of a few brethren to give
up certain theological expressions long held sacred, and also to throw
into the background, if not to question, points of doctrine deemed
perfectly Congregational. In the opposite quarter there appeared a
tenacity of diction and an emphasis of opinion on old lines, accompanied
by ungenerous reflections respecting those whom they deemed innovators.
Very naturally, personal feeling was thus stirred up, and the Union
seemed threatened with disaster.
“We men are a mysterious sort of creatures,” said John Howe to Richard
Baxter. No doubt we are, and that in more ways than one: in this
especially, that whilst discussing theories of God, Christ, and the Holy
Spirit—all fountains of love—we are apt to be found drawing water from
the wells of Marah.
The controversy, now spoken of, related to old and new aspects of
theological thought. Looking back, I can but say, the balance sheet of
past and present, in respect to what is now noticed, shows both gain and
loss. All the gain, it strikes me, might have been secured without
incurring loss at all; and, in making up the whole account, there should
have been more charity in judging individuals, and more justice in
discussing principles.
I wished, in my address, to combine the two, and so render the whole a
sort of Irenicon.
A personal correspondence followed between two good men, which is now, I
hope, buried in oblivion; but no secession of members from the Union took
place, that I know of. The two tendencies still exist, but they call for
no criticism in these pages. My views on the subject I have often
expressed.
Before the close of my Windsor ministry I had begun to indulge in foreign
travel, and in 1854, when I had spent some time in my Kensington
pastorate, I ventured on a trip to Rome, which I have described already.
After that, visits abroad were numerous, and from amongst them I select
one paid in 1856, when I spent a few weeks with my two sons, who were
then being educated in Berlin. My dear wife accompanied me through the
greater part of the tour, as she was anxious to see how the lads were
getting on. We made our way to the Prussian capital through Hanover,
and, on reaching our destination, found all well. After spending a
little while in Berlin, seeing the sights and becoming acquainted with
some excellent people, we made an excursion to the South, and spent a few
days at Dresden, where antiquities, pictures, and drives in the
neighbourhood greatly delighted us. We proceeded to Schandau, a pretty
little village, and there took lodgings, initiating ourselves into
amusing details of German life. We attended the parish church on Sunday,
taking interest in the clergyman, who was expounding to his people the
history of David. We witnessed some of life’s joys and sorrows,
especially a funeral, which was very picturesque—bright flowers, red
roses and green leaves, relieving the darkness of death, the hope of
Heaven shedding light on the sorrow of bereavement. Excursions in the
neighbourhood added to our family enjoyments of this sojourn, and one day
we came in contact with royalty. The King of Saxony, the Queen, and a
few of the Court, climbed up a hill which we had selected as a
resting-place, commanding views of the Elbe. Their Majesties’ servants
in livery (who, by the way, were very civil to us) paid the royal
reckoning to a humble châlet-keeper, as any of his subjects might do. We
watched the King and attendants as they embarked in a boat for their
Dresden home. My boys and I pushed on to Prague, where the bridge and
St. John Nepomuk, the Hradschin, and the thirty years’ war, John Huss and
his house in the Bethlehem platz, the Jews’ town on the banks of the
Moldau, the Jewish burial ground, and the old synagogue, inspired
historical memories of deep interest. We joined mamma and returned to
Dresden the way we came; and there, after long gazings on the picture
gallery, especially at Raphael’s “Madonna and Child”—opposite to which
people sat reverently, as if engaged in devotion—father and mother parted
from the dear boys, and we wended our way homewards; not without
lingering in Lutherland to look at homes and haunts of the great
Reformer.
To return to my Kensington flock. In the year 1857, one Sunday night,
after I had retired to rest, I heard a loud ringing at the door-bell, and
immediately rose. On opening the window, there stood a carriage; and the
coachman, as soon as by gaslight he saw my face, cried out, “Oh, sir, my
mistress is dead!” His mistress was Mrs. Jacomb, residing with her
husband and family at Notting Hill. They had all been at Divine worship
that morning in their usual health. The carriage had been sent to take
me back to the mourners. I immediately rose and went. On reaching the
house I witnessed a scene of domestic distress such as I never witnessed
before. My deceased friend had in the morning worshipped with us, in her
usual delicate health, and, as I learned, in more than her usual
cheerfulness. She was preparing for evening service, when she was
suddenly seized with illness, and in a short time expired. The husband
and family were in deep distress, but they had a blessed knowledge of Him
who brought life and immortality to light. She was a woman rich in
spiritual sympathy, and had been no ordinary friend to me and mine, in
our early married life. We had a large family, and, though favoured
above many, had our domestic trials. How often I thought of what Paul
said of “Phœbe, our sister”: “She has been a succourer of many, and of
myself also.” I never knew any one who had more tender sympathy in
trouble than Mrs. Jacomb, or was more swift in expressing it. Her
husband was worthy of her, and her children “rise up to call her
blessed.” Those who survive are cherished friends. He was of an old
Puritan stock, descendant of Dr. Jacomb, a renowned ejected clergyman
after the Commonwealth; and the family genealogy is rich in noted names
and memories.
In this chapter I cannot refrain from recording my own domestic sorrows.
In 1853 a sweet child had died—little Catherine, born shortly after we
left Windsor; and in 1858 another, more advanced in life, a boy named
Arnold, full of energy and promise, was taken from us by our Heavenly
Father. His illness was brief; but beforehand my dear wife had been
anxious for his spiritual welfare, and her conversations were followed by
the Divine blessing. His joyous, winning ways had won the hearts of
visitors, and his death widely affected my congregation, awakening
sympathy to a degree which inspired my liveliest gratitude. Our friend
Joshua Harrison preached a funeral sermon for the dear boy, full of
pathos and power.
In 1859 a friend accompanied me to the Pyrenees. Travelling by French
railways, we reached Bayonne at the end of August, and then crossed the
Spanish frontier in a Spanish diligence, which had all the lumber and
shabby trappings of French ones. We reached San Sebastian at night, and
next morning took a walk on the promenade, where the ladies in mantillas
and veils flourished their fans with grace and dignity; and if there be
something gay in French solemnity, there is something grave in the gaiety
of Spaniards. We again climbed up a diligence, and travelled through the
Lower Pyrenees to Pau, where, from the Grand Terrace, we saw peering out
from the haze of a hot summer sky the mountain range—not near, as many
imagine, but many miles off. Of course we saw the old palace where Henri
IV. was born and wrapped up in his shell cradle. Along roads bordered by
woods and hills, reminding one of Wharfedale, we reached an elevation at
Sevignac, overlooking the valley of the Gave, with magnificent mountains
in front, Pic du Midi coming into full view. Eaux Bonnes, with all the
luxuries of a French watering-place, was then reached, whence we
proceeded to Eaux Chaudes, where the mountains become awfully
precipitous. We looked down from zigzag roads, cut out of declivities
buttressed by rocks and embankments, with boiling torrents at the foot,
roaring like thunder. The Pic du Midi, streaked with snow, rises up so
as to remind one of an Egyptian pyramid.
We determined to visit Pantacosa, and passed through a romantic defile,
crossed the Spanish frontier again, and halted at a village, where the
houses seemed walls without windows, the outlook being altogether from
the back. Glimpses of Aragon’s broad plain were caught, as we looked
south, and crowds of Spanish muleteers passed us, laden with merchandise.
The baths of Pantacosa occupy a gloomy region, shut in by rocks, and
there I spent the Sunday as an invalid, my strength being overtaxed; but
next day I rose in the enjoyment of health and vigour. Then we made our
way to Luz. The church of the Templars built there is half fortress and
half sanctuary. You enter through a machicolated gateway, into a church,
the gloomiest I ever saw. Through a little door, the _Cagots_, a
proverbial race weak both in body and mind, used to enter for worship.
Near to Luz is St. Sauveur, a narrow valley, richly wooded, with a tiny
village jammed in among the rocks. At the time of our visit, the Emperor
Napoleon and the Empress Eugenie were staying there. The house they
occupied was small and plain; nothing distinguished it but the two
sentinels at the door. All was silent and solitary, and nobody seemed to
notice the royal residence, besides ourselves. In the afternoon, we saw
their Majesties returning from a drive in open carriages with outriders.
Napoleon sat on the box, Eugenie was chatting with her lady attendants.
On alighting she remained at the door of the house, playing with her
walking stick, and receiving a letter-bag. The Emperor came out, lighted
a cigar, smoked and then walked on to inspect some men at work on a new
road.
We made an excursion to Gavarnie—a shady defile with precipitous rocks,
overhanging woods, and a river foaming and roaring four hundred feet
below. Beyond is the Cirque, a basin-shaped valley of semicircular
rocks, with steps and stages, whilst a drapery of water fringes them all
round. We ascended the Pic de Bergons, tarried a day at Bagnères de
Bigorre, a central spot for tourists, with the usual appurtenances of
such places. We proceeded to Bagnères de Luchon, by a romantic drive,
commanding a view of the Maladetta with its snows and glaciers.
In the course of our rambles in the Pyrenees we were struck with Eastern
customs. An unmuzzled ox went round a heap of corn. Sheep were not
driven but led, and wine was kept in leathern bottles.