Edward Hoare, M.A.: A record of his life based upon a brief autobiography

by Edward Hoare

University Letters.

Although the autobiography contains but a brief reference to his career at Cambridge, it seems a pity to pass too hastily over this most important time of a young man’s life. A great many of his letters to his mother were written at this period, and, like his boyish letters, they are all carefully stitched up into a series of sets, as if his parent foresaw that one day they would be valued by others. They form delightful reading, and it is unfortunate that want of space forbids more than a summarising of their contents and a few extracts.

The first of these, written to his mother, October 22nd, 1830, two days after he had taken up his residence at Trinity College, describes the purchase of cap and gown, the first dinner in Hall, the rooms in which he was settled, the prospects of College life, which he greatly relished, and the determination to keep clear of “harum-scarum fellows.” A characteristic sentence is worth quoting: “There is only one point I really dislike, which is the profane manner in which the Lessons are gabbled over at chapel, so that you can only hear a hurried mumble, and not one word of the sense.”

Various incidents enliven the letters at this time: descriptions of his friends, a very nice set; allusions to some “glorious sermons” of Mr. Simeon, who was then the great power at Cambridge; his resolution to join a boat; and the excitement caused “by an attack on the Anatomy Schools, when the Vice-Chancellor sent round to the Colleges to call the men out to fight, which summons we obeyed with great alacrity, though little necessity.” Surely the last item must make Cambridge men of this generation envy their predecessors of sixty years ago! On his nineteenth birthday young Hoare thus writes to his mother:—

“I don’t know whether you recollect that I shall never again see nineteen years. So I am now entering a new year—oh how earnestly I do hope that, through His grace who alone can keep me, it may be a year of profit and advancement in holiness! I have thought a good deal about it, though not so much as I could wish. How many blessings I have to be thankful for that I have received during the past year, when sorrow and affliction have been scattered all around me! How wonderfully all of us have been preserved in perfect health and enjoyment!”

A few months after this, in a letter from Hampstead, he mentions walking across the fields one Sunday morning to St. John’s and hearing a sermon from Mr. Noel that greatly impressed him; the subject was “The necessity and efficacy of diligence in religion.”

“He really seemed as if he had meant it for me, for I had been thinking a great deal how far more diligently I pursued my mathematics than my religion.”

Yet at this time he was teaching in a Sunday School every Sunday—rather a rare thing for an undergraduate in those days.

Here occurs an allusion to one who was destined to occupy a warm share in his affection during years to come:—

“I met the other day Perry, who was Senior Wrangler and fifth on the Classical Tripos, and finding that he was going to take pupils I have engaged him for next term, provided my father intends to be so liberal as to let me have a tutor.”

For over sixty years the friendship was strong and deep, and after Bishop Perry’s resignation of the See of Melbourne their intercourse was frequent and loving up to the end. In the Lent Term of 1832 he writes:—

“I have been getting on this week tolerably in my reading, and intolerably in my rowing, having been bumped by the Johnians on Thursday for the first time in my life, and that too when we might have got away with the greatest ease if all our crew had exerted themselves.”

Half a century afterwards his curates were often exhorted to work together with a will, and the exhortation was enforced by allusions to the disasters experienced by a crew whose members were not absolutely one in “go” and sympathy.

The following letter from his father has reference to College events at this time:—

“London, March 19th, 1832.

“Dear Edward,—A hasty opinion is not always worth having, but you may safely take my advice and try the new boat, bump the first Trinity, and wait for further orders. Let your mother’s letter compel you to watch yourself, and if you find the effects of rowing at all prejudicial give it up, but if you find your health and strength on the wax go on, tempering your zeal with moderation, and I will do my best to make peace at home—a work which I shall accomplish with more ease and in less time than you will be at the head of the river. It came across me that, after having vanquished all Cambridge, you might wish to carry your victorious oars to Oxford!”

A fortnight after the last quoted letter from the young collegian, there was another which recounted that, although his boat, of which he was stroke, had gone down as low as fifth, yet on the last race-day it had recovered its old place of second. Then follows a groan concerning the difficulties that attended his post as captain over a discordant body of twenty men: “The crew, when successful, get all the credit, and in the time of misfortune make me their scapegoat.”

Fortunately he did not adhere to his original intention of resigning the captaincy, and ultimately his boat attained the proud position of head of the river. Edward Hoare’s success in rowing did not make him idle, however: nothing could do that; into whatever he undertook he threw his whole heart and soul, and the very next letter, a few weeks later, May 4th, 1832, begins thus:—

“Here I am a scholar of Trinity safe and sound, as the master calls it ‘discipulus juratus et admissus,’ and not a little pleased am I at the thought. But what pleases me most of all is that, so far from being last of all, as our list declares, I have come in very high on the list. I do not know exactly where I am, but, as you wish for all the reports, I tell you one which I don’t quite believe, which is that I was the second in both years. I beat all the third year, and all my own except the great lion Stevenson, and I got within a respectable distance of him, and Peacock says I have gained upon him since the last examination, whereas I never expected to get within miles of him. In fact I am altogether happier than I can express, and really think that I never spent so joyful a night and day in all my life.”

Referring to this success his father writes again:—

“Hampstead, May 8th, 1832.

“My dear Edward,—Of advice and congratulations you will partake abundantly without an addition from me, but your mother wishes me to write, what I have no doubt Sam has already written. What may be the best course for you to pursue I have not made up my mind, but as you are at Cambridge it is as well to remind you that a man may be happy without mathematics, and that the glory of being Senior Wrangler (supposing the possibility of such an event) may be purchased at too high a price. I attribute the greatest proportion of your late honours to solid understanding and reading, some part to good luck or accident. Had you not then better see the result of the class examination before you take the plunge? With the blessing of God you will be rooted more deeply than ever now in all our hearts, and, what is far beyond extending growth here, you attain that eminence which is quite out of the sound of wrangling.

“I am most affectionately yours,
“S. Hoare.”

A few days later he receives the news of the sudden death of a relative, Mr. Powell, [24] and various letters describe the effect that this event had upon him. His sympathy was warmly expressed for all the mourners; and then, as was natural to a thoughtful mind, the remembrance of the shortness of life made itself felt. Strong and athletic as he was, he too might be cut off suddenly: was he ready for the call?

But his recent success at the scholarship examination, and his future hopes, seem to have had a strange light thrown upon them by this bereavement, and he began to ask himself the question which some of us have had to face in hours of success or failure—“What are College honours? Are they an end, or only a means?” He writes thus:—

“I never felt so strongly as I do now the utter worthlessness of the objects at which I have been aiming with so much zeal. What does it signify whether I am fourth, fifth, sixth, or anything else in this examination, when at one stroke all one’s honour and all one’s learning may be dashed from you? It has impressed me very strongly with the feeling that to read because it is my duty and because it is an admirable preparation for after-life is a glorious object, but to read (as I must confess I have done) for a place and a place only, and slur over higher things for it, is indeed vanity of vanities.”

The summer of 1832 was spent with a reading party in Wales. The start was made from Highgate, where the coach “Wonder” took in its passengers and conveyed them to Shrewsbury “with wonderful rapidity,” the journey commencing at 6.40 a.m. and the destination being reached at 10.30 p.m., or one hundred and fifty-six miles in nearly sixteen hours!

Thence sometimes on coach, sometimes on foot, they made their way to Llangollen, Llanrwst, Conway, and Bangor. The beautiful suspension bridge was an object of immense interest. The travellers went over to the Anglesea side, and down into the chambers and passages of the rock where the chains are fixed that uphold the structure; the letter recounting this visit contains diagrams descriptive of it all, showing the fascination that it exerted on the mind of the writer. Various accounts of the magnificent scenery fill pages in these interesting letters, and also allusions to the kindly way in which Welsh tracts were taken by the people, and the excited gratitude which the gift sometimes caused. At last Barmouth, the “ultima Thule” of their wanderings, was reached, lodgings were taken, and the party set steadily to work.

They were fortunate in the parish clergyman, whose name was Pugh, and young Hoare’s letters often speak with gratitude of the guidance from above which led them into the parish of this excellent man. Michaelmas Term found them back at Cambridge, and now his younger brother Joseph [26] joined the party, and Edward’s feelings with regard to his duties towards him are expressed in a letter to his mother, of which nearly the whole is taken up with a loving interest in his brother’s plans and prospects. He writes:—

“I most earnestly hope that I may be able to assist him, and, what is far more, that he may have that far better assistance which can alone be all-sufficient. . . . I have had a most happy vacation, and cannot say how I have valued it. I only trust that I may be able to repay a hundredth part of your and my father’s kindness to me by fraternal affection towards Joe. My motto with regard to him is—

“‘Men must be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown proposed as things forgot.’”

During the month of September, in the year before this, his elder brother Samuel was married to Miss Catherine Hankinson. [27] There was a warm attachment between the brothers. Edward often writes in terms of great admiration of “Sam,” and now the new sister was received with equal affection into his heart. It was a feeling which grew and strengthened to the last day of his life, and was returned by her, being specially manifested in the tender care which she bestowed upon his motherless children more than thirty years afterwards. This, however, is anticipating, and it is suggested only by a letter from Cambridge dated November 9th, 1832, full of delight—

“at the joyful news of the week. I am highly proud of my new avuncular honours. I begin to feel quite a strong affection to my new niece, which I never expected to do, at all events till I had seen her!”

The same letter writes thankfully about the interest which he had been able to arouse in the University in connection with the British and Foreign Bible Society.

There had been one collector in Cambridge previously, but young Hoare set to work and had the gratification of sending in more than a hundred guineas, fifty of which came from Trinity. He says, “I only hope that this success will encourage us to work hard during the next year.” His interest in the Society never waned, and it did well many years afterwards in making him one of its Vice-Presidents.

We have an insight into a College Sunday in one of his letters at this time:—

“We have had a delightful Sunday, and a most edifying sermon on the Conversion of St. Paul. After Hall I had a large party in my rooms, and we read one of Blunt’s Lectures on St. Paul. Our party after Hall has become rather a burden to me, it has grown so very large, as I have invited any persons who I thought would come and employ their time better than elsewhere; and now I feel that it is an opportunity which ought to be employed to good purpose, and I don’t know exactly how to go to work to do so.”

In a letter written early in 1833 he refers to all the dignities of the third year upon his head, and his desire to use them aright; it will probably be the opinion of any who read the extracts above quoted that the young collegian rose nobly to the ideal which he had set before him. There are those now living who can testify to the rich harvest of good which sprang up in his generation from the seed of manly Christian influence so freely scattered round him in those undergraduate days. Yet a crisis in his life was approaching, which we must leave to the next chapter to describe.

CHAPTER III
RELIGIOUS STATE, AND EXAMINATION FOR DEGREE

A few months after Edward Hoare took up his residence at Cambridge he commenced to keep a journal, which practice he continued for more than thirty years. Into its pages he poured his thoughts and communings with God, and, as he says in different parts of the journal, he did so that, looking back from time to time, his faith and love might be increased by noticing the way in which God had led him.

At the same time he was determined that there should be no repetition in his case of the grievous mistake which has been made by some well-meaning biographers; over and over again therefore he has inscribed upon the top of a page the word “Private”; and at the end of the first volume, written at a time when he thought that he was very near his end, he distinctly directs that his journal is not to be published. His wish has been carefully observed; no one has read the journal except the editor of his Autobiography, and he only to get a clearer view of the character which he wishes to place before the reader, with the one object laid down in the closing words of the volume referred to—“Let nothing be done with it or said about it except to extol the goodness of God by the weakness of the creature.”

It is evident from a perusal of the journal at this time that he was dissatisfied with his spiritual state, and a letter to his mother, dated July 21st, 1833, gives such a particular account of the remarkable crisis through which he passed that it is here given in full:—

“You have often expressed a wish that I would write you a full and intimate letter about my own religious feelings, but I have not done so hitherto, because I lament to say they were too feeble to authorise any expression, but I have had a time of very deep interest since my return, and I do not like to withhold it from you.

“When I arrived at home, I ought to have been smarting with a guilty conscience, but I had succeeded in stifling things, and though I cannot say I felt irreligious, I was far from a Christian walk with God. On Sunday morning Dr. Chalmers preached his sermon upon the enjoyment and preparation for heaven, and told us that the fruition of heaven was already begun in the Christian’s mind by the work of sanctification and regeneration in his heart. I began to think how this work was going on with me, but I found it so difficult to bring my thoughts to bear upon the subject that I carried the process of examination very little way, but that little brought a whole array of irreligion before me. I felt that my heart was not right with God, that I had not that love towards the Saviour, nor that detestation of sin, which it appeared to me that any one must feel who had in truth participated in the Christian covenant, and I was surprised and horror-struck at finding that I had been guilty, not only of neglect, but of some actual violations of God’s law. Still, with all this I could not bring my mind to dwell upon its own state, and my serious thoughts were constantly supplanted by others of a trivial nature. I tried to go and pray as an offending sinner, but I could not collect my thoughts, and though I daily said my prayers they were heartless and cold, and did not at all reach the deep sensation of need which I every now and then experienced, and I felt that I was making no progress, though I was growing very anxious. Every now and then my faith almost gave way, and I thought that I had resisted the Spirit so long that God had taken it from me. Then again I thought of some passages such as these: ‘It is the Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom of life,’ and those beautiful verses in the third of St. John, ver. 14; and I heard Dr. Chalmers’ morning reading upon the generality of the Gospel offers, when he dwelt upon the words ‘whosoever’ and ‘every one,’ and I thought too upon the great Sacrifice that had been made for sinners, and I had times of alternating hope and despondency, but I was never happy because I found I could not pray with my whole heart in faith, and I did not think I was under the influence of the Holy Ghost. This went on till Sunday evening. I then heard an excellent sermon from Mr. Fisk about the enthusiasm which a Christian must feel towards God and the Saviour, and I felt that the state of my own heart differed widely from this description. I came home very unhappy, but even then I could not get rid of wandering thoughts, by which I was so discouraged that I began to think that God had cast me off. Then I thought of the promises, especially ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest’; but then I felt that I could not number myself with them, for if really burdened with sin I could think of nothing else. I walked about my room for a long time and I knew not what to do, for my faith was so weak that I felt a fear of approaching God. At last, however, I felt that I could offer a silent prayer to Him to teach me to pray, and He heard me. I knelt down and felt as if a thick cloud had been removed from me, and I was enabled to approach God and entreat Him to pardon and to sanctify me. Oh, dear mother! I cannot describe to you the joy I experienced when I felt that God had vouchsafed once more to hear me.

“I afterwards went and told Goulburn all that I had been going through, and was cruel enough to wake him up in the midst of his night’s rest. He satisfied me very much upon the generality of the promises, and I went to bed full of joy and thankfulness. The next evening we met together and read the ‘1st Ephesians,’ and he offered up a most satisfactory prayer that the Holy Spirit might manifest Himself in our hearts, and I am most thankful to say I do believe his prayer has been heard. We have continued to read and pray together every evening, and I have found it perfectly invaluable, and I trust, dearest mother, I have been able to cast the whole burden of sin upon the Cross. I feel still, however, that my heart is corrupt before God, and I feel a want of devotion towards Him, but I can pray that I may be strengthened with might in the inner man, and I know I shall be heard. Oh how unspeakable is the love of God! Oh may Christ dwell in my heart by faith, that I, being rooted and grounded in Him, may be able to comprehend with all saints what is the length and depth and breadth and height, and to know the love of Christ that passeth knowledge! I need not say that this letter is perfectly private. I should, however, have no objection to my father or Elizabeth seeing it if they wish. I will include too Sam and Catherine, but I don’t wish anybody to be told about it.

“Believe me to be
“Your most affectionate and grateful Son,
“Edward Hoare.”

Just at the same time in his journal he chooses as his “text for life” St. Peter’s words—“Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.” But a great sorrow was at hand. Shortly after those lines were written his eldest brother Samuel was struck down by a hæmorrhage, and in less than three months he had passed away peacefully. This was a sore trial to Edward, and his letters abound with messages of deepest sympathy with his brother and the young wife soon to be left a widow. The words which he writes to his mother read like the experience of an advanced Christian, and the firm trust inspired by the “text for life” breathes through them all. The examination for his degree was rapidly approaching, so that study could not be neglected. This year the reading party went to Derbyshire, and the letters thence give delightful accounts of visits to the Peak, etc., but the coming cloud casts its shadow across all his thoughts; yet even so faith triumphs, and passages like the following, in a letter to his father, occur from time to time:—

“Oh what a thing it is to think that the Peace which can never be taken away is not only bestowed upon you and upon him here, but that if it should please God to realise our fears, it will soon be bestowed upon him in perfection above! Sometimes when I think of his prospects, as far as he is concerned, I can scarcely wish him well again, and, if it were not for all of you, could almost desire to go with him.”

On Sunday, October 23rd, 1833, the beloved brother passed away, and the journal records that Gurney and Edward sat beside him all through the night and to the end. Early in November Edward Hoare was back at Cambridge. His first letter is full of sympathetic thoughts concerning the bereaved ones at home, and it is not until the last paragraph that there is any mention of his work; this, however, is particularly interesting from one point of view. The great anti-slavery struggle was nearing its climax; and, considering the prominent part which Sir Fowell Buxton took in the movement, it was not remarkable that his nephew should have thrown himself warmly into it. Accordingly we read:—

“I believe you were interested in my declamation. I have not got the prize, but they put me up on the paper as having made a very good one. The other three men, however, made better. I believe if I had not been so hot about slavery I might have got the prize, for at the time they expressed their great dissatisfaction at what I said about it.”

Even as a young man he was not afraid to champion a cause which was unpopular with some who were in authority.

As the year draws near its close he describes his position as one of “overwrought excitement” when his mind dwells upon the approaching examination, which gives way to “a state of despondency” as a single thought of his sad home passes before him. Either this depression or the natural humility of his character makes him now “expect to take a fair second-rate degree”; when within a fortnight of the examination his mind becomes calmer, and he is enabled to make a good forecast of the result.

“I have good reason to hope,” he writes, “for a place upon which I shall look back with pleasure and gratification all my life. . . . My own desire is to get into the first six wranglers, and if I accomplish that I shall be delighted. . . . I am not sanguine, but neither am I anxious. I desire to leave it altogether in the full assurance that I shall get the place which is best for me, whatever that place may be.”

Surely the influence of the “text for life” is visible here! And those who knew him in later years will remember that this was his leading characteristic to the close of his life, making every preparation, using every endeavour, and then leaving the issue tranquilly in the hands of Him who “careth for you.”

Christmas Day was spent with his Uncle and Aunt Gurney, and two or three days at the beginning of the New Year given to his home, to turn away his mind entirely from mathematics for the last day or two before his examination. Then two letters appear in the carefully preserved bundle, one to his mother at Hampstead:—

“I have not time to write much, but I have the unspeakable pleasure of telling you that I am 5th Wrangler and Robert Pryor 4th. I cannot say how thankful and happy I feel about it.”

Written hastily, and in suppressed excitement, the date at the head of the letter—“December 17th, 1833”—is wrong both in the month and year (as the postmark testifies). The same day he writes more fully to his father in London; to this letter there is no date at all. Never surely in all his life did he make either of these mistakes again! (The postmark on this is the same as on the former letter, viz. January 17th, 1834.)

“I have had a hard fight to-day in the bracket, the result of which is that I am 5th Wrangler, and Pryor 4th. I cannot say what unqualified pleasure and gratitude I feel at this result of my College labours, and the pleasure is not a little increased at Robert being the person to beat me; there was no person in the examination to whom I would so willingly yield a place. I have had a hard fight to-day in the brackets. I was well aware, from the failure I made in two of the problem papers and the first class, that I was hard-run by some of the men in the bracket, so that I felt rather dismayed at finding myself with a good prospect of being 8th, whereas 6th had been my ambition. However, I set to work steadily and well, and, as I have since heard, gained three places, for I began at the bottom of the bracket. Peacock is very anxious that I should go in for the Smith’s prize, as most men of my standing generally go through that ceremony. The list of our bracket is:—

Pryor
Hoare
Main
Bullock
Bates.”

Robert Pryor, his “twin cousin,” as he used to be called, was Edward Hoare’s playmate from his earliest years. Educated together, together they entered the University, and came out, as we have seen, side by side in the list of wranglers. Pryor went in for the scholarship, but failed, and in a letter at the time his successful cousin writes of him as “behaving nobly,” thinking nothing of his failure, and only setting to work twice as resolutely as before, with the happy result above noted.

Here follow letters of congratulation from the relatives with whom he spent the Christmas before his examination. The event to which they refer may well terminate a chapter of this book, as it certainly was the close of an important chapter in his life.

Congratulatory letter on his success at Cambridge from J. J. Gurney:—

“Norwich, June 18th, 1834.

“Dearest Edward,—I think it would be very flat of me not to acknowledge the receipt of thy letter. I understand from Geo. Peacock’s letter to Hudson that the examination took an unfortunate turn for thee, or thou wouldst have been still higher; however, I am sure thou art quite high enough—and we have nothing to do but warmly to congratulate thee on thy prowess and well-earned honours. Certainly I for one should withhold all congratulation, did I not feel assured that thou hast aboard thy vessel plenty of good ballast in the shape of humility, simplicity, and Christian principle. Therein I do and will rejoice, more than in the flag of victory. I should now advise a polite treatment of thyself—a journey—a frolic—a good long holiday, yet not absolute idleness, which is good for nobody.

“I am thy truly affectionate Uncle,
“J. J. Gurney.

“My congratulations and kind regards to Rob. Pryor. I told thy mother that I was ready to be £50 towards thy expenses, shouldst thou take a journey—to be had at Overend’s any day, on my account.”

Congratulatory letter from his aunt:—

“Upton, 1834,

“I must, my dear Edward, add one line of expression about my pleasure in hearing of thy success; my only fear for thee seems to be lest thou mayst not feel humble enough, and continue to remember from whom thou gained thy excellent talents and powers of perseverance. To Him thou art, I know, desirous of dedicating them. I am writing by my dear John, who unites with us in our feeling for thee, and begs to unite in love to thee; thou wilt, I am sure, have felt for him in this trying relapse, but we desire to be enabled to believe it is permitted in mercy, and the favourable recovery from the operation is very cheering to us. Thy uncle with Sarah and Pris^e dined at Hampstead yesterday; the dear circle there as well as one could expect.

“Thy very affectionate Aunt,
“E. Gurney.”

Letter of congratulation from his cousin:—

“Upton, 1834.

“My dear Edward,—We are all so much interested and delighted at hearing of thy capital success, that a few lines must go to tell thee how warmly we congratulate thee, and how heartily we rejoice in it; it was most kind of thee to write and let us know of the result of the battle; we were longing to hear, the uncertainty of yesterday’s report being so disappointing. It is pleasant to hear of Robert Pryor’s doing so nobly, though I must confess my cousinly feelings would have been quite as well satisfied if you had changed places. Kitty desired me to give her love most particularly, and to tell thee she had set off directly to tell the Frys and the Listers about thee. Thou wilt have heard of the great anxiety we have gone through lately on dear John’s account; we have now the great comfort and mercy of seeing him recovering as well as possible from this attack. The horses are at the door for a ride, and all the party waiting for me, so I must say no more.

“Thy very affectionate Cousin,
“S. Gurney.”

CHAPTER IV
VISIT TO IRELAND, AND PREPARATION FOR HOLY ORDERS

When a young man distinguishes himself by taking a brilliant degree, the question is asked, “What profession is he going to adopt?” No doubt many were curious to know how Edward Hoare intended to make use of the talents that he possessed and the position which he had attained, and the following letter to his father, dated “May 17th, 1834,” supplies the answer:—

“. . . Now as to plans. With respect to the opening in business, I feel quite satisfied in declining it entirely. I am well aware that it might lead to an extensive field of usefulness and to many and great advantages in every point of view, but still I have long looked to the Church as my profession, and feel every day more and more decided in my desire to devote myself to it; and I earnestly hope that I may be strengthened in the feeling, and that when, if ever, my hopes should be realised, I may be taught to be a useful minister both to myself and others.”

In reply his father writes as follows:—

“Your letter conveyed the intelligence which I fully expected to receive. I have only to pray God to bless you and make you a bright and shining light in His sanctuary.

“You have chosen the better part, and I confidently hope and expect that a blessing will rest upon it, and although you may not be blessed with the fat of the land, that you will be with the springs of living water springing up into everlasting life.”

This was a distinct turning his back upon wealth, and perhaps social or even future Parliamentary distinction; but he had made up his mind. “The joy of the ministry” was the object of his young life, and surely thousands have had good reason to thank God for his choice, for thousands by his means have become sharers in that joy.

He did not, however, seek ordination at once. Being still too young for Holy Orders, and having been strongly urged to read for a Fellowship, he determined to set to work for another year of diligent study, and arranged at once to take a reading party of undergraduates to Killarney for the summer.

Many entertaining letters describe this period. We are rather alarmed in these days by the Race to the North between the trains of rival railway companies; the same spirit was not unknown sixty years ago, and showed itself in racing coaches!

The first letter describes such an event: two opposition coaches raced down a Welsh valley; one passed the other at full gallop, but soon began to sway fearfully, and at last went over with a terrible crash. Providentially and most marvellously no one was injured; had it happened a few yards farther on several lives would have been lost. Our travellers were deeply thankful for their escape, and proceeded on their journey viâ Holyhead to Dublin, and thence, after a short stay in the Irish capital, which they much admired, travelled southwards to the famous lakes. The exquisite scenery made a great impression upon the young Englishmen. “Fairy-land” was the first brief summary of opinion, and they agreed that it had surpassed all their expectations.

Great thankfulness is expressed frequently for the excellent parish clergyman, Mr. Bland, and his sermons are often described with interest. All were reading steadily, but frequent excursions were made, and rowing, fishing, and climbing of mountains kept them well occupied. One difficulty not met with on former occasions was the great hospitality of the surrounding gentry, who would have entertained them at dinners and balls every evening of the week if they had been disposed to go. Some of the young men could not resist the social charms of the place, and their chief writes a little despondently of the responsibility upon him of managing so large a party. He does not shrink from it, however, and the first letter mentions the regular “family reading” every day, to which they invited their landlord and his family. The condition of the poor Celtic population around served to excite at different times feelings of amazement, humour, and almost of disgust. It must be remembered that some considerable changes have taken place in the manners and customs of the poor of Ireland since then; still much that is said in the following letter is true, not only of that neighbourhood, but also of large portions of the South and West; and yet, as he used often to remark in later years, this ignorant, pauperised, and superstitious population have proportionately more representatives in Parliament than the intelligent artisans of England!

“I had no idea of such want of comforts. You may travel for miles and yet meet with scarcely any one whom a Brewhouse Lane pauper would condescend to speak to. I do not complain of their having no shoes and stockings, because that is not their misfortune but their choice, but what few clothes they have are a mere bundle of rags: you see women about in worn-out men’s coats, and the men do not cast them off till no strings can hold them together any longer. And then their cabins! you never saw such places; they generally consist of one room, though sometimes there are two. In the better sort there is a hole in the side by way of a window, but nowhere any glass in it; then there is a large aperture above the fire, which I believe is intended for a chimney, but the smoke decidedly prefers to proceed (after it has spent some time with its masters) by the more fashionable entrance of the door. This is a great convenience, as they smoke all their dried meat on the ceiling instead of in the narrow passage of the chimney. Their furniture consists of perhaps a table, two or three low chairs, a long box which serves for a bed for two or three by night and a seat by day, and a long bench for the younkers. Besides this there is some straw in one corner for those of the family who have no room in the box, and in another for the pigs; a large coop to fat the young chickens in, and some bars across the top which serve to dry the hams on and as roosting poles for the hens. In the third corner they may stow a young lamb, and in the fourth throw a heap of potatoes. I went to a place arranged as I have attempted to describe. At first I could not see for the smoke, but was soon told that if I were to stoop low enough I could breathe if not see; I accordingly sat me down on the low form, and when I was accustomed to the darkness I perceived the form of my hostess, bustling about with no shoes or stockings, and scolding hard at all the little urchins. Then there ensued a conflict with the pig, who could not understand on what grounds he was to be excluded, more especially when he saw the woman pour out a whole pot of hot potatoes on the table, and give a basin of goat’s milk to each of us, which I can assure you that we and the chickens feasted on with no inconsiderable relish. Now for mathematics!

“Your most affectionate Son,
“Edward Hoare.”

Men who have not forgotten the sensations of College life will recollect the rapid way in which age accumulates at the University! This comes out amusingly in some of the Killarney letters, e.g.:—

“There could not be a place better suited to our purpose, nor a party better suited to each other; the worst of it is I feel such an old man in comparison to the other two. Still we get on uncommonly well.”

And again:—

“I am not reading hard, for we have all agreed that, as we have come so far, we will see the country well, and that I am too old and the others too young to fatigue ourselves with reading.”

A vast gap of about two years separated the leader of this reading party from his juvenile companions, and though the outer world may not recognise much difference between young fellows of twenty and twenty-two, University men will recognise at once the historical accuracy of the feeling and its expression! It is very hard to put aside all the amusing letters written at this time, with their picturesque descriptions of the exquisite scenery, their accounts of duck-shooting and stag-hunts and expeditions of various sorts, and their droll description of novel experiences in his present surroundings. The following extract from a letter to one of his sisters must suffice as a specimen:—

“I must tell you of our evening yesterday. I was reading away as hard as could be when I heard the bagpipe in the next room. I found it was Gandsey, the celebrated piper, and all the village crowded into the house to hear. However, the ladies who had him would shut the door, because, as our landlord said, ‘one of them was a dumpey,’ i.e. deformed, and did not wish to be seen, so that we were disappointed. When he had done with them we thought that we must give ourselves and all the listeners a treat, so we said he must play for us too; and as our room was not large enough for the party, we adjourned to the kitchen, which, though a large room, was soon as full as it could comfortably hold. We had several famous tunes, to the great delight of all parties. As I felt my own feet quite a-going with the music, I proposed that those who wished should have a dance. We soon had some volunteers, and a famous Irish jig was the consequence. The partners were to me so un-tempting, as by far the best was the cook-maid, that, though I longed to dance too, my pride would not come down, and I looked on. Upcher and Merivale, however, danced hard with two of the maids, but they could not learn the jig, so the latter gave up. Upcher, however, went on with more perseverance than skill. But I can assure you it was a grand scene—a fine old blind man, the best piper in Kerry, playing with all his might, and the more active dancing in the middle of the room to correspond, and, if any by chance had a pair of shoes, taking them off to be the more active; while all along the walls were the ragged Irish watching the dance and sucking in the music with the greatest animation. Now just think what a difference there is between our two situations: you sitting quietly in the comfortable library with my father and mother, and I giving a ball in the kitchen, with nothing but a clay floor and naked walls; with scarcely another sound coat in the room except our own!”

The summer at Killarney passed pleasantly, and October found the travellers back at Cambridge, Edward Hoare reading steadily for fellowship, but with a growing desire for the work of the ministry evidently uppermost in his thoughts. There are hardly any letters at this period, but his journal is full of the holy aspirations of the young man’s heart.

The following June (1835) found him at Keswick intent upon his studies, and at the same time full of increased longing to help others in spiritual things. Writing thence to his mother, he alludes to a brief visit to his rooms at Trinity, where he spent a busy week preparing and collecting papers to take with him. Almost all his old friends were gone, but his influence had reached men of junior standing, and the consequence was—

“I was quite delighted and touched by the warmth of affection which I received there. Goulburn and Merivale were both out, but I could compare my reception to nothing but the prophet’s in Israel. I thought there were no friends left, but there were nearer seven thousand, and most affectionate they were. Mr. Simeon especially was full of love and kindness; he spoke of you with the deepest interest, and said he longed to see you, and that he thought he could be a help to you as the messenger of the Gospel; and he spoke to me most beautifully about the Three Persons of the Trinity all assuming to themselves at different times the character of our Comforter, as also upon the fellowship existing between Christians through the Saviour.”

In the same letter, speaking of Keswick, he writes:—

“I regard this opportunity as likely to be one of great usefulness, and I look forward with great pleasure to the prospect of quiet repose, withdrawn from all active service, as a preparation of my own mind and a thorough sifting of the foundations, before I enter upon the more active duties to which I trust it may please God before long to call me.”

He was not content with mere meditation, however. Being desirous to give some help to the parish clergyman, he was asked to take some cottage lectures in a neighbouring farmhouse. As an old man he often referred with great joy to this time as the beginning of his ministry. The farmhouse was an old building with low rooms, having great deep beams running across the un-ceiled kitchen. The tall young figure could not stand erect in the low-pitched room, except by fitting his head between the beams!

But the difficulty and humour of the scene were both forgotten in the sight of the crowded, attentive listeners, and the evident signs of the presence of the power of the Holy Spirit in the midst. Long, long afterwards Canon Hoare revisited the place, found the farmhouse, entered the very room, and was overjoyed to meet some who had never forgotten the addresses of the earnest young collegian more than fifty years before.

CHAPTER V
ORDINATION AND FIRST CURACY

Having failed in his fellowship examination, Edward Hoare was in perplexity as to the right course for him to pursue. His heart longed for the ministry. On the other hand, his former College tutor and many old friends urged him to stand again, saying that it was impossible for him to fail in obtaining fellowship. For three months he was in sore perplexity, looking for guidance, sometimes inclining to one plan, sometimes to the other. At last the leading came. The Rev. E. G. Marsh, Incumbent of Well Walk Chapel, Hampstead, called upon him, and his conversation settled the matter at once; the fellowship was given up, and Edward Hoare began to think of a curacy and speedy ordination.

Just at this time, and as if to try and hinder the young earnest heart from entering upon active work, the great enemy of souls assailed him with vehemence.

There was a long struggle, dark and intense. Probably the most faithful have had to go through terrible times of testing, and have known what it was to endure dark hours, aye, and days and weeks, “when neither sun nor stars appeared, and all hope that we should be saved was taken away.” It may be a comfort to many who in his ministry have been upheld by the firm faith of their teacher to know that Edward Hoare once passed through a time like this. It is no breach of confidence to give here the following lines written in his journal at this time:—

“Forsake me not, my God! my heart is sinking,
Bowed down with faithless fears and bodings vain,
Busied with dark imaginings, and drinking
Th’ anticipated cup of grief and pain:
But, Lord, I lean on Thee; Thy staff and rod
Shall guide my lot;
I will not fear if Thou, my God, my God,
Forsake me not.

“Forsake me not, my God!
Though earth grow dim and vanish from my sight,
Through death’s dark vale no human hand may take me,
No friend’s fond smile may bless me with its light;
Alone the silent pathway must be trod
Through that drear spot—
For I must die alone—oh there, my God,
Forsake me not!

“Forsake me not, my God! when darkly o’er me
Roll thoughts of guilt and overwhelm my heart;
When the accuser threatening stands before me,
And trembling conscience writhes beneath the dart,
Thou who canst cleanse by Thy atoning blood
Each sinful spot,
Plead Thou my cause, my Saviour and my God!
Forsake me not!

“Forsake me not, O Thou Thyself forsaken
In that mysterious hour of agony,
When from Thy soul Thy Father’s smile was taken
Which had from everlasting dwelt on Thee:
Oh by that depth of anguish which to know
Passes man’s thought,
By that last bitter cry, Incarnate God,
Forsake me not!”

But the storm passed, and was followed by “clear shining after rain.” The adversary meant it for harm, but God overruled it for good; and surely one of the secrets of Edward Hoare’s great power of helping troubled souls, for which he was so remarkable in after-life, lay in the fact that he had passed through the time of spiritual darkness, and had come out into the light.

Autobiography (continued).

After taking my degree at Cambridge I continued to reside there for a time, taking mathematical pupils and reading for a Trinity Fellowship; but not having succeeded in my first examination, and being anxious to be at work in the great calling of my life, I could not devote another year to the study of mathematics. So I threw my whole heart into immediate preparation for the ministry.

In those days there was no Ridley or Wycliffe, and I was thrown upon my own resources for my study; but I worked hard and brought all my Cambridge habits to bear on the great subject of theology. If I had learnt nothing else at Cambridge, I had learnt never to be satisfied till I got a clear view of what I was about, and that habit of mine, acquired through mathematical study, has been of the greatest possible benefit throughout my life.

During those important months, to use Cambridge language, I “got up” some of our best books, such as Butler, Pearson, and Hooker. What I learnt from the latter especially has been invaluable to me through life. Butler’s “Analogy” has again and again been helpful to me, when there has been a tendency to a shaking of the faith. But that which helped me most during that time of preparation was the study of great doctrinal truths from Scripture itself. I took up such subjects as The Divinity of our Lord, Justification by Faith, Baptism, The Lord’s Supper, Election, and Final Perseverance, one at a time; and I read the whole New Testament through with especial reference to the one subject which I was studying, carefully noting every passage referring to it. I then analysed and grouped those passages, keeping careful records of results. Having thus dealt with one subject, I went on to the second, then to the third, and so on. I have no words wherewith to convey the immense value these studies have been to me throughout life. They have told upon the whole of my ministry. After more than fifty-two years I am habitually using the results first obtained in that preparation period.

I cannot speak too strongly, therefore, of the vast importance of our young men, when preparing for the ministry, devoting themselves to the careful study of theology. I see dear young men, full of zeal and holy earnestness, who seem, indeed, so zealous that they cannot wait to study; and they are to my mind like men who are in such haste to fire their guns that they cannot wait to put any shot in them! The result is that, when they are sent forth as ministers of the Gospel and as teachers of the truth, they are themselves ignorant of the clear definitions of the truth they are going to teach, and, while they can make fervent appeals, are utterly unable to build up others in great fundamental truths of the Gospel. It is not fervour only that makes a minister valuable, but a fervent exhibition of truth; and if we are to be able ministers, we must be able ministers of New Testament truths.

I consider, therefore, that an immense benefit has been conferred upon the Church of England by the foundation of Ridley Hall at Cambridge, and Wycliffe Hall at Oxford. How thankful should I have been myself to have been under the teaching of either of the two able Principals of those Halls; and how earnest should we all be to secure to our young men the benefit of these institutions, and not to let them go forth as evangelists or scripture-readers, to be giving out before they have taken in, and to be teaching others before they have learnt themselves.

At length the day came for my ordination, and I had the inestimable privilege of being ordained as curate to my revered and beloved uncle, Mr. Francis Cunningham, Vicar of Lowestoft and Rector of Pakefield. An ordination in those days was a very different thing to what it is now. At that time Bishop Bathurst was Bishop of Norwich, and too infirm to undertake his own ordinations. He therefore gave his candidates dimissory letters to the Bishop of Lincoln.

I cannot say that much was done to deepen the impression on the minds of the candidates. As we all had to go to Norwich first for examination, and to Buckden for ordination, it was necessary to show some consideration for us, as there were no railways then. I often think that the Chaplain showed a great deal of good sense in his examination. It began on Wednesday morning, and he told us that he should give us hard questions at the beginning, that they would grow easier and easier during the three days of the examination, and that he should let us go as soon as he was satisfied. So we had a good stiff paper on various subjects at the first sitting, while he walked about the room and looked over the papers as we were writing, but having nothing to look over from a great many of the candidates. It was a great satisfaction to me, when that first sitting was over, to be told that I might go, and that I should find the necessary papers at Buckden.

Most of us Norwich men had to put up at Huntingdon, as the little inn at Buckden was full of the men from the Lincoln Diocese; and as I imagine that the Bishop did not like to have the Norwich men in addition to his own, he gave us no share of any of the privileges that his own candidates may have enjoyed. We signed our papers, etc., on the Saturday morning, and were told that we Norwich men were not wanted any more till the next morning. Accordingly the next morning we were in the church at the appointed hour, and that evening, to my great joy, I read prayers at the parish church of Huntingdon. How wonderfully different is the careful pains taken by all our present Bishops ere young men are admitted to the ministry, and what a wonderful improvement has taken place in this respect!

Letter from Rev. E. G. Marsh, on his entering the ministry:—

“Hampstead, February, 1836.

“My dear Friend,—Knowing with whom you are connected in the great work which you have now undertaken, I feel that I might fairly excuse myself from saying anything to you upon an occasion so interesting to all your friends; and my natural indolence would readily yield to the suggestion, and withhold me from interfering where others are more competent to advise. Yet on the whole I could not be quite easy if I suffered you to enter upon an office, far too high and holy to be approached by a sinner, but for that infinite condescension and love of our Saviour which has called us to it, without saying to you, in the words of St. Paul to Archippus, ‘Take heed to the ministry which thou hast received in the Lord, that thou fulfil it!’ This is indeed a solemn charge, even more so than that which you have just received from the Bishop. I can add nothing to its weight, and can only pray my God to forgive all our deficiencies, and to supply all our need, according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus. Nevertheless there are one or two hints which I will venture to suggest, in case they should help you in taking a practical view of the obligations thus laid upon you. In the first place, although this is a work which can only be successfully prosecuted in the spirit of prayer and in the strength of the Saviour, it is very desirable that the greatness of it should not dishearten us, or render us insensible to the duty of doing what we can. My simple advice to you in the beginning of your ministry is this—never to let a day pass, if it be possible, without doing some act in fulfilment of it. I mean some act having respect, not to your own personal salvation, but to the salvation of those to whom you are an ambassador for Christ: to your parishioners, while you are among them; to others, when you are absent. And this act, whatever it be, should be made the subject of special prayer. My second advice is to give sufficient time to each act, that it may be done properly, and rather to let many be neglected than to do any one perfunctorily, for on that which is performed indifferently and without due attention we cannot consistently expect a blessing. To do one thing at a time is the only way, either in spiritual duties or in temporal, to do many things well. Do not, therefore, attempt too much at once. Many break down and are discouraged by this error. Again, I would say, ‘Attend more to the living than to the dying.’ However important may be the clinical department of ministerial duty, we must always be greatly on our guard against encouraging the notion that the work of religion may be done, as doctors’ degrees are sometimes taken, per cumulum, or that anything can be done by a clergyman at the last hour which can reasonably be expected to produce a change in the spiritual condition of a person who has neglected to seek it before. Thus the ministry which you have received may be continually carried forward, independently of those occasional calls, caused by the alarm of sickness or the apprehension of death, which are most valuable seasons indeed, but on which too much stress may be easily laid, to the neglect of more hopeful opportunities. I hardly intended to say so much, and indeed, on what I have now said you may naturally ask me whether these have been my maxims in the course of my own ministry. But, alas! my dear friend, I do not propose myself as an example to you. I rather wish to see you avoid my errors and supply my defects; and happy shall I be if, in the arduous duties on which you are now embarking, you can derive the least aid from a single word of mine. Commending you to God and to the word of His grace who alone can make you an able minister of the New Testament,

“I remain ever, my dear friend,
“Your faithful and affectionate fellow-labourer,
“E. G. Marsh.”

From Mrs. Hoare to Mrs. Catherine Gurney on Edward Hoare’s first sermon:—

“March 8th, 1836.

“I must send thee one line, dearest Catherine, to tell thee what a remarkable day of interest we passed on Sunday. Our dearest Edward read the service in Well Walk in the morning and in the evening preached. It was deeply interesting, and I longed to have my heart melted in love and gratitude. Such heartfelt satisfaction to have this dear child so devoted, and adorned with so childlike, lovely, and devoted a spirit, and thus enabled in our own chapel, amongst our friends and neighbours, to proclaim with grace and fervour the great salvation of the Gospel of Christ! This appeared to me to be remarkably the case with him, and, independent of a mother’s feelings, his countenance and manner, his manly grace and childlike humility and simplicity, were striking. The congregation had, I believe, much fellow-feeling with us, and the expression of it from different friends has been touching to us. Never was I less disposed to boast, and deeply can unite in that expression ‘Where is boasting?—It is excluded’; and yet I long to say with the Psalmist, ‘My soul shall make her boast in the Lord,’ and in the blessing He has been pleased to vouchsafe. Of course we feel the prospect of parting with Edward; one of the many cheering points in the prospect is his vicinity to Earlham, and to thee and our dearest brother. How kind has Joseph been to him, and what an opportune visit was his last to Earlham!

“I went to see Anna Tooten yesterday at Tottenham, as I had left Upton before the arrival of thy letter. Catherine has been very much cast down lately, and I am but a poor helper. The dear babes are with me to-day, while their mother is in Devonshire Street.

“My dearest brother and sister, nephew and niece, and dear Rachel included, I know they will all unite with us in the interest of Edward.

“Your truly affectionate
“L. H.”

Autobiography (continued).

It was not long afterwards that I went to my curacy. Pakefield was a bleak village on the top of a cliff, and I never shall forget what the guard on the coach said to me as I was approaching it for the first time. I had complained of cold, and he said to me, “Don’t talk about the cold yet; wait till you get to Pakefield—there you catches it genuine!” And so we did. Aye, and I witnessed many a gale of wind, and during the year that I was curate, there were no less than fifty shipwrecks off the coast of my own parish.

But no words can express my thankfulness to God that He placed me at the outset of my ministry in that village. My dear uncle had laboured there for more than forty years. In his day there were none of the new plans for evangelisation; the high-pressure system had not yet dawned. He had worked hard with parochial work, and he had faithfully preached the old-fashioned Gospel. There was no particular brilliancy about him; his sermons were not equal to his character, but they were like himself, full of Christ, and he and his most remarkable wife lived such a life of Christian holiness in the midst of those rough fishermen, that the late Rev. Henry Blunt once told me that he considered Mr. Francis Cunningham and Mr. Haldane Stewart to be the two holiest men he had ever met with in his life. And what did I find in that village? I found large congregations of fishermen and their families; but more than that, I went diligently about from house to house, and was soon acquainted with every house in the parish, and there I saw unmistakable evidences of the blessing that had rested upon my uncle’s ministry.

There were noble men among the fishermen, nobly working for God and for the cause of truth, and there were refined and well-instructed women in the different homes, many of whom had been brought up in those schools. There was a most marked and unmistakable difference between the converted and the unconverted, so that it was impossible for a young man to go from house to house without seeing with his own eyes the manifest results of a faithful Evangelical ministry. I have no words to express what the benefit was to myself. I learnt in that village what I was to expect, as well as what I was to do.

I saw in Mrs. Cunningham the most beautiful example of a clergyman’s wife, and I saw in numbers of young women of the parish the conspicuous evidence of God’s blessing on her work amongst them.

There were amongst those men fine, noble, rough, powerful fellows—men who, till Mr. Cunningham went there, had been living without God in the world, but now devout consistent believers, and splendid men for dashing through the surf to save life from shipwreck, knowing not what fear was, yet who would kneel together in devout Communion at the Table of the Lord. I never can forget one fearful snow-storm accompanied by a heavy gale. Two of these true men, Nath Colby and Robert Peck, brought in their boats through the gale, wet, cold, and half-frozen, but there I saw them at the service on the Thursday evening, drinking in the Word of Life, and evidently regarding it as their greatest pleasure to be able to be present on that occasion.

That was the last time I ever spoke to dear Robert Peck. He went out again in command of his large fishing boat, and early in the following week I heard that his boat had been found bottom upward. It was my solemn duty to walk through the village, where, everybody being so awed by what had happened, no one spoke a word, to go up to that cottage to tell the poor woman her husband and her son were gone. As I went up the alley where she lived, I heard voices in one of the cottages; turning in, I found some Christian friends assembled there, praying for the poor bereaved woman. I then went into her cottage, and I suppose she read in my face what had happened, and she said to me, ere I could open my lips, “Then they are both lost?” Then she added: “‘A bruised reed shall He not break, and the smoking flax shall He not quench.’ These were the last words that Robert spoke to me—and I am sure the Lord will never fail me!” Oh that every young curate had the opportunity of learning as much from his Rector, and his Rector’s family, as I did from Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham! I do not hesitate to say that their example, and the blessing which God gave to their ministry, have given character to the whole of my own ministry for the last fifty-two years.

These were not the only advantages I enjoyed in Pakefield, for I was within easy reach of Earlham, the seat of my dear Uncle Joseph John Gurney. He was a very remarkable man, and his home was one of the most charming homes in England. He used to collect there many of the most distinguished men of the day. Nothing could be more delightful than the great gatherings under his hospitable roof on the occasion of the Norwich Meetings which were held every autumn.

I had a horse at that time which taught me a great lesson in practical life. It was a splendid trotter, but pulled like a steam-engine if I pulled against it; but if I treated it gently and with confidence it was as gentle as a lamb. How often have I seen the same effect produced amongst mankind! Try to force them, and they resist; deal gently with them, and they will be your most active and kindest helpers. So I used as often as possible to ride over to Earlham.

There I had three friends. There was my uncle, who was far in advance of the Quakers of his day in theological knowledge, being a good Biblical critic and well made up in the great doctrines of the Gospel. The great point in his conversations with me was the Divinity of our Lord and Saviour. It was he that taught me of the goings forth of the pre-existent Saviour with the Name and Attributes of Jehovah. Then there was Mr. William Forster, the father of the late statesman, who was most earnest with me on the importance of definite theology. He recommended certain books for my study, and at his advice I purchased Brown’s “Natural and Revealed Religion,” Guise’s “Expositor,” and Dwight’s “Theology,” which three books have been of the utmost value to me throughout my ministry. The latter book indeed has been made the text-book for my son’s theological students in China. Thus is Mr. Forster’s advice being still acted upon in that far distant region.

Besides these two men was my very dear friend the Rev. Robert Hankinson, at that time Curate of Earlham. He was a man of remarkably sound judgment, as well as fervent piety; and never can I forget the profitable hours which I spent with him in the Earlham Parsonage, learning from him maxims of practical wisdom to carry home for my ministerial work.

But that was not all that happened to me at Pakefield; for while I was there it pleased God to take home to Himself my dearest mother. My dear brother Sam had died of consumption in the year 1833, and she deeply mourned his loss—nor could we wonder, for he was a noble young man, full of high principles, dutiful to his father and mother, and devoted to the Lord. His influence over us his younger brothers was of infinite value to us all, as we had ever before us a spotless example. He had married most happily, was settled in his home near to our father’s house, when he was suddenly seized with hæmorrhage, and very rapidly sank, full of faith in God. I remember well, when I sat up with him on the last night of his life, how he spoke to me of the bright hope of the coming Resurrection, how he exhorted those around him to be ready for their Saviour.

I believe it was the shock as well as the sorrow of parting with him that so deeply wrung my mother’s heart. She was in his room with him on the morning of his death, and thinking that his dear wife required attention, she went out for a few minutes to see after her, and when she returned, to her surprise, he was gone. That was in the autumn of 1833, and for nearly three years we saw her gradually fail, till at length in the summer of 1836 the end came.

There was something most interesting in the character of my mother. She was not one of those who spoke much of present salvation and present peace; such subjects were not spoken of so much throughout the Church in those days as they are now. Good men in those times seemed to think more of the future than the present salvation. I am not sure that we have not drifted rather too much into the dwelling on the present, to the forgetfulness of the future life, and surely it is important for us to keep the balance. But while there was very little of the modern language of assurance, there was in its most perfect form the great reality of the hallowed Christ. I can never forget the language of that dearest mother to me as I stood by her bedside during her dying illness: “I can reverently say, with the deepest humility, ‘Lord, Thou knowest all things, Thou knowest that I love Thee.’” And she did love Him with her whole heart and soul. How well do I remember her words in the garden at Hampstead in the afternoon of her son’s death! While she wept over his loss, she exclaimed, “How little it is in comparison with sin!” [66]

Pakefield Letters.

“Pakefield, June 20th, 1836.

“My dearest Mother,—Having paid my bills and seen after the schools, I commence my usual Monday’s letter. . . . As for myself, it is needless to give you my history, for you know it already, the life of a country curate not being subject to much external variation. The internal changes, however, are indeed numerous—more frequent and uncertain than those of our most changeable climate. I never had an idea how many ups and downs there are attendant on the ministerial work. At times it is delightful; all seems easy and pleasant, and the only difficulty is to keep within bounds. At others there is a deadness and barrenness which words cannot describe. I speak under a very vivid recollection of this low estate, for I was down at the very bottom yesterday. I fought my way pretty fairly through the morning sermon (on Isa. xxviii. 16), but in the evening I had a real trial of my faith. I had good notes, and had well considered my subject. But as soon as I began it all appeared to leave me. I was much in the position that Robert Hall was when he broke down, and I thought I must have stopped. There were my notes, but they seemed to tell me nothing, and I had the pain of going through my lecture hardly knowing while I was delivering one sentence whether I should ever find another to follow it. You may easily imagine, from such a description of the performer, what was the character of the performance. However, I can look back to it, painful as it was, with great thankfulness: for (1) I know that in weakness He is strong, and the good done may perhaps be greater than that which would have followed a clear and well-delivered lecture; and (2) if it did no one else any good, it was a fine lesson for myself, and one that I wanted. I knew I wanted to be kept down, and had prayed for it. This was the appointed means.”

Writing to his mother at various times upon his work at Pakefield there occur passages such as these:—

“Preaching is becoming more and more a pleasure to me. The great difficulty of addressing people appears to pass away. The knowledge of all the congregation is partly the cause, and also the encouragement derived from visiting.”

“You see there is a good deal doing here, but what is it all if the Spirit of God be absent?—a sounding brass and tinkling cymbal. It is there that the difficulty lies. Nothing is easier than to get through the duties of a parish, and to get through them, as man thinks, well; but to go to your work in the Spirit of Christ, carrying with you the unction from the Holy One, there is the difficulty. May God forgive my great shortcomings! Sometimes I dread Jeremiah xlviii. 10.”

Upon the spiritual life he writes to his sister:—

“The characteristic of the new life is that we have fellowship with the Father and with His Son Jesus Christ; it must therefore follow that all interruptions will increase a deadness of faith, and total separation cause death. It is one of the privileges of my office that all my work is for God (though He only knows how little I keep this end in view), and therefore the busier I am the more I am compelled to pray. This, however, is not sufficient, though delightful. We cannot live without that ‘freedom of speech,’ translated ‘boldly’ in Hebrews iv., in which we pour out our heart before Him. When we know that we know in truth that God is a refuge for us, this is the balm of Gilead that can heal every wound, the power that can say to the troubled waters, ‘Peace, be still!’ In order to the attainment of it let us allow nothing to impede our private communion with our God.”

Writing one Sunday evening to his mother he says:—

“I have had somewhat to contend with in myself from very cloudy views of the doctrines I was preaching. At the same time I have found comfort in the recollection that the work is not mine nor dependent upon my own feelings. I began work at a quarter before nine by opening the boys’ school; at ten I was really refreshed and humbled by just dropping into the prayer-meeting; there was a most beautiful spirit amongst them, and they were praying most delightfully for me. I left them deeply impressed with the sense of their far greater fitness to teach me than mine to be their minister.”

In the postscript of a letter dated August 1st, 1836, he writes: “Congratulate Uncle Buxton upon the glorious events of this day.” An entry in his journal dwells joyfully upon it also—and well might his and every Englishman’s heart be stirred by the thought that from that day every slave standing on British soil was free!

CHAPTER VI
RICHMOND

But my Pakefield curacy was soon to terminate. Whether it was the cold, or whether it was the pressure of ministerial interest, which I have often known to break down young men in the outset of their ministry, or whether it was the death of my dearest mother, or the three together, I cannot say; but I had a bad cough, and I went away for a time to my father’s home to nurse it. I had no idea at the time of leaving Pakefield, but my kind and valued friend the Rev. J. W. Cunningham, brother to my Rector, recommended me, without my knowledge, to the curacy of Richmond, Surrey.

He was a true friend to me and to my family. He was a very different man to his brother; he had taken a high degree at Cambridge, and he was a polished scholar, one of the best writers of the English language that I ever met with, an admirable friend as a scholarly critic to a young man entering the ministry. I am much indebted to his advice, and only wish I had followed it more carefully. It was his doing that introduced me to the Rev. W. Gandy, Vicar of Kingston and Richmond; and through him the curacy was proposed to me.

I must say that it was a desperate experiment on his part, for there were peculiar circumstances connected with the position, and I had never run alone in the ministry, but always had the friendship and counsel of my beloved Rector.

The position of the parish was this. There were four parishes lying together along the banks of the Thames—Kingston, Petersham, Richmond, Kew—all in the gift of King’s College, Cambridge. It had been thought desirable that there should be only two Vicars instead of four, and therefore it had been arranged to group them, two and two. Of course the most natural arrangement would have been to have put together the small parish of Petersham and the large parish of Kingston to which it was adjacent, and the small parish of Kew and the large parish of Richmond which also adjoined. But in those days there used to be a good deal of jobbery, and, for some reason or other which I never could explain, it had been decided to unite together the two large parishes, Kingston and Richmond, skipping over Petersham; and the two small parishes, Petersham and Kew, skipping over Richmond; so that the Rev. Mr. Gandy was Vicar of Kingston and Richmond, while another gentleman was Vicar of the other two smaller ones.

Mr. Gandy was a man altogether incompetent to have the charge. He was a most interesting man, and a deep student of Scripture—a man of heavenly mind, one in fact who seemed so occupied with heavenly views that he was unfitted for the practical business of this lower world. Mr. Simeon once said of him, “All of us are going stumping along on the surface of earth, but Mr. Gandy rises right into Heaven!”

It may easily be imagined that he found his great double charge far too much for him, so Mr. Cunningham advised him practically to give up Richmond into the hands of some trustworthy curate, who should find his own assistant, and undertake the entire responsibility of the work. This was the charge to which I was called by the providence of God in those early days of my ministry. I have just said it was a desperate experiment, and looking back to that time I can see plenty of mistakes, and I learn from my own experience that it is a possible thing to mistake the irritation produced by our own blunders for opposition to the Gospel which we preach; a man may be true to the Gospel, but he may not infrequently make very great mistakes in his mode of putting it forth.

In looking back to those days I am thankful to believe that I went to Richmond true to my Master, and I am profoundly thankful for the help given me; but I should make a great mistake if I were to lead anybody to suppose that, in my earnest desire to exalt my Saviour, I never did anything to irritate. At one time I had great difficulty with one of the churchwardens, which led to a considerable correspondence. I kept that correspondence carefully, and after ten years I looked it over. That revision taught me a great lesson, for I found that in the heat of the controversy I had written very differently to what I should have done in the calmer review of ten years afterwards. That was one of the lessons I learnt at Richmond.

That which I look back upon with the greatest thankfulness is a confirmation by my Richmond experience of the great lesson I learnt at Pakefield respecting the results to be expected from the ministry. Mr. Gandy had been Vicar for some twenty-five years, during which time he had appointed a series of curates, the first of whom was the Rev. Stephen Langston, who resigned the curacy about twenty years before I was appointed. But when I set to work in the parish, the first thing that met my observation was a body of Christian men and women who owed their conversion, through God, to Mr. Langston’s ministry. There they were living consistent lives and most truly glorifying God, in some cases under sharp opposition, and the twenty years that had elapsed since Mr. Langston left only tended to confirm their faith and establish their character.

Both in Pakefield and Richmond, therefore, it was my unspeakable privilege to see the effects produced by the faithful ministry of the Word of God. And yet the two cases were entirely different. Mr. Cunningham was an admirable pastor, but not a particularly interesting preacher; Mr. Langston was a poor pastor, but the grandest preacher I ever heard. I have heard many able men preach many excellent sermons, but there was a richness, a fulness, a power about Mr. Langston’s such as I never met with in any other to whom I have listened. The two instruments, therefore, were entirely different, but God made use of them both. They were both blessed by Him; and it taught me the lesson that I must be prepared to meet with great differences of administration, but in the midst of those differences it is our privilege to look for a blessing. God did not withhold from Mr. Cunningham His blessing, because he had not the preaching power of Mr. Langston; nor did He withhold His blessing from Mr. Langston, because he had not the pastoral zeal of Mr. Cunningham.

The lesson taught me was not the only blessing bestowed upon me through the friendship of those excellent people. I had in it the enormous advantage of the ripened experience and tried wisdom of some of the most excellent Christian people living. Never can I forget the friendship of Sir Henry and Lady Baker, of Dr. Julius and of Mrs. Delafosse, to whose loving sympathy and Christian counsel I used continually to resort; and amongst the humbler classes there was Mrs. Abbott, a grand old Christian who had loved the Lord before she heard the preaching of the Gospel, and the moulding of whose faith was drawn from the Prayer-Book. She often used to express to me her astonishment that when people were brought to Christ it did not make them love their Prayer-Book more.

And down a row of cottages at the bottom of Water Lane there lived a blind woman named Mrs. Woodrow, whom I shall ever regard as one of the best of my many friends. I had been preaching one day on the importance of praying for the ministry, and when visiting her a few days afterwards I said, “I’m sure you pray for me.” “Indeed I do,” she replied with great emphasis, “morning, noon, and night.” She spoke with such earnestness that I could not refrain from asking her what she prayed for, when she said, “They tell me you’re a very young man, so I pray that you may be kept from the sins of young men.” How much do I owe to the prayers of that blind widow!

In addition to these advantages I enjoyed the intimate friendship of my beloved and honoured friend the Rev. James Hough, founder of the Tinnevelly Mission. After his return from India he had settled in the incumbency of Ham, and I never can forget his first visit to me. I had taken a lodging just beyond the bridge, and I had scarcely finished my breakfast on the first day after my arrival when the venerable man entered the room. He spoke very kindly to me, and before he would say a word upon any other subject, he told me that many Christian friends had been praying that the right appointment might be made, and afterwards for me when they heard that I was appointed, and that he had come on the first possible occasion to commend me solemnly to the Lord. He then fell on his knees and pleaded for me before God that I might have grace and wisdom for the difficult post to which I had been called. His subsequent intercourse with me was in harmony with that beginning. His house was always open to me, and whenever I wanted counsel I always used to go to him, as I never failed to find in him one who seemed to bring his wisdom fresh from the throne of grace.

With these advantages I set to work. I wonder at the grace of God that kept me from making more blunders than I did; for having had no experience I had not the slightest fear of difficulty. Things in those days were very different to what they are now. Ritualism had not then been invented, nor had that loose vague system now so popular under the name of Undenominationalism.

Among those who professed to be Churchmen there were only two classes—those whose Churchmanship consisted in maintaining things as they were, who were living for the world; who, if they cared for their own souls, were utterly unconcerned about the souls of others; who showed not the slightest sympathy in any Christian object, and who seemed to consider that anything that disturbed them must of necessity be unorthodox. To avoid such disturbance one of those gentlemen stumped out of church every Sunday morning as I went up to the pulpit, and others used to take refuge in the chapel of Archdeacon Cambridge on the other side of the river.

On the other hand, there was a body of people, drawn from all classes of society, who “had passed from death unto life,” who had been quickened by the Spirit of God, and who were taking their stand nobly on the side of their Saviour. Thus there was a much wider line of demarcation between the converted and the unconverted than we meet with in modern times, and a clergyman’s work was simpler than it is now, inasmuch as there was much less to entangle and confuse the application of the message to individual souls.

But there was in some cases sharp opposition. It may seem extraordinary to some that at the visitation of the late Bishop of Winchester, [77] then Archdeacon of Surrey, I was publicly presented before the Archdeacon by one of the churchwardens for having been guilty of giving a Wednesday evening lecture in the infant schoolroom! What was more extraordinary still was that, when I was called up before the Archdeacon and all the clergy to answer for my fault, the Archdeacon said with great solemnity that it was an important matter, and he must refer it to the Bishop. And what is more wonderful still, in consequence of that reference I had to give up the lecture.

The Bishop was in a great difficulty. He thoroughly approved of such lectures, and had advocated them in a charge recently delivered, but he believed that they were not strictly in accordance with the Act of Uniformity, so that he felt it impossible to support me, while at the same time he did not at all wish to have the responsibility of stopping me. This led to a somewhat painful correspondence with that excellent man, and after full consultation with my dear friend Mr. Hough, I thought it best to give up the lecture, stating that I did so in obedience to the Bishop’s wish. One blessed result of that whole transaction was that a bill was carried through Parliament distinctly legalising all such services.

But of all those whom God raised up as counsellors and friends, there was no one to be compared to the beloved one whom God gave me to be my loving wife, [78] on July 10th, 1839. She combined the ability of her father with the devotedness of her mother, and it is perfectly impossible for me to say what she was to me in the parish, in her home, and our own private intercourse. One thing only I would especially mention respecting her, viz. that it was to her that I owe what I believe to be the most useful characteristic of my ministry—I am thankful to say that from the very beginning I always quoted a great deal of Scripture in my sermons, but I used to do so interweaving those texts with my own composition. But she taught me the use of proof texts—she said that my preaching was not so profitable as that of the Rev. H. H. Beamish, to which she had been accustomed, and instead of merely quoting a passage, he used to give a chapter and verse, and allow the people time to look it out in their Bibles.

As he was constantly engaged in the exposition of the Word of God, and laid a solid foundation of the truth taught, I was thoroughly convinced of the wisdom of her words; and for the last fifty years I have systematically acted on her advice, so that, although I never heard Mr. Beamish in my life, I have always regarded his ministry as the model on which my own has been formed; and when I have seen the blessing which the exposition of Scripture has been made to very many souls, I have never ceased to thank God for that dear young wife who did not shrink from pointing out to her husband his defects.

It was during the period of my Richmond curacy that I had the high honour of being invited by my dear friend the Rev. Henry Venn to become a member of the Committee of Correspondence of the Church Missionary Society. I think it was in the year 1844. I am not quite sure respecting the date, but I have no hesitation in expressing my thankfulness to our Heavenly Father for the wisdom, the fidelity, for the true missionary spirit with which the affairs of that great society have been conducted during the many years of my intimate acquaintance with its business and its leaders.

My love for it when I was at Richmond once brought me into a serious difficulty with the late Bishop Wilberforce, and taught me his marvellous power in controlling the minds of men. He was at that time Archdeacon of Surrey, and as such he proposed a scheme for doing away with all especial interest in particular societies, and to raise one general fund to be laid “at the feet of the Apostles,” and divided by them according to their discretion.

We did not exactly know who the Apostles were. We thought that probably they were to be the Archdeacon and the Bishop, as they were to be the distributors.

Against this scheme the friends of the Church Missionary Society rose as one man. We held a meeting to consider what should be done. We decided that we would all attend the Archdeacon’s meeting in order to oppose the plan, and engaged conveyances accordingly. When the morning came I had such a headache as I never remember to have suffered from, either before or since, and I was utterly unable to leave my bed, so off drove the others, full of zeal and holy courage. But what was my astonishment when they returned in the afternoon, and one of the most faithful, earnest, and trustworthy of the whole party came to tell me the result. He said they had found the plan was not so objectionable as they had thought, and at length reluctantly acknowledged that the Archdeacon had not allowed them to separate till he had made every one of them, dear old Mr. Hough included, sign a paper agreeing to the introduction into their own parishes of the Archdeacon’s scheme.

So then I stood alone, and thanked God for the headache which had saved me from the fascination.

But Richmond was the parish that was doing more than any other in the rural deanery for Missions, and it was most important for the success of the plan that Richmond should be included. So nothing was left undone that could induce me to join the others. But I was still free, as all my other brethren began to wish they were, and I stuck to my point. I was invited in the most cordial manner for a visit, with my dearest wife, first to Alvenstoke and then to Farnham Castle. I was addressed in the language of warm affection, not only towards myself, but to my beloved mother. But I considered that by the Providence of God I had been preserved from the fascinating power, and that my only wisdom was to keep clear of it when I was free; so we went on independently till the next visitation of the Bishop. My heart was filled with thankfulness when I heard him announce in his charge that he had advised his beloved friend, the Archdeacon, to give up his scheme.

This curacy I held for more than nine years, for seven of which I had the unspeakable help of my dearly beloved, most faithful, and most able wife. During the time I had different livings offered to me, and I believe that, if I had regarded my worldly interest, I should have accepted some of them. But I had a great conviction of the importance of my position, and strong belief that the Lord had called me to it. So we both agreed that we were most likely to do His will if we persevered in the curacy.

To Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham at Lowestoft Rectory:—

“Richmond, February 19th, 1837.

“My dearest Uncle and Aunt,—You will be glad to hear that I am myself very comfortable. Of course there is a large field of enjoyment from which I am wholly excluded; I am no longer a social being. In all the difficulties and responsibilities of this place I am absolutely alone. I have no dear Rector within two miles, whom I may consult over all my affairs and discouragements. I compare myself to a ship finding its way alone across the ocean, and sometimes well-buffeted in the journey. I certainly miss friendship wonderfully, and I cannot say how greatly I long after you all. My heart this day has been full of tenderness to Pakefield. I think of that attentive congregation at Kirkley, of the prayer-meeting, of the schoolroom lecture, and of that close and, I trust, heavenly bond of union which God permitted us to enjoy, and I know not how to bear the thought that we are separated. However, the more I look at my present position, the more am I satisfied that the change is of the Lord. The need of this place is grievous. The little flock is scattered and disheartened; the poor have been totally neglected, the sick unvisited, and the societies are all fallen to decay. The short time that I have been here has not been without its encouragements. Our tender Father has been pleased to favour me with some cases in which my private ministry has been greatly valued, and I hope blessed. I think also He is with me in the pulpit; the evening congregation is rapidly increasing, and we have had some very solemn occasions. All this is encouraging, but I desire not to build upon it, for I well know that such encouragement has not strength enough to bear weight. In health I think I am better than I have been since August. I find my power for work increases, and the cough is gone. Join with me in praising a merciful Father. ‘Praise God, from whom,’ etc.”

To Mr. Cunningham:—

“Richmond, Surrey, September 24th, 1838.

“My dear Uncle,—You ask how we are getting on here, and you must know how difficult it is to answer such a question. I think that, whenever God permits encouragement, He sends at the same time some drawback, as if to prevent encouragement lapsing into self-confidence, and self-gratulation taking the place of a spirit of thankfulness. And this is just the case with our parish: there is much to call forth the most unfeigned thanksgiving—great kindness amongst the people, large congregations, a capital collection yesterday for the Pastoral Aid Society—but on the other hand a continual worry about our schools, and, what is most of all to be considered, very little evidence of the regenerating power of the Holy Ghost in individuals. I see that the messenger has a far wider influence than he once had, but I do not see the message itself attended with the same saving power. This is a cause of great sorrow to me, and the more so because I fear it may be in a great measure explained by a want of spirituality in myself. There is a wonderfully close communion between the power of preaching and the power of feeling, and when a man’s own heart is very dead, he is not likely to produce much life in others. I think, moreover, there is great danger of spending our energy on our machinery. I am doing all I can to work the parish efficiently, and set all the machine in active operation, and I feel the effect of it in a forgetfulness of the spiritual end of the whole. It is something bordering upon leaving the Word of God to serve tables. However, in the midst of all, I trust there is a real progress. I find unspeakable comfort in Hebrews xii. 2, and whether a want of spirituality in myself or a want of spiritual power in my ministry be the cause of sorrow, I find the universal remedy in ‘looking unto Jesus,’ and I believe that to be the whole of the Christian’s secret. The more we can keep our eye on Him the stronger shall we be in every point of view, and one moment’s forgetfulness of Him must produce weakness, if not a fall.”

To his uncle:—

“December 7th, 1838.

“I should be inclined to question how far it was well to leave a curate altogether to himself, so as not to know what he is doing. There seems to me a great difference between keeping him under orders, and so checking his independent action, and by constant intercourse maintaining a vigilant superintendence. The plan that I adopted with —, —, and Frank himself was to point out clearly at first their line of duty, and then to leave them entirely to themselves in the discharge of it, at the same time making the pastoral ministry a subject of constant conversation, so that I always knew exactly what each was doing. By this means you get (1) the advantage of division of labour; you (2) know exactly what is going on, which parts are comparatively neglected, and which have an extra supply, and, like a general, you can by a recommendation apply your forces just where they are wanted. There is another thing which I should be inclined to suggest, especially with a beginner, viz. that you follow out the territorial system and assign him a district. My own plan is this. I divide my visiting into the aggressive and the extraordinary. By the aggressive I mean the regular stated visiting from house to house. By the extraordinary I mean those visits which I pay in consequence of some providential call, such as sickness, affliction, religious impression, etc. I then divide the parish into two parts, and give — the whole aggressive work for one district, and take it myself for the other. For the extraordinary I make no local divisions. I find then in practice that the calls are sufficiently frequent to keep a measure of connection with the whole parish, while the limitation of the aggressive brings each district tolerably within the compass of its minister, so that he is able by perseverance to gain an influence.”

To Mr. Cunningham:—

“Richmond, Surrey, March 14th, 1839.

“My dear Uncle,—I am always greatly rejoiced to hear of your well-doings at Lowestoft, but I am more pleased than ever now, for I have something of a parental as well as filial interest—filial because I was trained amongst you myself, and parental because Frank stayed six months with me. I have no doubt that the change of ministry is likely to prove a real refreshment to your people, and I should not be surprised if it were to be the means of calling out some, and leading to true conversions. You must not let all the ladies turn Frank’s head by flattery, of which there always appears to me great danger for young clergymen, for good people seem to suppose that religious interest gives a licence which is allowed in nothing else, and make the Gospel an occasion, rather than a check, for unwholesome conversation. I have felt the danger of it very much here, and though I have been very much preserved by a culpable want of sentimentality, I fear that I have suffered from the evil. I find that I often return from my intercourse with them thinking better of myself instead of worse. I was much interested by your remarks about the country. How completely does it prove that ‘Christ is the head over all things to the Church’! Men appear with wicked designs and ungodly purposes, but Christ is Lord, and when they are just ready to strike He paralyses their aim. I regard these failures of wicked men not so much as the effect of a state of society as evidences of the controlling power of the Lord. He allows them to form their wicked schemes, and just when all is ready for an explosion, He defeats them, that so He may prove His power and their nothingness. Thus it is that these very men who are most opposed to the Church of Christ become the occasions for adding to its strength, for they call forth the protecting power of God, and so increase faith by experience. I have been inexpressibly cheered lately, amidst the sins of this ungodly world, by the thought of the final triumph of the Church. ‘The God of Peace shall bind Satan under your feet shortly.’ It is therefore certain that the day will come when Satan and all his agents will be overthrown, when we shall no more suffer from sin and its effects, and then all the elect people of God shall be visibly gathered under one Head, enjoying a perfect union with each other and with Christ. All this must take place. Popery, atheism, infidelity, and the spirit of schism may unite their unholy ranks and lend all their strength for the overthrow of our Lord’s kingdom, but ‘the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.’ How is it that our hearts are not filled with holy joy at the prospect, and that we do not ride triumphant over all the fears, the sorrows, the sins, with which on every side we are beset?

“Your most affectionate Nephew and Curate,

“Edward Hoare.”

To Mr. Cunningham:—

“Hampstead, April 6th, 1839.

“My dear Uncle,—How are the mighty fallen! I am going to be married!! I have been spending a delightful week with the Brodies, and am come home engaged hard and fast to Maria. I am exceedingly happy, though I scarcely can believe it. I have the greatest hope that the thing has been undertaken in a prayerful spirit, and that we may look for God’s abundant blessing on us. We both particularly beg that you will marry us.

“Your most affectionate Nephew,
“Edward Hoare.

“Give my dearest love to my aunt, Frank, etc.”

To Mrs. Cunningham:—

“Richmond, Surrey, May 30th, 1839.

“My dearest Aunt,—As for myself, I am exceedingly happy, though so unusually busy that I hardly know how to think much about my happy prospects. Never was a person less loverlike, for I am expecting a confirmation here next week, and having more than one hundred and thirty young persons under my care, I am so busy from morning till night that I find my whole mind occupied. I think it is a good thing for me, for it fixes my thoughts upon my work, which otherwise they would be very much disposed to wander from. I am every day more and more happy in the thought of my marriage, and more and more thankful for the prospect of a wife who, I fully believe, has given herself to God. There is not a single feature in the whole thing that I could wish otherwise, and, besides all living circumstances, the recollection of my dearest mother’s wish makes the connection to my own mind quite a hallowed one. I only hope that we may be enabled to devote ourselves unitedly, as we have desired to do separately, to the service of that Heavenly Father who has laden us with so many blessings. We expect to be married on the 2nd of July, about ten days after their return; we then hope to go to the Isle of Wight for a fortnight or three weeks. I do not wish to take a long holiday, because of the expense, and because I am very anxious to take the lady into Norfolk and to Lowestoft in the autumn. I doubt, however, whether I shall be able to accomplish it.”

A letter from one of his sisters describing the wedding:—

“Broom Park, July 9th, 1839.

“Here we are in peace and safety, Edward shut up with Maria, Kate and I looking tolerably neat in white poplin, having just dressed in our little room, our only misfortune being that we have no gloves. We found dearest Edward most bright and sweet; the drive down with him has been not a little pleasant; nothing could have answered better than our journey with him, and we did quite enjoy it. Here is Maria come for us! She looks so quiet, and is so nice, only she has got a bad cold. When we went downstairs the Buxtons were just arriving; they had joined our phaeton party, and all arrived together. The only mishap has been that by going to London for her gown Miss Foreman entirely missed them, and we are fearful that there is but little hope of her arrival now; it is most provoking and quite a tribulation. Caroline arrived from Bury Hill, looking most sweet with a beautiful bouquet of orange flowers. Lady Brodie very kind and like herself, Sir B. B. detained in town by patients. When we had had a satisfactory tea, some went back to the drawing-room, others for a walk; the party consisted of all our own clan, and, as in most parties, there was a flock of girls in white, the belle on the Brodie side being Miss Beamish, on ours of course Chenda. Mr. T. Hankinson arrived in the middle of the evening, having stopped to climb up Box Hill and ford a rivulet. The house is beautiful, and the whole place pretty and cheerful. Maria behaves herself capitally—so much spirit, yet so quiet, and thinking little of herself; she looks two years younger than when we saw her last. We are in Mr. Brodie’s room, and, as Laydon says, there is so much shooting tackle ‘she don’t know where to put away our things.’ Edward is most happy; it truly is a pleasure to look at his beaming face. How I wish you could see them both together, dearest sister; it is most interesting. . . . The party now assembling for church all in good heart; Mr. Hankinson making the eight bridesmaids and about six other ladies laugh in the dining-room, the rest dispersed. . . . Half-past five o’clock (in the room which we had at Gurney’s wedding). After the above followed a lengthy waiting—people arriving, but no Bishop. Maria and Lady Brodie appeared, quite ready, but had to abide for a long time till the Bishop had arrived and arrayed himself. About eleven o’clock we went to the church, six bridesmaids in one carriage, and two with Caroline in another, all the gentlemen having walked previously and were ready at the churchyard gate to receive us; four bridesmaids with their gentlemen stood on each side of the path till the bride had passed and then closed in behind her. In the church the positions were capital—the relations round the altar, and her bridesmaids standing on a step behind her. The Bishop read the service beautifully, and they both spoke very clearly—she was perfectly composed. Signing and kissing as usual afterwards, with the bells ringing, and home as we came. After some congratulating in the drawing-room we all sallied forth for a walk, stimulated, as in everything, by Mr. Tom Hankinson. Maria then went in to rest awhile. We gathered in a group round Mr. Hankinson (in the garden) and heard all the poem about Sir Rupert and Lorline; then down to the water, where all the eight bridesmaids were put into the boat and our dear bridegroom (taking off his coat) rowed us about. This filled up the time capitally till the breakfast, for which we were very ready, though we had to wait some period for the Bishop, who was lost on the strawberry beds. The breakfast was very nice and very amusing. The first health was proposed by the Bishop in a most nice little speech; it was of course ‘Mr. and Mrs. E. Hoare.’ Our sisterly vanity was amply satisfied, and how I wish you could have heard Edward’s reply. It was so gratifying and nice to have him make such a truly nice speech, which he ended by proposing ‘Sir B. and Lady Brodie.’ A most feeling reply from Sir Benjamin, speaking so highly of both bride and bridegroom, but he could scarcely get on once or twice from feeling it so much. He proposed the Bishop of Winchester, and that was greeted by another three times three; which he thanked for, observing that ‘he had not expected to make so much noise in the world.’ Then Gurney proposed ‘The Bridesmaids,’ and Mr. Goulburn thanked for us, though, alas! he nearly stuck. Then ‘Papa’—and he made such a nice speech in return, observing that his three daughters-in-law being an increasing and untellable blessing to him, he had no small reason to rejoice in his new acquisition. Breakfast done, we went away, Maria to dress. The parting scene with her father and brother (in tears) upstairs was trying; but she passed by all of us who were waiting in the hall and went off very brightly. But I must leave off, though I fear this is an unsatisfactory history, though in all the muddles we have done our little best. Ever, dearest Sister,

“Most affectionately,
“C. E. H.”

CHAPTER VII
HOLLOWAY AND RAMSGATE

In the year 1846 the time came for a change. My friend the Rev. Daniel Wilson wrote to invite me to the Incumbency of St. John’s, Holloway, about to be vacated by my dear and honoured friend the Rev. Henry Venn, one of the wisest, the ablest, and the most trustworthy men I have ever known in this life; and there were many circumstances, amongst others the illness of my beloved father residing at Hampstead, that led both of us to the conclusion that we ought to accept the offer. It was one of deep interest in many respects, more especially in consequence of its connection with the Rev. Henry Venn. In early days he was curate or lecturer at Clapham, when he used to attend the Committee of the C.M.S., and was urged by some of the fathers of those days to undertake the Secretaryship; but his heart was devoted to parochial work, so he accepted the living of Drypool, near Hull, and so broke away altogether from the work of the C.M.S. And then it pleased God that he should meet with, and ultimately marry, a lady of some property, in consequence of which he was no longer absolutely dependent upon his profession for his maintenance. He was led, however, to return southward, where the Vicar of Islington offered him the Incumbency of St. John’s, Holloway, a new church just built out in the fields. To the interests of that parish he devoted his whole great energy, and he returned, as might have been expected, to the old committee room in the C.M.S. There his power was felt more and more, while his own heart became more and more drawn into the deep interests of missionary work, till at length he decided to give up his parochial work, as he could now live without the income derived from it, and devote the remainder of his life, without one farthing of salary, to the sacred work of the Secretaryship of the Society.

I felt it a great honour to succeed such a man under such circumstances, as it was a great privilege to be brought into closer contact with him, as he continued to reside within the parish. The time at Holloway was not one of encouragement. I met with a great deal of kindness, and I had most interesting Bible classes—not merely one for the young people, but one for the gentlemen after their return from business in London—but still I longed for more of that marked decision which I had left behind me at Richmond. Evangelical truth was “the proper thing” at Islington, so that it was very generally preferred; but I often wondered how far it was a reality in the souls of the people, and sometimes I used to think that the spirit of antagonism at Richmond was really more healthful than the spirit of assent at Holloway. It certainly brought out more decision of character.

But I have learnt many lessons respecting that period. I have often said that I regarded that year as the most fruitless period of my ministry, but as I have gone on in life I have met with so many who have ascribed their conversion to the ministry of that short period, that I have been taught the lesson that a clergyman is utterly unable to form any estimate of what God the Holy Ghost is doing through his ministry.

However, we were not to remain there long, for the Lord Himself made it perfectly plain that it was His will for us to remove. My dearest wife was very unwell, and I was lame in the right knee. My father also was quickly gathered to his rest in Christ Jesus, so that one of the great motives in going to Holloway was removed. Though I had great difficulty in walking, I was able to ride, and one day I rode in to call on my father-in-law, Sir Benjamin Brodie, whom I consulted respecting my knee, and he said to me,—

“I tell you what, Edward; you must go to the seaside.”

“Well,” said I, “I did think of going for a short trip after Easter.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” said he. “You must go to the seaside for a year at least.”

“But what,” said I, “is to become of my parish, my work, my family?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but this I know, that if you don’t go to the seaside for at least a year you will die, and so what will become of it all then?”

This was indeed a very heavy blow to me, and I rode home that day solemnised in spirit, and thinking how I should tell my dearest wife what her father had just said to me.

It was a very solemn and sacred ride that I had that morning, but on my arrival, before I went upstairs to her, I opened my letters that had arrived during my absence, and almost the first one was from my friend John Plumptre, in which he said that he was one of the trustees of a new church nearly complete at Ramsgate, and it would be a great satisfaction to him and his colleagues if I would undertake the first Incumbency. To describe the mixed emotion with which I went upstairs to tell my wife, both of her father’s opinion and Mr. Plumptre’s letter, is impossible.

But the remarkable coincidence did not at first thoroughly satisfy the sound judgment of my friend Mr. Venn. When I spoke to him on the subject, he said that the text which had guided him in his important decisions was Prov. xvi. 3: “Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established.” He said that at first he would frequently be divided and perplexed in judgment, but that as he went on waiting on the Lord for guidance and trusting Him, the whole matter would gradually appear to him so clear that it left no possibility of doubt. How often, acting upon his advice, have I found it true, so that I have seen my way perfectly clear in cases in which there seemed at first nothing but perplexity! Was not this the secret of that singular wisdom which he showed in the affairs of the C.M.S.? and is there any one who sat with him habitually in the committee room who does not remember the frequency with which he put his hand over his eyes, without doubt “committing his works unto the Lord”? But his thoughts, which were as mine, were established with reference to our removal to Ramsgate, and we never had reason to regret the change.

Letter to his Uncle Cunningham:—

“Hampstead, November 28th, 1844.

“My dear Uncle,—I quite agree with you that it is a bad thing never to write to those we love. Real good, strong affection can stand the long lack of communication, as strong plants can stand a long drought, but it is an unwise thing to put it to the test. . . .

“I fully sympathise in what you say of the Church. I can imagine nothing more deplorable than the foolish men, both curates and bishops, scattering the very best of the laity from her fold, and all for their empty, worthless baubles. Oh, what a blessing it would have been for our Church and country if people had spent half the strength in lifting the Cross and spreading the Bible that they have wasted over surplices and ubrics! But it is not mere waste. As far as I can see, it is downright suicide, a wilful destruction of the Church’s influence over her people. But do you not think God is teaching us a lesson? Are not His waiting children taught by all this to rally round their risen and reigning Lord, and to cease from man whose breath is in his nostrils? Is not the Church always exposed either to pressure from without or delusion within? And are not those the two great instruments by which He keeps His elect people pure? Oh, may God grant that we may be amongst the Lamb’s faithful followers! . . .

“In our parish we have had but little visible encouragement since our return from Norfolk. Before we went out we were blessed with several interesting cases, but since our return we have not known of one. It is a great sorrow to me. I hope, however, the Lord is really owning His word. We are desiring to honour Him and to set forth Christ crucified, and though our labours are most miserable, I delight to think that from the inmost soul it is our desire to honour Christ in them. I have just finished a course of four practical sermons on the Bible, in which I found great interest, and am now preparing another course for Advent on the following subjects: How our Lord will come; when; what to do; and what we should be doing till He comes. Our prophetical meeting this November was one of the most delightful hours I ever knew. It was so sober, so serious, so practical, and so full of Christ that I think all felt it a time of true blessing to be there. I never heard anything more completely to my mind than the addresses of Mr. Auriol and Mr. Goodhart on the ‘practical bearing of the expectation of future reward.’ . . .

“Your most affectionate Nephew,
“Edward Hoare.”

Autobiography (continued).

The position was one of the greatest possible interest. The circumstances of the town were quite peculiar. The Vicar of St. George was a High Churchman who did not hesitate to employ curates who went far beyond himself in their opinions, and the result was that two of them went over to Rome. There was an amiable man in Trinity Church who had no sympathy with St. George’s, but yet had but little power in satisfying the hearts of those who loved the Gospel, and the result was that many of the most devoted people in the place were driven either into the dissenting chapels or into general unsettlement of mind. Meanwhile Mr. Pugin [98] was erecting a large establishment on the West Cliff, and the chapel was already opened, and an active priest at work amongst the distracted and unsettled flock.

Then it was that God raised up a very remarkable man with wonderful energy to erect the new church. He formed a small committee, but he himself was the moving spirit and the one centre of power. He was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, with no general acquaintance and nothing of what the world calls influence, but he was God’s powerful instrument. I refer to Lieutenant (afterwards Commander) Hutchinson, R.N. As he knew nothing of Church matters, he wisely took counsel with Mr. Plumptre, who put him in communication with some London lawyer, I forget who, who might direct him in the use of what was then called the Church Building Act; so he served the proper notices on the Vicar and patrons, and having secured to trustees the patronage of the new church which he proposed to build, he set to work single-handed to raise the funds and to complete the undertaking. He wrote countless manuscript letters all over England. He was a man of wonderful energy, as he afterwards proved by reducing Balaclava to good order, and all that energy he devoted with unsparing zeal to the great work to which God had called him. How many letters he wrote I do not know; I know that I received several. His first letter would be a general application; if that brought him a contribution, it would be quickly followed by another rejoicing that the work was so much appreciated, and asking for a second gift; but if it brought no reply, then came a second convinced that the only reason for delay was the great importance of the work, and earnestly appealing for the help which he was sure was contemplated. Thus letter followed letter in quick succession; the contract was signed on his own responsibility, and Christ Church was quickly reared as a monument to show what might be done by one man whose heart was in earnest, and who, like Mr. Venn, “committed his works unto the Lord.”

It is not to be supposed that these letters written were in a very complimentary strain with reference to the existing order of things in the Parish Church, nor were they likely to make Christ Church acceptable in the eyes of the Vicar or his staff. I myself went to the Parish Church in the afternoon previous to the opening of Christ Church, and I heard a sermon descriptive of the persons who would attend the new church, upon the text “He went away in a rage,” and I there heard my future congregation all classed with Naaman. But apparently there were a great many such Naamans in Ramsgate, for the church was well filled on the 7th of August, the day when it was consecrated by Archbishop Howley, and I may say has been so ever since.

I found Ramsgate to be a most interesting sphere of ministry. There were three great sources of interest. First, the shipping. My original Pakefield interest in the English boatmen was more than revived by my acquaintance with the “hovellers,” two hundred of whom were dependent for their bread on helping ships in difficulty off the Goodwin Sands. I fear that some of them thought more of their own earnings than they did of the lives they were so brave in saving. I can never forget the reply that I received from one of the best of them when I asked him one bitterly cold winter’s morning how he was getting on; upon which he replied that now they had got all their lights, and buoys, and chain cables, there was nothing left for an honest man to do. He said: “There we were at the south end of the sands about three o’clock this morning, when up came one of these foreign chaps, and was running as pretty upon the Goodwin Sands as ever you’d wish to see, when, all of a sudden, he saw one of these here nasty staring buoys—port helm and off!”

But though it was a pretty sight to them to see a foreign chap go straight upon the Goodwin Sands, it was a magnificent sight for any one to witness the skill and daring courage with which they handled their luggers and dashed through the breakers in order to save the lives of the shipwrecked men. They were noble fellows, and when their hearts were touched by the grace of God, they were fine, manly witnesses for Christ.

Then there were the sailors on board the various ships that put in for shelter. As the harbour was at that time free, it was sometimes crowded with vessels, and I used to have a grand opportunity for out-of-door preaching. At first I used to go down in my cap and gown on Sunday afternoons, but I found that a sermon out of doors, combined with a walk on the pier, was more agreeable to many people than either Church or Sunday School, so I had to give it up, and seize such opportunities as wind and weather permitted. But I never was at a loss for a large congregation, and when I took my place on the poop of one of the ships, I had the deep interest of seeing crowds of people, some on the pier and some on the tiers of ships and some on the rigging, amongst whom I had the sacred opportunity of scattering the seed, without the least idea to what point the wind would carry it.

On one occasion I was greatly solemnised. I selected the ship best suited for my purpose, and the Captain and his men gave me the kindest possible reception; the only inconvenience to which they put me was that they would insist upon my preaching against the wind, as they did not consider it sufficiently dignified for me to stand in the hold of the vessel. There they listened most attentively. In the evening the wind changed, and all the ships hurried out of harbour, and how deeply affected was I to hear next morning that the one on which I had received so kind a welcome had been lost with all hands during the night.

The advantage of the harbour was that throughout the winter months there was always something going on in it, so that we could not settle down into stagnation. One morning, for example, my friend the harbour-master, Captain Martin, sent up to me to say that he expected a crew of shipwrecked emigrants to be very shortly landed; so I hurried down to the harbour, and there I saw one of the most piteous sights I have ever seen in my life. There was a small schooner just entering the harbour, with one hundred and sixty German emigrants crowded together on the decks. Their ship had been wrecked over-night, and one boat containing seven women was sent off soon after the wreck, but was supposed to have been lost in the breakers. The remainder were subsequently taken off by the schooner that brought them into Ramsgate. There they stood, huddled together, in the clothes in which they had sprung from their berths on the striking of the ship—that is, almost in a state of nakedness. The sea had been breaking over them from the time the ship had struck, and they had no food. What was to be done with them was indeed a question, but all parties set to work with vigour.

An infant schoolroom was set apart for their accommodation, and another large room was obtained in connection with one of the public-houses; so they were very quickly housed, and such vigour was shown by the ship agents, consular agents, and all connected with the harbour, that something warm was provided for every one of them, even upon their landing.

But they were still unclothed, and to meet this difficulty bills were put out, so soon as possible, to request gifts of clothing, cloth, or flannel, and also the help of any persons who could assist us in making up clothing. It was wonderful to see the zeal and liberality with which piles of goods were poured in upon us. These were not always very suitable, and I remember seeing amongst the goods sent some muslin ball-dresses! There was a great quantity of good useful clothing, added to which numbers of ladies came together and worked hard all through the day, while the various agents laboured at the distribution, so that I believe that not one of those hundred and sixty emigrants lay down that night without having some warm, comfortable piece of clothing provided for him, and without being well fed with a comfortable meal and well housed for the night’s rest.

For this they were most grateful, and I had a grand opportunity of preaching the Gospel, as they stayed with us about ten days. But here, alas! was the grievous difficulty, that I did not know German; but this was met by the ready help of two young ladies in my congregation, to whom German was as familiar as English, and, as far as preaching and other addresses were concerned, a great difficulty was removed.

At length, however, there arose one for which I was not prepared. The poor emigrants, in the fulness of their hearts, were not satisfied with the service provided for them in the schoolroom, but were anxious to come together to the Holy Communion. But here a fresh difficulty arose. They could not be satisfied to come to the Lord’s Table without first coming to confession. This appeared to me to be a matter of mere formalism, as they insisted upon it that it would not make the slightest difference whether or not I understood their confession, nor did they even see any objection to their confession passing through the medium of the young lady who was kind enough to act as my interpreter; and I fear they were but partially satisfied when I told them that confession to a priest was not required in the Church of England, but that in it we were taught to confess direct to God.

I have seldom known a more solemn and sacred service than when we all knelt together in one spirit, if not in one tongue, to commemorate the dying love of that blessed Saviour who shed His precious blood that whosoever believeth in Him should receive remission of sins. The next day they were sent off to London, and I have never heard of any of them since. But I believe the record of those days to be written in heaven, and I must say I took great delight in the testimony borne by the German Government to the zeal and hospitality of the good people of Ramsgate, more especially as particular mention is made of that dearly beloved one to whose zeal and loving-kindness the whole movement was chiefly due.

But the chief interest was in the sailors themselves. I was deeply impressed at the hardness of the life of those engaged in our coasting trade, and I met with many who, living in the midst of every possible temptation, seemed wholly abandoned to utter recklessness, both for time and for eternity. But they all appeared to have a heart, and some of them were eminently Christian men.

I never can forget one fearful Sunday morning, when it was bitterly cold and blowing such a north-easterly gale as it can blow at Ramsgate, before church I went on to the cliff to see what was going on, and there opposite the mouth of the harbour I saw one ship sunk, not very far from the entrance of the harbour, with its crew clinging to the masts. Our brave hovellers were doing all they could for their rescue, and I saw another smaller vessel, “with sails ripped, seams opened wide, compass lost,” struggling if possible to make the harbour. Oh, how I longed to run down and take my part in the efforts that were being made for their rescue! and I cannot answer for my thoughts during the time that I was obliged to be at church. No sooner was the service over than I was again on the cliff, and not a trace could I see of the sunken ship or crowded mast. It had fallen before any help could reach the poor fellows who were clinging to it, and all hands had been lost; but the little sloop was just entering the harbour, and I cannot describe the scene I witnessed when I went on board. There were five poor fellows completely worn out, wearied, hungry, cold, and frost-bitten, and I never shall forget the master of that vessel. As long as he was in the harbour I had a great deal of most happy intercourse with him, and in the course of it he gave me the following narrative of his voyage.

He said he had one very dear friend, the mate of a collier brig, and they were together at Sunderland. His friend came to him in the evening of Christmas, and they had a delightful evening together, till at length his friend returned to his ship, and both vessels sailed for the South. All went well with him till he reached the mouth of the Thames, where he was caught by the gale and took shelter behind the long sand; but after a time the wind shifted, and his position became one of the utmost danger. He found his only hope of escape was to pass by the end of the sand, and he doubted whether this would be possible, and he knew that if once stranded on it he must be lost without a hope. The first thing was to hoist a sail, but in order to do this they had to clear the ropes of ice with their axe. They then hauled in the anchor, and the little vessel was soon in the midst of the boiling surf. The master himself took the helm, and said to the crew that their only help was in God, and bade them come and kneel around him while he steered and prayed. Very soon a huge wave appeared to lift the little ship right upon the bank, and let her down with a fearful scrape upon the sands. A second followed, which did the same, and then came the third, which seemed to carry them with still greater fury than either of the others; but when it let them down, what was their joy when they found that the spur of the bank was passed, and that their vessel was safely afloat. Their Heavenly Father had heard their prayers and saved them. But though immediate danger was past, everything was so shattered that the ship was almost unmanageable, and they were driven about in the Channel for some three or four days before they could reach Ramsgate Harbour.

And what was the sorrow that awaited my excellent friend when he found himself safe. As he entered the harbour he passed through the wreckage of the vessel I had seen before church, but when he learnt the particulars he found that it was the ship of that dear friend with whom he had spent that happy Christmas evening, and that he was one of those who had perished in the wreck. But in the midst of it all he was kept in a calm, hallowed, peaceful communion with God, which proved indeed how the Lord sitteth above the waterflood, when the Lord can give peace unto His people.

It was one of the sorrows connected with Ramsgate that we seldom saw those brave men a second time. So my friend stayed awhile till his ship was refitted and his men cured of their frostbites, but the wind shifted and she was gone, so that we parted never more to meet till we stand together before the throne of the Lord.

Another great object of interest at Ramsgate was the conflict with Rome. I had had some little experience in the controversy when at Richmond, as a zealous man had given some controversial lectures there in favour of Romanism, and so compelled me to get up the subject. This had led me to preach a course of Sunday Evening Lectures, which I afterwards published under the title of “Our Protestant Church.” I have had reason to believe, with great thanksgiving, that God has made them useful to others, as, I thank God, He made the study of the subject exceedingly useful to myself. I remember a remark of Dr. McNeile, that nothing tended more to set forth the glories of the Gospel than the dark background of Popery.

At Ramsgate the conflict was in full activity. A chapel had been recently erected through the liberality of Mr. Pugin, and the Roman Catholic party had all the enthusiasm of a new and hopeful enterprise; so we were soon brought into collision, sometimes in private conversation, and sometimes in public lectures, in which I freely invited any one who could to answer me.

And there are four lessons which I learnt and which possibly may be useful to my brethren. Firstly, the Romish controversy does not require a great amount of learning. The Romanists themselves are exceedingly ill-instructed in the principles of their Church, and there are very few points on which their convictions rest. Secondly, it is of essential importance to be perfectly accurate in every statement made and every quotation given, so as to be able, if need be, to give proof of that accuracy. Thirdly, it is essential that all quotations should be made direct from the original documents, and not taken second-hand from any Review, Catechism, or Handbook. Those books may be extremely useful for our own instruction, but they are worse than useless if we are in conflict with a Romish controversialist; if we wish to be strong on such an occasion we must appeal to the “ipsissima verba” of some authoritative document, such as the decrees of the Council of Trent, or the Creed of Pope Pius IV. Fourthly, we must bear in mind that numbers of those who are led away by Rome are truly and conscientiously seeking peace. I believe that there is no state of mind so open to the persuasions of Rome as when a person is awakened but not at peace in Christ Jesus. It is then that Rome steps in with a promise of peace, and the more earnest the awakening, the more dangerous the seductive power.

I had one fearful instance of this at Ramsgate, in the family of one of our tradesmen, who had taken sittings in my church. I heard one day that his daughter was in habitual attendance at the Roman Catholic chapel. So I went at once to pay a pastoral visit to the mother, and she confirmed all that I had heard, and more than that, she told me that on the Sunday following her daughter was to be publicly received into the Church, and that her dress was already prepared. “Oh,” I said, “how I wish I could see her before she joins!” and I invited her to come to me that evening at eight o’clock. The mother said she would give my message, but did not think it very likely that her daughter would come.

However, at eight o’clock precisely the bell rang, and the daughter was there. She was a woman between thirty and forty years of age, fine features, and strong in intellectual expression of countenance. She confirmed all that her mother had told me, and when I asked her what had led to it, she informed me that she was engaged to a young man of very superior position to her own, that when walking together one evening the year before they had turned into Christ Church, and there heard a sermon that had made them both so uneasy that neither of them had ever been happy since. They were afraid to go again, for fear that their trouble should be increased; so they had wandered hither and thither, seeking rest and finding none, till at length somebody told them that if they only joined the Church of Rome they would be at peace. She added that the young man had joined already, and that she hoped to be received on the Sunday following, when she trusted that both their hearts would be at rest.

It was clear that the poor thing was really anxious about her soul, so instead of saying one word to her about the Romish controversy, I asked her the question, “Must you be holy first, or forgiven first?” She was very much surprised and almost affronted by my asking her anything of so simple a character. “Of course I know that,” said she. “I daresay you do, but it will do you no harm to tell me what you know.” “Of course I must be holy first,” was the reply. “Then there is the secret of all your difficulty: you have been for the whole year striving to be holy, and you have utterly failed, so that you have had no peace, and could have no peace in the forgiveness of sin.” “Do you mean to say then,” said she, “that I can be forgiven first?” I said, “That is exactly what the Scripture teaches,” and I set before her a series of passages, showing first how the forgiveness is bestowed through the perfect propitiation of the Son of God, and then how it is granted at once, before the fruits of faith can possibly be developed. The poor thing was amazed, and I believe that that very evening, before she left the house, she was enabled to trust her blessed Saviour for the present perfect forgiveness of all her sins.

She left the house declaring that nothing should induce her to join the Church of Rome, and now followed the most fearful struggle that I ever met with in the whole course of my ministry.

The young man had been already received, and the more she saw of her Saviour, the more she felt the impossibility of their union. What was to be done? She could not go forward to unite with him, and he would not go back to be one with her. Rome brought all its armoury to bear upon her. Bishop, priests, and Romish friends united all their strength in persuading her to give way. But God helped her to stand firm, and though she passed through a most fearful conflict, she lived and died in great peace of soul, resting in Christ Jesus. The young man became a Jesuit priest, and died suddenly when officiating at the mass. The case taught me the lesson, which in fact I had learned before, that in a great number of Romish perversions there is a real desire for the peace of God, and that our wisest course is in all such cases to go direct to that one point, instead of perplexing the mind with the erroneous points of Romish teaching.

But the chief interest of all consisted in the blessed privilege of carrying the Gospel of salvation to a number of persons who were really hungering for the Word of Life. There is no class of persons in the world that has a greater claim on those who know the Lord than that consisting of real inquirers after the way of life. Now I met at Ramsgate with many who had had sufficient knowledge of the truth to make them utterly dissatisfied with the Tractarianism in the Parish Church and the Chapel of Ease, but who were longing for something more than they had already found. It was most interesting to see them flocking back to the Church of England after having been driven hither and thither, and I can never forget a conversation I had with one of the curates of St. George’s some two or three years after Christ Church had been opened. I was remonstrating with him on the bitterness which was still shown toward us, but he justified it by saying that we were working against the Church of England.

This was too much for me to take in silence, so I asked him whether he would bear with me if I told him plainly what each of us had been doing since our residence at Ramsgate. And I then told him that I had been occupied in winning back to the Church those whom he had driven away from it. This surprised him very much, and he replied, “Yes, they will come to hear you preach, but not become communicants,” to which I replied that I could not speak with accuracy, as I had never counted, but that it was my firm belief that on the previous Sunday I had administered the Lord’s Supper to no less than fifty persons who had been driven from the Church of England by the teaching of St. George’s. My friend was deeply impressed by that fact, and our future relationship was of the most friendly character. Would that all clergymen would consider what they have to answer for, when by their own erroneous teaching they scatter the flock committed to their charge.

But if it was a joy to see the dispersed of the flock brought back to the Church of their fathers, how much greater was the joy of seeing precious souls brought into living union with the Lord Jesus Christ Himself; and this, through the great mercy of God, we were permitted very quickly to do. They were of two classes. There were many who had looked forward in earnest hope, and often prayed for a blessing on the new church, and we cannot be surprised that, when the church was opened, they received that for which they had been praying; but there were others who had no such expectation, but were rather prejudiced against the Gospel, and altogether astonished when for the first time they heard its blessed language.

Let me give two cases in illustration of what I mean. About two miles off there was a mill, at which was working a young man named John Brampton. On the day of the consecration of the church, he left his work to attend the service, and in that service it pleased God to open his heart, so that he received the blessed message of life in Christ Jesus. He became at once one of the most active of our helpers, and was amongst the first, if not the very first, of the teachers in our new Sunday School. During the whole of our residence at Ramsgate he was a zealous, faithful fellow-labourer, and when we moved to Tunbridge Wells, and I wanted a Scripture-reader, I considered that there was no one who would help me more effectually than my zealous young friend from Ramsgate, so invited him to join me, which he did with his whole heart, labouring most diligently till after twenty-four years the Lord took him to his rest. He had had no experience as a Scripture-reader before he came, but the Lord taught him, and he was most effective as a helper. He identified himself so completely with all that we were doing that he would sometimes entertain those who did not know him by speaking of “our house,” “our field,” “our grounds,” etc., etc. It was a pleasure to me to hear him, and it was an evidence of that oneness of heart which he felt with us in everything. He was indeed a helper to his Vicar, and for many a long year have I had to thank God for the gift bestowed on that young man, on occasion of the first service ever held in Christ Church.

The other case was altogether of a different character. I have already mentioned the bitter hostility that some persons showed toward the new church. This was manifested not very long after the consecration by some bad fellows, of whom we know nothing except that they wore the coats of gentlemen, climbing over the iron fence by which the church was surrounded, breaking down the young trees which had been recently planted in the enclosure, and throwing several stones through the windows into the church. The outrage excited, as might be expected, a great deal of conversation in the town, and a few days afterwards I was told that Colonel Williams and Mrs. Williams had called to see me. I had no idea who they were, and on my entering the room he told me, with that remarkable honesty and directness which characterised all his conversation, that he had come as the representative of several of the Parish Church congregation to express their extreme disapproval of the recent outrage. He told me also that he was a great friend of the Vicar, and had extremely disapproved of the erection of Christ Church. He also added that, in order to show the sincerity of his protest, he intended to take two seats in the church, and that possibly, as he then lived in the neighbourhood, he might sometimes attend, but that he had no intention of doing so habitually, and merely took them to assure me of his sincerity.

I assured him that I did not require any such evidence, but the seats were taken, and it was not very long before I saw him seated in one of them, and I was deeply interested that his attendances became more and more frequent, until at length one day he was again announced as calling at the house. But this time he wished to see me in my own study, so he came, evidently full of deep emotion. He opened the conversation by saying that he was not come to ask for help, as he did not want it, but to tell me what the Lord had done for his soul. He said that he had been deeply impressed by something he heard in church, and for the last six weeks had passed through agonies of soul. He had been walking all over the Isle of Thanet, earnestly seeking peace, till at length God had brought him to see the fulness that is in Christ Jesus. Now he had come to me to ask me to unite with him in giving thanks for the blessed peace which God had bestowed upon him in Christ Jesus. He then fell on his knees, and we both poured out our hearts in thanksgiving to God for the wonderful mercy which He had shown, and the blessing of His salvation in Christ Jesus the Lord. From that day forward he took his part boldly as an earnest advocate for the truth. He was a man of strong convictions, and, when convinced, he carried out those convictions with prompt and firm determination. So he did on this occasion. To myself he became one of my most warm, faithful friends, and in the support of every good and holy work carried on at Ramsgate, for the rest of his life, he was the faithful and unwavering standard-bearer.

Thus the wicked outrage of those men who violated the sacredness of our church was overruled by God to the giving to me one of my most faithful friends and efficient helpers, and to the town of Ramsgate one of its most active, energetic, and faithful maintainers of the great Protestant principles of the Church of England.

The schools at Christ Church were built by Mr. Hoare when at Ramsgate. The Seamen’s Infirmary and General Hospital in that town also owes its existence to his exertions.—Ed.

CHAPTER VIII
TUNBRIDGE WELLS

But these bright and stirring days at Ramsgate were at length brought to a close by Sir Charles Hardinge inviting me to undertake the living of Holy Trinity, Tunbridge Wells, in the year 1853.

At first I thought very little of the offer, as I expected Sir Benjamin Brodie to put his veto upon my removal from the sea. But when I went to consult him upon the subject, I was not a little surprised by his saying that, as in 1847 he had judged it necessary for me to go to the seaside, so now he considered it very desirable that I should leave it. So that impediment was removed, and I had to face the question whether I was called to remain where I was or to remove.

It was a very difficult question, and I was greatly perplexed as to the decision. But, according to Mr. Venn’s principle already referred to, my thoughts were ultimately established, and I have never seen reason for a single moment to regret the change. I can scarcely imagine a better sphere for the ministry than that which I have been permitted to occupy for nearly thirty-six years. I have had a large parish, which, after four parochial districts have been taken from it, still contains more than six thousand persons, the population consisting of a well-proportioned mixture of gentry, tradesmen, and poor. I have had in my church a stream of visitors from all parts of England, and not from England only, but from India, Australia, and America. I have had very many most kind, faithful, and affectionate friends ready to help me in everything, so that, on the whole, I believe we have been able to keep pace with the rapid growth of population; and I have had an excellent church, which, though I do not suppose it would satisfy the ecclesiologist, I have found to be most commodious for the worship of God. There are three things in it quite at variance with modern fashion: instead of an open roof to generate cold in winter, heat in summer, and echo at all times, we have had a flat ceiling to protect us from all changes of the climate; and instead of having the people spread far and wide on the ground floor, there are deep galleries along three sides of the church, containing nearly six hundred persons, all within ear-shot; and instead of a low pulpit scarcely raising the preacher above the heads of his hearers, there is an old-fashioned “three-decker” of sufficient height to enable the preacher to see the whole of his congregation.

At Tunbridge Wells was much less to excite than at Ramsgate. There were no shipwrecks, and no such activity on the part of the Church of Rome, but there was a great increase of solid pastoral work, and I firmly believe that our removal was of the Lord. In no period of my life have I experienced greater mercies.

After ten years of happy work together, it pleased the Lord to take from me my dearest wife, at which time He showed His abundant mercy in so strengthening her faith, that she gave a glorious testimony to the power of that Gospel which she had earnestly desired to teach, and which had been the subject of our whole ministry. She was kept at perfect peace through a long and suffering illness, and fell asleep in full and unbroken trust in the blessed Saviour whom she loved. Shortly before she died, she quoted to me the words of Mr. Standfast: “I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of; and wheresoever I have seen the print of His shoe in the earth, there I have coveted to set my foot too,” and He was faithful to her to the end.

But, speaking of mercies at that period, I must not omit to mention the help He raised up for me in my valued friend Dr. Richardson, and my beloved sister-in-law Lady Parry. Dr. Richardson was the greatest help to me in the management of my large family, and would come in again and again as a friend to give me any advice he thought necessary, and tell me whether he thought it important I should call in medical help, and again and again has he told me that they wanted no more than their faithful nurse could give them. As for my dear sister, she was everything that a widower could desire, tender, wise, considerate, the best of counsellors and the truest of friends. What she was to me at that time of my bereavement no words can ever describe.

Then amongst my many mercies at Tunbridge Wells I must reckon the severe illness which I had ten years afterwards, which I am thoroughly persuaded my Heavenly Father sent me as a blessing. It called forth the same unbounded loving-kindness from my parishioners and fellow-townsmen which I am now experiencing while dictating this sketch of my history, and I felt at the time that it brought us into a closer relationship with each other than we had ever known previously. But, above all, it burnt into my heart those words of the Apostle Paul in 2 Timothy i. 12: “I know whom I have believed.” Those six words contained the whole of my religion as I lay for weeks unable to think and pray, for they do not say, “I know how I have believed Him,” nor do they refer to any qualification in my own faith, but simply to this qualification as taught in the following words, “And am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day.” It was the entire persuasion of His perfect sufficiency that kept my soul at peace, and has made me ever since thankful to God for having brought me into the happy experience of that sufficiency for one who, like me, was altogether insufficient in himself. I enjoyed also many proofs of the Lord’s providential care, one of which was so remarkable that I think it ought to be recorded.

After my degree in 1834, I continued to reside at Cambridge and took mathematical pupils. One summer I took a long-vacation party to Killarney, and in the course of our residence there a young man came over from Cork to see me. He had a great wish to go to Cambridge, and having heard that there were Cambridge men at Killarney, he came over in order to obtain information. The result was that he came up the next October, and I was glad to help him in his work, in which he made good progress. But after some time he told me that the expenses had exceeded his estimate and that he feared he should not be able to complete his University career. If richness be measured by the proportion of income to expenditure, I was a richer man then than I have ever been since, as, in addition to my father’s allowance, I received a considerable income from my pupils. I therefore told him that he must go on to his degree, and with the help of my dearly beloved friend Henry Goulburn gave him a cheque which he considered would be sufficient. The result was that he took his degree and left Cambridge. After that I altogether lost sight of him, and wondered what had become of him.

Thus twenty-six years passed by, and I was very much interested at Tunbridge Wells in the erection of St. James’s Church, and had issued a circular requesting that all subscriptions might be paid in by January 1st, 1862. But though the world gave us credit for being extremely rich, my account at the bankers was so low that I found I could ill afford the £100 which I had promised. That 1st of January was therefore to me a day of real anxiety, and in the early morning I committed the matter solemnly to God, and my Heavenly Father was “thinking upon me” when, after our family worship, my letters were brought to me, and there was one from my young Irish friend in which he said that, though I regarded the money given at Cambridge as a gift, he had always considered it a loan and now wished to repay it, so enclosed a cheque of £100. It was that cheque that I paid into the bank with a thankful heart that morning, as my contribution to St. James’s Church. So my young friend was employed by my Heavenly Father to take care of the money until the time when I should require it.

In addition to the deep interest of my own parish, the proximity to London brought me into contact with various movements of a more public character. This involved a conflict between my duty to the parish and my duty to the Church of which I was a member. But I firmly believe that the parish was the gainer, not the loser, by my interest in those general objects, and nothing tends more to wither up a man’s ministry than such an isolation as brings him into contact with his own limited surroundings, and leads him to stand aloof from the general work of the Church of God.

Then it has been my desire to attend as far as possible to diocesan interests, those connected with the rural deanery, the archdeaconry, and the diocese, such as ruri-decanal meetings, visitations, and diocesan conferences. It has appeared to me that when, by our position, we have a right to attend on such occasions, we ought to do so, and that if we hold back from taking our legitimate part, we have no right to complain if things are said and done of which we disapprove.

On the same principle I have attended Church Congresses, and have been thankful for the opportunity of publicly maintaining those great principles which are inexpressibly dear to my own heart. I have never hesitated to state what I have believed as clearly as I knew how to put it, and my experience is that, if a person will attend them in the Name of the Lord and as a witness for Christ, and will speak without either reserve or compromise, he will not only receive courteous treatment from those in authority, but will find a grand opportunity of spreading the truth through the length and breadth of the land.

I have myself received letters, from all parts of England, thanking me for words which I was enabled to speak at one of the Church Congresses, and I have known more than one instance in which words so spoken have been blessed to the permanent peace of conscientious inquirers.

I have been deeply interested in the large lay and clerical meetings of the Evangelical body. When I was quite a beginner I listened to an address at the Islington Clerical Meeting, by the Honourable Baptist Noel, which has affected the character of my whole ministry. He was speaking on the subject of spiritual power, and said that, whenever any attempt at ornamentation became apparent, power ceased. On those words of his I have acted ever since I heard them, and I am persuaded that those meetings are frequently the means of making permanent impression on many of those who are brought together by them. Thus I have always availed myself of every opportunity of attending such meetings. In the course of fifty-four years I have missed the Islington Clerical Meeting only three times, and then from no choice of my own, and they have led to a very sacred relationship with many of my beloved and honoured brethren in all parts of the country.

But I have known none that I have regarded as a greater privilege than our own Aggregate Clerical Meeting at Tunbridge Wells. From that I have never been absent, except when detained by severe illness, and nothing can exceed the sacred privilege which I have enjoyed in those happy gatherings. We have met as brethren in the Lord Jesus, as one in the great privileges in which we live, as fellow-labourers in our happy ministry, and as fellow-partakers of the grace of God. We have often taken counsel together, and though in the course of thirty-four years almost all the original founders have passed away, there is still the same spirit of brotherly harmony, and the same loving interest in each other’s welfare. I often wonder how it is that some dear brethren appear to me to undervalue such gatherings of those who fear the Lord.

But of all the objects away from home there was none that called forth my deepest interest like the Committee of the Church Missionary Society. I do not know exactly how long I have been a member of it, but I was invited by Mr. Venn when I was Curate of Richmond to join the Committee of Correspondence, and as I left Richmond forty-three years ago, I consider that I must have been at least forty-five years a member of that body, and I regard that membership as one of the great blessings of my life.

It has been the practice of its management to be always on the look-out for men who had distinguished themselves and could bring to the Committee their own experience of the work of the Gospel in those countries where their lot had been cast, and the result has been that there have been in that committee room a body of men, many of whom have filled highest positions under the Crown, but who gladly gave their time and talents to the patient consideration of the many difficult questions that have arisen in the progress of the work.

I can quite believe that the business of the Committee might be conducted with more despatch, and I have myself desired to see some changes in that direction, but for calm, patient, and prayerful consideration of the business before them, I have never known anything to exceed the conduct of the C.M.S. Committee. I cannot express the confidence that I feel in the fidelity of that Committee, and when I have heard men finding fault with their decisions, I have often wished that, before finding fault, they would attend our deliberations and see for themselves the prayerful process by which they have been led to their decisions. Again and again have I known them kneel down in the midst of their business, and plead with God for His guiding hand. And although it would be absurd to expect, upon every difficult question, forty or fifty independent minds should think exactly alike, yet I do not remember ever to have known an interruption of the unity of spirit, and there are few things that I have felt more, since it has pleased God to lay me very much aside, than the necessity of quitting my place in that committee room, and losing the privilege of uniting with such a body of men in such a work as that of the Church Missionary Society. I trust God will bless them with His own rich and abundant blessing. They have a noble work before them, not merely in spreading the Gospel amongst the heathen, but in uplifting the banner of truth at home, and I trust it may never happen again that dear brethren, in their earnestness for the maintenance of a pure Gospel, will ever think of weakening the Church Missionary Society by forsaking it, and so rejoicing the heart of the great adversary of souls.

With these words the brief Autobiography is closed, and it is characteristic of the writer that his faithful heart, like the compass-needle ever pointing to the North, should, after a brief deviation to his personal affairs, turn finally to the contemplation of the glorious work of that Society whose cause he loved to plead.

It is, however, impossible to close the volume at this point. The forty-one years of ministry at Tunbridge Wells were the most fruitful and important of his life, yet their events are barely noticed in the last pages that he dictated. We must therefore devote some space to the work and character of Edward Hoare in that sphere where he became best known, in which he bore the greatest trials of life, and whence from pulpit and press that teaching flowed forth by which the Holy Spirit blessed thousands of anxious souls.