This may be a trifling thing, but it means a great deal. Canon Hoare was like a father to his curates, and was beloved by them; he never lost an opportunity of putting them forward, and if need be of standing up in their defence. There are some who remember well an incident at a general meeting of subscribers to the hospital many years ago. Some one present had spoken very wrongly and impertinently of one of the curates, making suggestions of evil in his remarks.
At the close of the speeches that followed, the chairman got up. He was watched closely as he slowly took off his overcoat, and with great deliberation folded it up and placed it on the back of his chair. The room was very still as, drawing himself to his full height and looking keenly round the room, he fixed his gaze upon the former speaker, and gave him in words the most terrible castigation that the unfortunate individual ever received in his life. It was well administered, and equally well deserved.
The fact that in all parochial work he was leader, not director—saying “Come” instead of “Go”—was one of the causes of his influence with his curates. It is related that at some wedding in the parish church, when the bridegroom, a stranger to the place, was paying the fees in the vestry, he made the remark, “I think the man who does the work ought to get the pay.” This greatly tickled the two curates present, who could not help laughing at the idea of their Vicar seated in his arm-chair while they laboured in the parish, and simultaneously both exclaimed, “The Vicar does more than both of us put together!”
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The simplicity of the services at Holy Trinity have been already noticed. The preacher wore the black gown, not that he had any objection to the surplice in the pulpit, as he used that dress without hesitation in other churches, but because he felt that he was too old to make changes. “I knew many of the old Evangelical Fathers,” he used to say; “I preached Charles Simeon’s funeral sermon in his own church at Cambridge; so that I feel as if I were connected with them, and I will keep up the old gown which I have been used to all my life.”
But although this seemed but a trifle to him, he never ceased to express his disapproval of what are commonly called “musical services.” On one occasion, at some conference or meeting of clergy, he followed the reader of a paper who had advocated the introduction of an intoned service, and commenced his reply with these words: “For the discussion of this subject I possess the important qualification of being an unmusical man!” He then continued in the same strain, and impressed this point upon the clergy, that they had to deal with as many unmusical people as musical in their congregations. All could speak, but only a limited number could sing; therefore, by arranging a service for the musical, they really closed the lips of those who were not so. At another time, also in public, he said: “The proper use of music is in praise and thanksgiving. People are so eager in these days to introduce as much music as possible that they have applied it to prayer, the reading of Scripture, and even to the Creed. All this I believe to be a mistake. We delight in thorough congregational singing, but the essence of prayer is to be perfectly natural, to realise that we are speaking to God, and forget all beside. Who can imagine the poor publican waiting to hear the note of the organ, or the trumpet, before he smote upon his breast and said, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner!’”
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As a chairman Canon Hoare was unequalled. His kindness to opponents and his fairness in stating their case disarmed prejudice and won their approbation. A barrister who had been contending vigorously against some project which Canon Hoare was anxious to advance said at the close of a meeting in which he was taking part: “I have no more to say. Mr. Hoare has handled his brief ably, and I retire from my former opposition.”
Some now in Tunbridge Wells will remember a meeting of publicans who had been invited by the Vicar to come to the Parish Room and discuss in a friendly way the Bill for the Sunday closing of public-houses. They proved an unpleasant audience, and often indulged in bitter and insolent observations, all of which he took in the most gentle Christian spirit. At last one fellow shouted out: “You clergy are the biggest Sabbath-breakers going; you are working hard all Sunday, and why shouldn’t we?” “No, no,” answered the chairman with a beautiful smile, “what we do on Sunday is not work; it’s happy rest from first to last.” A Nonconformist who was present remarked afterwards to the writer that he would never forget that look nor those words as long as he lived.
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