Good Algernon Wells died in 1851, and soon afterwards I was requested by a sub-committee to meet them in conference on an important matter. It was to propose my election as Mr. Wells’ successor. Now, secretaryships have always been my aversion—from an instinct, I suppose, such as guides inferior animals to shun what they were never made for. The secretaryship of the City Mission had been pressed upon me soon after my arrival in London, but I steadily refused it, from a conviction of utter incompetence; and, for the same reason, I declined to entertain the proposal just mentioned. He who proposed the office for me accepted it for himself, and we worked together pleasantly through several years. I was elected chairman of the Union in May 1856, amidst much excitement. There have been strains on its strength more than once, but this first was the greatest.
Dr. Campbell had been for some time a prominent member. Hard-headed and hard-handed, of a bold, open countenance, and with a habit of planting his foot pretty firmly on the ground,—the outer man well indicated the inner; kind-hearted and affectionate at home, but not the same on a platform, or with an editorial pen in hand. He then gave no quarter to anybody who opposed him. “You are a good fellow,” it was once said to him by a loving spirit; “but I don’t like that great club you carry.” That great club he swung about, much to the terror of many, and consequently he exercised a despotic sway, to which they were indisposed to submit. He held the doctrines of Calvinistic theology with a firm grasp, and looked with alarm upon certain opinions springing up amongst his brethren. He considered that there was looseness of sentiment, and a range of thought too free, existing amongst younger men, which imperilled the evangelical soundness of the Churches. He gave it the name of Negative Theology. The name took, and was bandied about to the annoyance of persons to whom it was applied, many of them holding positive truths as firmly as Dr. Campbell himself. It happened that in 1856 Mr. Lynch, a man of genius and sensibility, with a mind cast in a mould the opposite of Dr. Campbell’s, published a small volume of poetry entitled “The Rivulet.” Some of the hymns it contained excited admiration, and are now extensively used; but the book, as a whole, aroused Dr. Campbell’s wrath beyond measure. He wrote a criticism upon it, which awakened indignation in those who had read “The Rivulet” with approval. Fifteen brethren drew up and signed a protest against this style of review.
There existed, no doubt, a tendency on the part of a few brethren to give up certain theological expressions long held sacred, and also to throw into the background, if not to question, points of doctrine deemed perfectly Congregational. In the opposite quarter there appeared a tenacity of diction and an emphasis of opinion on old lines, accompanied by ungenerous reflections respecting those whom they deemed innovators. Very naturally, personal feeling was thus stirred up, and the Union seemed threatened with disaster.
“We men are a mysterious sort of creatures,” said John Howe to Richard Baxter. No doubt we are, and that in more ways than one: in this especially, that whilst discussing theories of God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit—all fountains of love—we are apt to be found drawing water from the wells of Marah.
The controversy, now spoken of, related to old and new aspects of theological thought. Looking back, I can but say, the balance sheet of past and present, in respect to what is now noticed, shows both gain and loss. All the gain, it strikes me, might have been secured without incurring loss at all; and, in making up the whole account, there should have been more charity in judging individuals, and more justice in discussing principles.
I wished, in my address, to combine the two, and so render the whole a sort of Irenicon.
A personal correspondence followed between two good men, which is now, I hope, buried in oblivion; but no secession of members from the Union took place, that I know of. The two tendencies still exist, but they call for no criticism in these pages. My views on the subject I have often expressed.
Before the close of my Windsor ministry I had begun to indulge in foreign travel, and in 1854, when I had spent some time in my Kensington pastorate, I ventured on a trip to Rome, which I have described already. After that, visits abroad were numerous, and from amongst them I select one paid in 1856, when I spent a few weeks with my two sons, who were then being educated in Berlin. My dear wife accompanied me through the greater part of the tour, as she was anxious to see how the lads were getting on. We made our way to the Prussian capital through Hanover, and, on reaching our destination, found all well. After spending a little while in Berlin, seeing the sights and becoming acquainted with some excellent people, we made an excursion to the South, and spent a few days at Dresden, where antiquities, pictures, and drives in the neighbourhood greatly delighted us. We proceeded to Schandau, a pretty little village, and there took lodgings, initiating ourselves into amusing details of German life. We attended the parish church on Sunday, taking interest in the clergyman, who was expounding to his people the history of David. We witnessed some of life’s joys and sorrows, especially a funeral, which was very picturesque—bright flowers, red roses and green leaves, relieving the darkness of death, the hope of Heaven shedding light on the sorrow of bereavement. Excursions in the neighbourhood added to our family enjoyments of this sojourn, and one day we came in contact with royalty. The King of Saxony, the Queen, and a few of the Court, climbed up a hill which we had selected as a resting-place, commanding views of the Elbe. Their Majesties’ servants in livery (who, by the way, were very civil to us) paid the royal reckoning to a humble châlet-keeper, as any of his subjects might do. We watched the King and attendants as they embarked in a boat for their Dresden home. My boys and I pushed on to Prague, where the bridge and St. John Nepomuk, the Hradschin, and the thirty years’ war, John Huss and his house in the Bethlehem platz, the Jews’ town on the banks of the Moldau, the Jewish burial ground, and the old synagogue, inspired historical memories of deep interest. We joined mamma and returned to Dresden the way we came; and there, after long gazings on the picture gallery, especially at Raphael’s “Madonna and Child”—opposite to which people sat reverently, as if engaged in devotion—father and mother parted from the dear boys, and we wended our way homewards; not without lingering in Lutherland to look at homes and haunts of the great Reformer.
To return to my Kensington flock. In the year 1857, one Sunday night, after I had retired to rest, I heard a loud ringing at the door-bell, and immediately rose. On opening the window, there stood a carriage; and the coachman, as soon as by gaslight he saw my face, cried out, “Oh, sir, my mistress is dead!” His mistress was Mrs. Jacomb, residing with her husband and family at Notting Hill. They had all been at Divine worship that morning in their usual health. The carriage had been sent to take me back to the mourners. I immediately rose and went. On reaching the house I witnessed a scene of domestic distress such as I never witnessed before. My deceased friend had in the morning worshipped with us, in her usual delicate health, and, as I learned, in more than her usual cheerfulness. She was preparing for evening service, when she was suddenly seized with illness, and in a short time expired. The husband and family were in deep distress, but they had a blessed knowledge of Him who brought life and immortality to light. She was a woman rich in spiritual sympathy, and had been no ordinary friend to me and mine, in our early married life. We had a large family, and, though favoured above many, had our domestic trials. How often I thought of what Paul said of “Phœbe, our sister”: “She has been a succourer of many, and of myself also.” I never knew any one who had more tender sympathy in trouble than Mrs. Jacomb, or was more swift in expressing it. Her husband was worthy of her, and her children “rise up to call her blessed.” Those who survive are cherished friends. He was of an old Puritan stock, descendant of Dr. Jacomb, a renowned ejected clergyman after the Commonwealth; and the family genealogy is rich in noted names and memories.
In this chapter I cannot refrain from recording my own domestic sorrows. In 1853 a sweet child had died—little Catherine, born shortly after we left Windsor; and in 1858 another, more advanced in life, a boy named Arnold, full of energy and promise, was taken from us by our Heavenly Father. His illness was brief; but beforehand my dear wife had been anxious for his spiritual welfare, and her conversations were followed by the Divine blessing. His joyous, winning ways had won the hearts of visitors, and his death widely affected my congregation, awakening sympathy to a degree which inspired my liveliest gratitude. Our friend Joshua Harrison preached a funeral sermon for the dear boy, full of pathos and power.