Some time afterwards, I listened to Lord Brougham in the same hall on the same subject. He was then past his best days, but flashes of oratory, full of satire and invective against the party he had left, burst forth in a long speech, which, as chairman, he delivered in the middle of the proceedings, to the interruption of previous arrangements. It was, I suppose, by no means equal to his earlier efforts, but enough remained of thunder and lightning to remind one of his eulogised resemblance to Demosthenes.
CHAPTER III
1832–1837
When I first saw Windsor in the winter of 1830–31 how different the town appeared from what it did afterwards! All about Thames Street and Castle Hill was crowded with old houses and shops on both sides of the way, and the walls bounding Lower Ward were hidden from view, except where the Clock Tower, which stood in advance, looked down upon the passers-by. A large plain brick mansion, called the Queen’s Lodge, long since removed, occupied the right hand of the road leading to York and Lancaster Gate, while old-fashioned tenements lined the approach to the royal precincts. On the night of my first arrival patches of snow covered the roofs, and dotted the pediments of doors and windows; over Henry VIII.’s gateway hung a gorgeous hatchment in memory of George IV., who had not long before left this life. It was slow travelling from London to Windsor in those days, especially when the waters were out, and the roads were heavy, and thick fogs rendered the leaders invisible to the coachman; whilst deep ruts clogged the wheels and now and then an icy flood came up to the axles. In the town I heard a great deal about “Windsor of the olden time,” when highway robbers were rife, and gentlemen who took to the road would lie in wait under cover of a plantation, and, galloping over a field, stop the traveller and lighten him of his purse. According to one informant, a tradesman in High Street, at the latter part of the eighteenth century, kept a swift-trotting nag, which he mounted after dark to do a little business on the road, and then returned richer than he went. People at that time, as I heard some of them say, did not think of riding or driving over Hounslow Heath alone; but, when approaching that ill-famed spot where gibbets lingered by the roadside, were careful to wait till a number was formed able to defend themselves against the attack of thieves. The sobriety of many inhabitants in the royal borough did not stand high, and at mayors’ feasts the guests did not think they sufficiently honoured the hospitalities of the evening, unless they drank so much as made it difficult for them to find their way home.
Anecdotes of George III. were rife. I heard that he used to rise early, take a walk before breakfast, and sit down in a certain bookseller’s shop, looking at publications on the counter. But one morning he saw a book by Tom Paine lying there; after that he paid no more visits. Sometimes he said very shrewd things. A Bow-street runner, named Townsend, liked to attend early prayers when His Majesty was present, and to make himself heard in loud responses. One day he was running about after service looking for something he could not find. “Townsend, Townsend, what are you after?” “I have lost my hat, please your Majesty.” “You prayed well,” was the monarch’s rejoinder; “but you did not watch.” The king had a wonderful memory; and once, as a troop of yeomanry rode past in review, he pointed out a man amongst them of whom he had bought a horse twenty years before, and whom he had not seen afterwards.
An old inhabitant, who became my father-in-law, vouched for the truth of some of these stories; and bore testimony, not only to the condescension and familiarity of George III., but to the kindness and consideration of George IV. One remark which my friend and relative used to make as he was walking through the apartments of the castle, produced a startling effect. Stopping before the picture of Charles I., he would say: “He looks just as he did when I last saw him.” The fact was that my relative was present when Sir Henry Halford superintended the exhumation of the beheaded king; and he first caught a glimpse of the royal face, because he assisted in cutting open the coffin lid. The face was perfect, and exactly resembled Vandyke’s famous portrait of Charles I. When exposed to the air the dust crumbled away.
After preaching at Windsor, as a student, several times, I received an invitation to become co-pastor of the Congregational church. The Rev. A. Redford, a man of singular consistency of character, who by his conduct as a Christian minister won the respect and confidence of the town generally, as well as of his own little flock, had been in office for many years, and needed assistance in his sacred calling. He won my heart; and as a son with a father I laboured with him in the gospel. George III., who had a domestic or two in his household attending on this good man’s preaching, was heard to say: “The clergy are paid by the country to pray for me, but Mr. Redford’s praying is without pay.”
In the prospect of my becoming co-pastor, the congregation in 1832 determined to build a new chapel, the one in existence being not sufficiently large; and as a sign of the honour in which the senior minister was held, I may mention, that Church-people, as well as Dissenters, contributed to the fund. The late Earl of Derby, then Mr. Stanley, who represented the borough, subscribed £50. The other member gave a like sum. The vicar and almost all the leading inhabitants were found on the list. The fact is now mentioned to indicate the good understanding between different classes of religionists which then existed in Windsor.
I was ordained the day after the new chapel was opened, at the beginning of May 1833. It was a service long to be remembered. Such services were thought more of in those days than they are now. Ministers and friends came from a great distance, and a large congregation was sure to assemble. Generally the spirit was devout. An introductory discourse illustrated the grounds of Nonconformity. After this several questions were answered by the candidate, as to his Christian experience, doctrinal sentiments, and reasons for believing he had a call to the ministry. A deacon of the Church related the steps which had led to the present choice, and, afterwards, the ordination prayer was offered with a solemn laying on of hands. In my case, my venerated co-pastor fulfilled this duty; and it was interesting to me that, in like manner, he had been ordained by Rowland Hill. A charge to the inducted minister followed; then came a sermon to the people, pointing out their duties. The holy influence of that day rests on me to this hour, after the lapse of more than fifty years.
The fresh impetus now given to our religious work served to stimulate friends in the Establishment, who had so helped us in our department of the one great cause. A Sunday evening service was commenced in the parish church, and a new Episcopal place of worship was erected in Eton, where it was much needed. In addition to the vicar of Windsor and his curates, some of the masters at Eton College came forward in parish work, rendering help by sermons at a third Sunday service then recently commenced. The Rev. T. Chapman, afterwards a Colonial bishop, took the lead, and did much to revive religion in the town. But the most distinguished labourer at the time was the Rev. G. A. Selwyn, then connected with Eton, who was afterwards one of the most heroic missionary bishops of modern times; with him it was my privilege to co-operate in the establishment of the Windsor Infants’ School.
lie would fain have induced me to enter the Establishment, but though he did not succeed in that respect, he ever treated me with a brotherly regard, which I sincerely reciprocated. Before he embarked for his distant field of labour he wrote a farewell note in which he said: “On the few points in which we differ, I thank God we have been enabled to dwell, often at some length, without one particle of that acrimony which often discredits controversy, and proves it to proceed rather from human passions than from zeal for the truth of God. I cannot recollect, throughout all our intercourse, one single word which can be considered as a breach of charity between us. For this I am especially thankful, that when I go to offer up my gift upon far distant altars, I shall have left no brother at home, with whom I ought first to have been reconciled.”