Edward Hoare, M.A.: A record of his life based upon a brief autobiography
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Title: Edward Hoare, M.A.: A record of his life based upon a brief autobiography
Author: Edward Hoare
Editor: John Hume Townsend
Release date: March 26, 2012 [eBook #39271]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39271
Credits: Transcribed from the 1896 Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDWARD HOARE, M.A.: A RECORD OF HIS LIFE BASED UPON A BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY ***
Transcribed from the 1896 Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Photograph of Edward Hoare. Lankester Photo, Tunbridge Wells.
Jenkins Heliog, Paris]
EDWARD HOARE, M.A.
A RECORD OF HIS LIFE BASED UPON A
BRIEF AUTOBIOGRAPHY
* * * * *
EDITED BY THE
REV. J. H. TOWNSEND, D.D.
_Vicar of Broadwater Down_, _Tunbridge Wells_
_Author of_ “_Spiral Stairs_; _or_, _the Heavenward Course of the_
_Church Seasons_”
* * * * *
_WITH A PORTRAIT_
* * * * *
London
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
27, PATERNOSTER ROW
* * * * *
MDCCCXCVI
* * * * *
* * * * *
_Printed by Hazell_, _Watson_, _& Viney_, _Ld._, _London and Aylesbury_.
PREFACE
It was on the 20th of August, 1864, that the Rev. Edward Hoare, on the
deck of the steamer from Boulogne to Folkestone, spoke kindly words of
sympathy to a schoolboy returning home after a great bereavement in
Switzerland. How little then could either of them have imagined the
future relationship of Vicar and Curate, the long years of happy
friendship afterwards, the deeply solemn funeral sermon, and, finally,
the sacred task of editing the Autobiography and writing the brief sketch
contained in the following pages! This work has been undertaken with the
greatest diffidence, partly owing to the many duties of a somewhat busy
life, and still more from the anxious wish that such a character as that
of Canon Hoare should be depicted by one who had known him from earlier
years. Another difficulty has been to compress the volume into the small
limits desired by the family.
To write a large volume would have been easy, but to read a considerable
correspondence, together with closely written volumes of journal, and
give a digest of their contents, has required care and thought. It has
also necessitated the putting upon one side of much that was interesting
and profitable. Amongst the things unpublished have been many powerful
letters upon various burning questions of the day during the past forty
years; most of these subjects have now burnt themselves out, and it
seemed unwise to rake up the ashes.
It is, moreover, better to say too little than too much, and those who
knew him best will acknowledge that the latter error has been avoided.
A man possessing such qualities as those which Canon Hoare
exhibited—great kindness and affection, wide views of men and things,
strong convictions, ruling powers, commanding intellect, and deep
spirituality of mind—was one who could not live without influencing
visibly all with whom he came in contact; but it has been the desire of
the Editor so to picture this life as it appeared to him, and with the
one desire that God may be glorified by the narrative as He was magnified
in the life of His servant.
J. H. T.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
EARLY LIFE AND BOYHOOD 1
CHAPTER II
CAMBRIDGE 18
CHAPTER III
RELIGIOUS STATE, AND EXAMINATION FOR DEGREE 30
CHAPTER IV
VISIT TO IRELAND, AND PREPARATION FOR HOLY ORDERS 41
CHAPTER V
ORDINATION AND FIRST CURACY 50
CHAPTER VI
RICHMOND 70
CHAPTER VII
HOLLOWAY AND RAMSGATE 92
CHAPTER VIII
TUNBRIDGE WELLS 120
CHAPTER IX
WORK IN VARIOUS PLACES 133
CHAPTER X
DOMESTIC LIFE AND FOREIGN TOURS 143
CHAPTER XI
PAROCHIAL MISSIONS 161
CHAPTER XII
PARISH WORK 173
CHAPTER XIII
THE BORDERLAND 187
CHAPTER XIV
BOOKS AND SPEECHES 198
CHAPTER XV
BLINDNESS AND SECOND ILLNESS 217
CHAPTER XVI
REMINISCENCES 251
CHAPTER XVII
PROMOTION 263
CHAPTER XVIII
TRIBUTES 267
CHAPTER I
_EARLY LIFE AND BOYHOOD_
It is a common practice amongst remarkable men to leave on record some of
the circumstances which have led to the formation of the leading features
of their character.
But as the greater part of mankind is not remarkable, I think it just
possible that some may be interested, and possibly some profited, by a
few details of the life of one whose life has not been marked by incident
so much as by abundant mercy, who has been led on step by step in the
happy life of a parochial clergyman, and who at the close of it can say
with reference to the past, “Surely goodness and mercy have followed me
all the days of my life,” and can add with reference to the future the
blessed hope and determination of David, “I will dwell in the house of
the Lord for ever.”
Of all the many mercies of my life the one that must ever stand first and
foremost is the gift of my beloved father and mother. No words can
describe the blessing of such parents, and I never can look back on the
unspeakable privilege of such a parentage without adoring the sovereign
grace which placed me under their parental care. When I observe the
carelessness of some parents, the inefficiency of others, and the
terrible training for evil to which I see multitudes of poor children
exposed, I can only adore the sovereignty of God which on June 5th, 1812,
committed me as a sacred trust to the very best of parents.
* * * * *
My father, Samuel Hoare, was a banker in the City. Both he and my
mother, Louisa Hoare, {2} had been brought up in the Society of Friends,
and had not formally left it at the time of my birth, so that I was
registered by that body, and at the time of my ordination I had to apply
to the Westminster Meeting for a certificate of my birth. But they were
both greatly influenced by the ministry of some devoted Evangelical
clergymen, such as the Rev. E. Edwardes of Lynn, and the Rev. Josiah
Pratt, and I believe it was very soon after my birth that they were
together baptised. We young people were therefore all brought up as
members of the Church of England, though, as my father never completely
lost his early Quaker prejudice against infant baptism, we were not
baptised till about the age of fifteen, when we were considered able to
judge for ourselves.
It was probably the result of his own Quaker education that my father had
a strong objection to public schools; so that his plan was to engage a
private tutor, some young man from Cambridge or Oxford, to educate us at
home till we attained the age of fifteen, and then send us to a private
tutor, preparatory to our going up to Cambridge. This arrangement
answered well so long as there were four of us boys at home, and some of
our cousins were united with us both in the schoolroom and playground;
but as the elder boys went off, there was a sad want both of healthy
amusements and intellectual stimulus for those that were left behind. I
was the third, and I remember how difficult it was for my dear brother
Joseph and myself to keep ourselves well employed when our elder brothers
Samuel and Gurney had been placed under the care of the Rev. H. V.
Elliott, the most able and gifted tutor to whom we three eldest brothers
were sent, and to whom we were all indebted far more than I can describe.
He had a wonderful power of bringing the interest of the University to
bear on the education of his pupils, and I never can forget the effect on
my own mind, for I never really worked till the day I entered his house;
but I began then, and I have never been habitually idle since. He was a
grand illustration of the principle, that the great office of an educator
is not merely to cram a boy’s head with knowledge, but to kindle a fire
in his soul, which will go on burning brightly when the tutor himself has
long since passed away.
But though there were great disadvantages in our home education, there
were also immense advantages. It was not so effective as my dear parents
hoped it would be in preserving us from impure and defiling information,
and to this day I rarely pass the back door of what used to be my
grandmother’s house without a sense of loathing at the wickedness of her
corrupt old butler, who on that spot did his utmost to pollute my boyish
mind with filthy communication.
But in many other respects I have never ceased to feel the blessed
results of those years at home. In the first place, we were all brought
under the constant influence of our father and mother. He was a man of
great strength of character, and of marvellous perseverance in all that
he undertook. He was deeply interested in the improvement of prison
discipline, and was one of the “Governors” of the “Refuge for the
Destitute.” This he used to visit once a week with the utmost
regularity, rising early so as to be able to complete his visit before
his attendance at the Bank, and I have seldom seen a more affecting sight
than when he used to ride off week after week in all weathers, even after
the Lord had laid him so low by an attack of paralysis that he could not
attempt to ride beyond a walking pace, and it was indeed unsafe for him
to ride at all; but he was a man _tenax propositi_, and nothing would
turn him from his purpose. It was his determination of character that
made him a most valuable coadjutor with his brother-in-law, Sir T. F.
Buxton, in the great anti-slavery struggle, as may be seen in the graphic
account given in the Life of Sir Fowell of the great debate which
virtually decided the question. Sir Fowell himself was a man of
courageous determination; but it was my father that, during that debate,
sat under the gallery of the House of Commons and upheld his hands by his
decided and unwavering judgment. It was a great privilege for us boys to
grow up under the influence of such a character.
Once a week, on the day of his holiday from the Bank, he used habitually
to visit the schoolroom, and hear us repeat what we had learned during
the week; and every Sunday afternoon he used to read with us some good
religious book. I fear sometimes one at least of his pupils greatly
tried his patience by supineness and inattention, but there were not then
the same interesting books for young people that there are now, and such
books as Wilberforce’s “Practical View” or Doddridge’s “Rise and
Progress” were not calculated to attract the attention of a set of boys
whose hearts were set on cricket.
Then my dearest mother was one of the most lovely women of the day.
Beautiful in countenance, gentle in her manners, pure in her thoughts,
and most loving in all her intercourse with her family, she exercised
over us all a most sacred and refining influence, and one of the most
abiding sorrows of my life has been that, when she was teaching me
something, I was so negligent that I caused her to shed a tear.
Besides that, she had great intellectual charm. First-rate men such as
Chalmers and Wilberforce delighted in her society. She was an excellent
English writer. Her letters to her sons at College are perfect models of
such compositions, and her admirable little book “Hints on Early
Education,” containing the principles on which she brought us up,
continues to this day, passing through edition after edition,
unsurpassed, if I may not say unequalled, by the many more modern efforts
to throw light on that most important subject.
It is to her that I am indebted for my first intelligent acquaintance
with the Gospel. She used to have us boys to read the Scripture with her
every morning at 7.15. Nothing can ever efface the lovely impression
made on those occasions. There she used to be by a bright fire in her
little room, in her snow-white dressing-gown, looking as pure and lovely
as was possible in woman. I fear we boys were often late and sometimes
inattentive. But I never forget one morning when she asked me if I knew
what faith was, and, finding that I was utterly ignorant, proceeded to
teach me those sacred lessons of a Saviour’s grace which have been life
to my soul from that day till now. Oh, mothers! what an opportunity you
have of sowing a seed which will never die!
Another great advantage in our home education was that we became
interested in missionary work. Drawing-room meetings were not the
fashion then as they are now, and my father and mother, without waiting
for the fashion, threw open their large drawing-room to various devoted
men. Thus we boys used to enjoy the no small privilege of becoming
personally acquainted with many of the most devoted men of the day, as
well as of being educated into an interest in missionary work.
But parental influence was not all, for one of the tutors engaged for our
instruction was the Rev. R. Davis, of Queen’s College, Cambridge, a
devoted young man, and deeply interested in the Church Missionary
Society. It was he that enlisted the interest of my father and mother,
so that I find, in turning to the report for the year 1820, the following
entry, which was the sum-total of the then Hampstead Association:—
_£_ _s._ _d._
Contributions by a few children 2 8 0
Rev. R. Davis 1 1 9
3 9 9
Having been one of those few children, I remember well the interest that
the subject excited in our minds; and as that interest never died out in
those beloved ones now gone to their rest, and as I trust it will never
do so in myself, I realise how much I owe to that young man, and I see
how much may be done by a young man who carries with him wherever he goes
the unceasing desire to be engaged in his Master’s service.
This home education was continued until I reached the age of fifteen,
when I was sent as a pupil to the Rev. H. V. Elliott of Brighton, where
my two elder brothers had been before me. Before I left home
arrangements were made for my baptism. That admirable man the Rev.
Josiah Pratt kindly undertook my instruction, and I used to ride down to
him at his residence in Finsbury Circus. He was a remarkable man, firm
in his principle, faithful to the Gospel, true to his Saviour, zealous in
Missions, and of remarkable soundness of judgment. I am not sure that he
was altogether the best instructor for a spirited lad, but I never shall
forget the venerable man, sitting on one side of the fireplace, finding,
I fear, considerable difficulty in eliciting much response from his
pupil. But I learnt one practical lesson from these interviews, which
has been a help to many a lad under similar circumstances:—I was at that
time thoroughly in earnest about my soul, and I looked forward to my
baptism with great seriousness. It was a matter for much prayer and
close examination. But my dearest mother showed me Mr. Pratt’s letters
respecting me, in which he said, “I hope there is something at the
bottom, but I find it very difficult to bring it to the surface!” How
often have I thought of these words, when I have been preparing my young
people for Confirmation; and when I have seen them nervous, agitated, and
with small development of feeling, I have thought of myself and of Mr.
Pratt’s letters, and remembered how earnest I was at the time, although
he could discover but little trace of it.
* * * * *
The day of my baptism was a very solemn one, my cousin, the late Sir
Edward Buxton, being baptised at the same time in St. Stephen’s,
Coleman’s Street, and I think it was the next day that we left our homes
together and went to Brighton, to enter upon a new mode of education. I
cannot say how thankful I am that my father sent me to Mr. Elliott. He
was a first-rate man in all respects, and he had been the means of
kindling an intellectual fire in my eldest brother, who was passing
through Cambridge at the time with high distinction. He (Mr. Elliott)
had a faculty for inspiriting his pupils for work. I had been an idle
boy until I went to him; but I had no sooner crossed his threshold than I
felt an ambition for University distinction, and lost very little time
when I was under his rule. As he took only six pupils there was the same
difficulty that we found at home in getting good play, first-class
cricket.
But there were other great advantages. There were some very choice lads
amongst the pupils, one especially whom I can never forget—namely, Henry
Goulburn. He was small in stature, but of marvellous ability: for quick
perception, clear understanding, for never-failing memory, and a power of
seeing through a subject, such as I never saw in any man. I shall never
forget his influence when he first joined us as a pupil. There was at
that time a good deal of quarrelling amongst us. There was one young
fellow who was rich, but very foolish, who became the butt of his
companions. I remember well one day, when Goulburn had just come amongst
us, and we were all like a pack of hounds upon that young fellow,
Goulburn got up from the table, walked round to him, and put his hand
upon him, saying, “I will be your friend.” That act of his had such a
power over the whole party that similar unkindness entirely ceased. I
never saw a repetition of it.
But, besides the pupils within the house, we had the immense advantage of
the friendship of Mr. Elliott’s mother and sisters, who lived close by.
That mother was one of the most charming old ladies I ever remember. She
was the daughter of Henry Venn, Rector of Yelling, the grandfather of the
late Henry Venn, Secretary of the Church Missionary Society. She grew up
amongst her father’s friends, Berridge, Fletcher, and Simeon in his early
days, and nothing could be more charming, more delightful, than her
reminiscence of the early struggle of those devoted men. It wanted a
good deal to draw me from the cricket field, but she had the power of
doing it. I could not have had a greater treat than to listen for
half-an-hour to her anecdotes.
Then again it was one of the privileges that we enjoyed at Brighton that
we attended St. Mary’s Church. Mr. Elliott’s preaching was valuable,
full of truth, and most beautiful in composition. I used to listen to it
with great interest, and from it I first learnt the great and blessed
doctrine of justification by faith, which I have had the privilege of
preaching throughout my ministry. I never can forget one sermon of his
in which he pointed out that there were three great trials of Abraham’s
faith: (1) His Call (Gen. xii.); (2) The Promise given him (Gen. xv.);
and (3) The Sacrifice of Isaac (Gen. xxii.). He then pointed out that
the first and last of these three trials involved immediate action, but
that the middle one demanded no action at the time, but required simply a
believing reception of the promise of God, and it was of it that the
statement was made (Gen. xv. 6): “Abraham believed God, and it was
counted to him for righteousness.”
There was a fresh blessing given me in St. Mary’s. It was there one
sacred day when Robert Daly, afterwards Bishop of Cashel, was preaching,
that I was led by the Spirit of God to give myself up to the ministry. I
do not remember exactly what he said; but I am sure that a permanent
impression may be often made without any distinct recollection always of
what has been uttered. So it was in my case, while that noble man was
preaching; and I there and then gave myself up to the ministry of God, as
I told him many years afterwards. I said nothing about it to anybody for
a year, because I wished my determination to be thoroughly tested. At
the end of the year I told my father. He informed me that there was a
place open for me in his Bank, but at the same time he gave his cordial
approbation; and so with his full consent and that of my dearest mother,
I regarded myself from that day as one set apart to the sacred ministry.
That must have been nearly sixty years ago, and never for one moment have
I had reason to regret the decision.
* * * * *
From Mrs. Hoare to her son at Brighton:—
“_August_ 22_nd_, 1829.
“How continually have I thought of you, dearest Edward, since you
left us, with the truest pleasure and I hope thankfulness for the
happy time we have passed together, with the greatest interest in
your present settlement and earnest desire and prayer for your
well-doing in future! You have, my love, gained the confidence and
excited the sanguine hopes of your parents, and if you do not turn
out the _decided_, _noble_, _upright_, and _effective Christian_
character, we shall be disappointed. I consider the present juncture
in your life very important. The more I consider the case, the more
I am sure of Mr. Elliott’s intrinsic value to you, and the more I am
convinced of the wisdom of giving up yourself in the present to his
wishes; if you secure his friendship, you secure a treasure for life.
In this as in every situation, you will have something to bear.
“1. Don’t stand on your own rights too much or be tenacious in
little things.
“2. Be _very slow_ in taking offence or fancying any disrespect or
want of favour is shown to you.
“3. Never _complain_ of anything to your companions.
“4. Encourage a spirit of content, and _be determined_ (there is
much in this determination of mind) to be comfortable.
“5. Promote, as far as possible, the pleasure of your companions by
yielding in little things. I believe, dearest Edward, you are
sensible that, to act with true wisdom, we must seek this precious
gift from above, and day by day ask for help and strength and grace
for the day.
“6. Write to me intimately, and the letters may be _entirely private
whenever you wish it_.
“The books could not be despatched at once. Sam says the Shakespeare
is a bad bargain, but we will talk it over again—oh how I should
enjoy a half-hour with thee over this nice library fire!”
Early Letters.
There are some interesting letters of this period, which have been
carefully preserved. The earliest of these, written when he was eleven
years old, is characteristic. It is addressed to his mother, who was
away from home, and begins with an apology for not having sent her a
letter before: this is based upon an accident at cricket, which he
describes graphically, the ball “ascending to a great height” having
fallen upon his thumb and so disabled him, etc., etc.; but the pathetic
narrative is followed by a burst of honesty—“however, as that happened
only yesterday it is not much of an excuse”! Another, a year later,
written from Ryde, after describing a boating and fishing expedition,
relates further a conversation with the boatman, whom they saw doing
something to the dogfish that they had caught. “He replied” (and here
the young scribe phonetically renders the local pronunciation), “‘O Lar,
I’m only tormenting ’em.’ We asked, ‘Why?’ ‘Because ’em has a pisonous
prick on ’em’s back.’ We asked him how they could help that. ‘Oh, I
knows ’em needn’t have it if ’em didna like!’”
The letters that follow were written from Brighton, and describe his
arrival at Mr. Elliott’s house, and sundry events that took place from
time to time; they are full of affection to his mother, and abound
likewise in touches of humour, but they show also a diligence and
steadiness of purpose, and a liking for good things, remarkable in a boy
of that age. Subjoined are a few extracts as specimens:—
“I suppose Jack told you of the famous hunt we had the other day when
we were going out riding and met the hounds, half by accident? We
had a run of above an hour, and the hounds were in full cry all the
time; but, alas! the other day a bill came in from the horse-keeper,
which informed us that we were to pay a pound for each of the horses
because we had been with the hounds. . . . I like Abercorn {15} very
much, but he is excessively idle, as my shoulders will bear witness,
as it is his great delight to get up and thump Ted Buxton and me on
the shoulders; but fortunately he is tired of hitting me, as I repay
the blows tenfold with a singlestick, and the consequence is that
poor Ted gets double his former allowance.”
“We have capital walks on the Downs almost every day, which are very
pleasant, and capital exercise, as we go a considerable distance; the
other day we went nearly to the Dyke. Before seven [a.m.] we three
have delightful readings together—we have nearly done Matthew; at
seven we come down and read till breakfast, and after that till two;
we then go out for our walk till dinner. . . . On Thursday we are to
have our debate about the battle of Navarino, in which I am going to
be exceedingly eloquent—only there is one great barrier to my
eloquence, which is that I can think of nothing to speak about.
Robert and Jack are going to attack the battle; and Ted, Abercorn,
and I are going to defend it. I think they have got much the best
side.”
This extract, written in a boyish hand, is dated February 19th, 1828.
The next, on October 4th in the same year, is remarkable for its
transition into the formed hand of the young man, and its resemblance to
the writing of all his later years. He was then sixteen. The letter is
full of manly thoughts, kind sympathy for some relatives in trouble,
great thankfulness to God for restoring him to health after an illness,
and then the schoolboy reappears towards the close as he longs for a
share in the partridge-shooting which his father and elder brothers were
enjoying at that time, and “the plumcake after church, and then the walk
on the lighthouse hills” at Cromer, concerning which he winds up by
saying: “I do not know two things that live so pleasantly in my mind.
How far superior to all the strutting finery of Brighton!”
The letters written during his residence in Brighton show that Mr.
Elliott, besides being a very kind tutor, had the gift of inspiring his
pupils with great diligence and love for their work. The year 1830 was
the last spent under his roof, and they testify to a great deal of hard
reading, with the University constantly in view.
At the end of a letter dated “Brighton, September 20th, 1830,” young
Hoare writes:—
“I may tell you that this is the last letter you are ever likely to
receive from me from Brighton. My two years and a half (that but
yesterday I thought would never end) are now nearly come to a close;
I am sure if I had time I ought and could write a long letter of
gratitude to you and my father for having given me such opportunities
of improvement. Oh that I had made full use of them! what a capital
fellow I should be! At all events, of this I am quite certain, that
if your sons turn out either rascals or blockheads (the latter of
which I fear is the case with the third {17}), it can never be laid
to your charge. And so, with regard to the course we are now likely
to enter upon, I feel that every reason which ought to influence a
person in the strongest degree binds me to read with thorough
diligence and perseverance, and I only trust that I may be enabled to
show my gratitude for your kindness by taking thorough advantage of
it.”
“O si sic omnes!” is the thought that rises to the mind after perusing
these schoolboy letters; they contain the germs of all the
characteristics that made Edward Hoare the power that he afterwards
became—manliness, gentleness, remarkable diligence, reverence for
religion and the Bible, a loving and thankful spirit, and, last but not
least, a keen sense of the humorous side of things.
CHAPTER II
_CAMBRIDGE_
In the year 1830 I went to Trinity College, Cambridge, one of the finest
places for education. My dear brother Gurney was there at the time.
Goulburn followed a year afterwards. Canon Carus was in his years a
Fellow of Trinity, and my beloved friend Bishop Perry was there as a
tutor. I had many friends, and we were a happy party. I have outlived
almost all of them. I owe more than I can express to my College life. I
read hard, and I have often observed that hard-reading men look back upon
their College days with the greatest pleasure. I was surrounded by a set
of steady men, and, above all, I had the advantage of Mr. Simeon’s
ministry. There was something very wonderful about his preaching; it was
not eloquence, and he had none of the brilliance of Mr. Elliott. But it
was as clear as a noonday; his statements of truth were unmistakable. He
was raised up to preach at Cambridge the great Evangelical doctrines of
Scripture. And he taught them with a clearness, a distinctness, and a
courage such as could not well be surpassed. Many and many a time did I
return to my rooms after church, “sport” my door, and kneel down in
earnest prayer under the solemn conviction produced by his most spiritual
and awakening ministry. Thus the three years of my University life
passed rapidly by. I was very eager in boat-racing, and very keen at the
game of cricket, although I could not play much of it, as it took too
long a time. But I am thankful to say I had the ministry always in view;
and I remember well that on the morning I went into the Senate House for
my degree, I knelt down to pray for success, and I thought at the time
how much higher gifted I would be if the Lord would make me wise to win
souls.
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_ 19_th_, 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_ 8_th_, 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 _wonder_ful 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_ 18_th_, 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 Prise 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_ 8_th_, 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_ 20_th_, 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_ 19_th_, 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_ 24_th_, 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_ 7_th_, 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_ 14_th_, 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_ 6_th_, 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_ 30_th_, 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_ 9_th_, 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_ 28_th_, 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.
Extract from the Journal, May 1858.
_Thoughts about Personal Holiness_.—Nearness to Christ. Likeness to
Christ. Singleheartedness to Christ.
_The Whole Work of the Holy Spirit_.—In Christ. With Christ. For
Christ.
_Peculiar Importance to Ministers_.—Because we are acting under a strong
religious stimulus which may be mistaken for true holiness.
Must not expect to draw souls nearer to God than we are ourselves. “Be
ye followers of me.”
Because by-ends mar and impede God’s blessing. “My glory will I not give
to another.” “Ye ask and ye receive not,” etc. God has too much regard
for the minister to trust him with success.
By-ends strike at the root of faith. “How can ye believe?” etc.
Nearness to God carries a man humbly through success, and peacefully
through discouragement.
If we live in Christ we shall be carried through the dying hour.
_The Visible and Invisible Life_.—Men see Christ’s Gospel in us. We are
the visible representatives of an Invisible Presence. Thousands read us
who never read their Bibles.
_Questions_.
Is there the same desire for salvation of souls when others preach?
Is there never pleasure in finding others less than ourselves?
Is there real gratification in the progress and success of others?
* * * * *
“Search me, O Lord” (Psalm cxxxix.). “Cleanse the thoughts of our
hearts.” Lev. xxii. 2: “Profane not,” etc.
“Pardon iniquity of our holy things.” “Be ye clean, ye that bear the
vessels of the Lord.”
Pardoned sinners the only witnesses to converting grace.
CHAPTER IX
_WORK IN VARIOUS PLACES_
Those who knew the subject of this memoir only in his later years were
often struck by his physical strength and vigour. Yet from his earliest
years and up to middle life there were signs of constitutional delicacy
which caused anxiety. On various occasions he was laid by through
attacks of illness, and it is plain from passages in his journal that,
although physically an athlete, he quite expected that his life would be
a short one. But God had other plans for His young servant: true, he was
to be disciplined by frequent illnesses—Pakefield had to be resigned in a
year owing to delicacy of the chest; his work at Richmond (where he
caught smallpox in his parish-visiting), and Holloway, and Ramsgate, was
interrupted by periods of ill-health; but these were perhaps the training
by which faith was strengthened and spirituality deepened for the great
work of middle life, and a hale and saintly old age.
The close and topical study of the Scriptures to which allusion is made
in the Autobiography, and in which, no doubt, the mathematical training
of the University was a great assistance, gave him a clear view of the
doctrines of the Church of England; combined with this was an intimate
acquaintance with the formularies of the Prayer-Book and the writings of
the Reformers, also the result of years of careful reading,—consequently
Mr. Hoare was in great request all over England to speak at gatherings of
the clergy and devotional meetings of various kinds. Soon after his
appointment to Tunbridge Wells, we find in his letters, of which a few
extracts are given in the following pages, references to these journeys;
in fact he literally seemed to go up and down the country speaking and
preaching. It was no unusual event for him to address great audiences in
remote towns on the same day.
The following letter, written to one of his daughters just after her
Confirmation, for which he had prepared her, alludes to this kind of
work, but it is inserted here more particularly as a specimen of his
tender interest in the spiritual welfare of his children:—
“YORK, _May_ 28_th_, 1856.
“I do not yet know whether or not I shall be wanted at Pontefract
to-morrow, and if I am not I may reach London as soon as this letter;
but you have been so much in my thoughts lately that I cannot forbear
sending one line of affectionate remembrance.
“I have felt the last three months to h
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