On April 4th, 1854, I started the first time for Rome, provided with letters of introduction to Gibson, the sculptor, Penry Williams, the landscape painter, and two Roman Catholic dignitaries, one a Monseignor, the other president of the English College. All these gentlemen were polite and helpful to me.

My companions were Dr. Raffles, Dr. Halley, the Rev. Spencer Edwards, and another friend. The first of them was wonderful for relating stories, which he always told secundum artem. He kept us awake one whole night with his amusing anecdotes; but, as we were travelling through France at a time when espionage was prevalent, he would not allow us to make any political allusions. I was surprised at the retentiveness of his verbal memory; whilst he repeated long pieces, in which the amusement consisted of odd words, connected with no rational meaning, when put together.

It was Holy Week when we reached Rome. On Thursday there was the feet-washing at St. Peter’s, and the supper afterwards: the Pope, as “servant of servants,” ministering to the poor, but with great pomp on both occasions. We arranged to see the former, and found a transept on the right hand, fitted up for the occasion. Rank, fashion, beauty, arrayed in mourning, found accommodation in galleries commanding a good view. Ladies were veiled, gentlemen wore evening dress. Admission to that part of the edifice could be obtained on no other conditions. Pio Nono, a pleasant, genial-looking old man, who won a good opinion as soon as you looked at him, did his part well. He read the Gospel (John xiii.) in tones wonderfully musical and distinct, and then washed the pilgrims’ feet with grace and reverence. The whole was artistically and solemnly done. “One can laugh at these things, as described in books,” said Dr. Raffles—a staunch Nonconformist—“but not when witnessed, as now, in this magnificent place.” Still, on a calm review, nothing like worship appears in any part of the ceremony. Then the Miserere in the afternoon! Those who did not witness it years ago can have no idea of it now; or of the gorgeous procession, amidst a blaze of light, to the altar of S. Paulo, and the prostration of the Pontiff and his Cardinals on the floor, in the midst of darkness, candles having been extinguished, one by one. The scene on the grand staircase was striking as the dignitaries returned, varying in appearance and character—an ascetic monk, a man of the world, another looking studious and reflective, a fourth keen and statesmanlike. Nobody could deny the Italian scenic skill in such matters. I have been at Rome in Easter, since then, much struck with subsequent changes. When all was over on my first Easter in Rome, I went to the English Episcopal Church, where the Lord’s Supper was administered according to Protestant rites, and I could not but be impressed by the contrast between the two services. It illustrated the change effected by the Reformation. I mentioned this once to the Rev. Frederic Denison Maurice, who, of course, agreed with me; and, talking of Rome, he happened to relate an anecdote which I do not remember having seen in print. Pio Nono, after the suppression of Latin nunneries in Poland, received a visit from the Emperor of Russia. “You are a great king,” said the former to the latter, “one of the mightiest in the world. I am a poor feeble man, servant of servants; but I cite you to meet me before the Judge of all, and to answer for your treatment of helpless women.” There was the old assumption of authority; but there was a touch of grandeur in the words.

I saw the catacombs, following my guide, taper in hand; and in one of the strange passages was accosted by name. “Who could have expected to be recognised in this dark underworld?” I exclaimed. It turned out to be a person who had lived at Eton, and been a hearer of mine at Windsor. Other recognitions have occurred to me of an odd kind, when visiting several places.

I became so attracted by what I saw in Rome, and drank so deeply into the spirit of Arnold’s letters, written there, that my last day was spent in pensive leave-takings of ruin after ruin, church after church. I have been there twice since, each for a longer time than the first; but not with quite the impression which I felt in the first instance.

We proceeded to Naples, stopped at Cisterna, at Terracinia, at Gaeta, and at S. Agata. Whoever has travelled the same road must long remember the fragrance of the orange-groves and the coloured dresses of the peasantry.We had no trouble at custom-houses on the way, for my two companions and myself travelled in humble fashion. Otherwise did the two doctors, already mentioned, fare. Large sums were demanded of them on the Neapolitan frontier; and when they refused to pay, their luggage was searched, and a coloured pen-wiper being found, the officials declared it was a revolutionary cockade, and that books in their portmanteaus were no doubt full of treason and heresy. There was no alternative but to stay where they were, or to allow a soldier to accompany them in charge of the suspected articles. All this trouble was followed by apologies on reaching Naples, after an appeal had been made to the English Consul.

We saw the picture galleries and museums in Naples, and explored the city as well as we could during our short stay. Religious services of a special kind were being held in one of the churches; and I remember entering it on an evening when it was crowded with people, listening to a friar, who was earnestly preaching. Next morning, on revisiting the place, it was crowded as the night before, and the same priest occupied the pulpit. We drove along the old coast road, by the so-called Tomb of Virgil to Castellamare, Sorrento, Posilipo and Pozzuoli (the Puteoli of the Acts), and had dreams of the luxurious life once spent on these shores, and of Paul’s disembarkation on his way to Rome. We also spent a day at Vesuvius, where clouds of vapour were rolling upward; and I, with one of our party, crawled down to the crater, as near as we could, much to the dismay of our senior companions. On our way back to Naples we tarried as long as possible at Pompeii, looking at the wonders of that memorable spot.

An important step was taken at Kensington on my return from Italy. The “swarm” sent to Notting Hill did not permanently reduce the numbers of our congregation. On the contrary, they considerably advanced. The old chapel became more than ever inconvenient, and we resolved to build a new and much larger one.

I must now pass from local and personal affairs to notice a movement in Congregationalism at large. Independency leads to isolated action on the part of local Churches. It is unfriendly to cohesion and co-operation. It provides for freedom, and nothing else. Old Independents saw this, and checked the evil by maintaining local fellowships between Church and Church, by the employment of “messengers” one to another. [126]

About 1830 the wiser heads amongst us had clearly seen the evil, and endeavoured to overcome it. They concluded that centrifugal tendencies should be met by a centripetal force. Mr. Binney used to say, we were a collection of limbs—legs, arms, feet, and hands—all in motion, but not an organised body. To frame a body out of so many members, was the design of the Congregational Union. Algernon Wells may be regarded as its founder. He was one of the most beautiful characters I have ever known—intelligent, well read, sagacious, with extensive knowledge of men and things, and a profound attachment to evangelical truth. He had a rare order of eloquence, and wove pleasant tissues of thought in his sermons and speeches. If his speeches were not always sermons, his sermons were almost always speeches. There was a great charm in his conversation, and it often overflowed with wit. Though a decided Congregationalist, he was full of charity, and cultivated harmonious intercourse with other denominations. His policy as to the newly-formed organisation, was to make the meetings fraternal rather than controversial—a brotherly society to promote edification rather than an ecclesiastical army to fight with soldiers outside, or a council to settle disputes inside. The early meetings were held in the Congregational Library, and did not muster more than a hundred members. “Business” received at times a look askance: spiritual edification excited desire, and stimulated expression. Now and then came touches of humour, as when after talking about the state of the denomination till we were hungry, one brother rose and gravely asked “whether any intelligence had arrived from the Sandwich Islands.”

Good Algernon Wells died in 1851, and soon afterwards I was requested by a sub-committee to meet them in conference on an important matter. It was to propose my election as Mr. Wells’ successor. Now, secretaryships have always been my aversion—from an instinct, I suppose, such as guides inferior animals to shun what they were never made for. The secretaryship of the City Mission had been pressed upon me soon after my arrival in London, but I steadily refused it, from a conviction of utter incompetence; and, for the same reason, I declined to entertain the proposal just mentioned. He who proposed the office for me accepted it for himself, and we worked together pleasantly through several years. I was elected chairman of the Union in May 1856, amidst much excitement. There have been strains on its strength more than once, but this first was the greatest.

Dr. Campbell had been for some time a prominent member. Hard-headed and hard-handed, of a bold, open countenance, and with a habit of planting his foot pretty firmly on the ground,—the outer man well indicated the inner; kind-hearted and affectionate at home, but not the same on a platform, or with an editorial pen in hand. He then gave no quarter to anybody who opposed him. “You are a good fellow,” it was once said to him by a loving spirit; “but I don’t like that great club you carry.” That great club he swung about, much to the terror of many, and consequently he exercised a despotic sway, to which they were indisposed to submit. He held the doctrines of Calvinistic theology with a firm grasp, and looked with alarm upon certain opinions springing up amongst his brethren. He considered that there was looseness of sentiment, and a range of thought too free, existing amongst younger men, which imperilled the evangelical soundness of the Churches. He gave it the name of Negative Theology. The name took, and was bandied about to the annoyance of persons to whom it was applied, many of them holding positive truths as firmly as Dr. Campbell himself. It happened that in 1856 Mr. Lynch, a man of genius and sensibility, with a mind cast in a mould the opposite of Dr. Campbell’s, published a small volume of poetry entitled “The Rivulet.” Some of the hymns it contained excited admiration, and are now extensively used; but the book, as a whole, aroused Dr. Campbell’s wrath beyond measure. He wrote a criticism upon it, which awakened indignation in those who had read “The Rivulet” with approval. Fifteen brethren drew up and signed a protest against this style of review.

There existed, no doubt, a tendency on the part of a few brethren to give up certain theological expressions long held sacred, and also to throw into the background, if not to question, points of doctrine deemed perfectly Congregational. In the opposite quarter there appeared a tenacity of diction and an emphasis of opinion on old lines, accompanied by ungenerous reflections respecting those whom they deemed innovators. Very naturally, personal feeling was thus stirred up, and the Union seemed threatened with disaster.

“We men are a mysterious sort of creatures,” said John Howe to Richard Baxter. No doubt we are, and that in more ways than one: in this especially, that whilst discussing theories of God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit—all fountains of love—we are apt to be found drawing water from the wells of Marah.

The controversy, now spoken of, related to old and new aspects of theological thought. Looking back, I can but say, the balance sheet of past and present, in respect to what is now noticed, shows both gain and loss. All the gain, it strikes me, might have been secured without incurring loss at all; and, in making up the whole account, there should have been more charity in judging individuals, and more justice in discussing principles.

I wished, in my address, to combine the two, and so render the whole a sort of Irenicon.

A personal correspondence followed between two good men, which is now, I hope, buried in oblivion; but no secession of members from the Union took place, that I know of. The two tendencies still exist, but they call for no criticism in these pages. My views on the subject I have often expressed.

Before the close of my Windsor ministry I had begun to indulge in foreign travel, and in 1854, when I had spent some time in my Kensington pastorate, I ventured on a trip to Rome, which I have described already. After that, visits abroad were numerous, and from amongst them I select one paid in 1856, when I spent a few weeks with my two sons, who were then being educated in Berlin. My dear wife accompanied me through the greater part of the tour, as she was anxious to see how the lads were getting on. We made our way to the Prussian capital through Hanover, and, on reaching our destination, found all well. After spending a little while in Berlin, seeing the sights and becoming acquainted with some excellent people, we made an excursion to the South, and spent a few days at Dresden, where antiquities, pictures, and drives in the neighbourhood greatly delighted us. We proceeded to Schandau, a pretty little village, and there took lodgings, initiating ourselves into amusing details of German life. We attended the parish church on Sunday, taking interest in the clergyman, who was expounding to his people the history of David. We witnessed some of life’s joys and sorrows, especially a funeral, which was very picturesque—bright flowers, red roses and green leaves, relieving the darkness of death, the hope of Heaven shedding light on the sorrow of bereavement. Excursions in the neighbourhood added to our family enjoyments of this sojourn, and one day we came in contact with royalty. The King of Saxony, the Queen, and a few of the Court, climbed up a hill which we had selected as a resting-place, commanding views of the Elbe. Their Majesties’ servants in livery (who, by the way, were very civil to us) paid the royal reckoning to a humble chÂlet-keeper, as any of his subjects might do. We watched the King and attendants as they embarked in a boat for their Dresden home. My boys and I pushed on to Prague, where the bridge and St. John Nepomuk, the Hradschin, and the thirty years’ war, John Huss and his house in the Bethlehem platz, the Jews’ town on the banks of the Moldau, the Jewish burial ground, and the old synagogue, inspired historical memories of deep interest. We joined mamma and returned to Dresden the way we came; and there, after long gazings on the picture gallery, especially at Raphael’s “Madonna and Child”—opposite to which people sat reverently, as if engaged in devotion—father and mother parted from the dear boys, and we wended our way homewards; not without lingering in Lutherland to look at homes and haunts of the great Reformer.

To return to my Kensington flock. In the year 1857, one Sunday night, after I had retired to rest, I heard a loud ringing at the door-bell, and immediately rose. On opening the window, there stood a carriage; and the coachman, as soon as by gaslight he saw my face, cried out, “Oh, sir, my mistress is dead!” His mistress was Mrs. Jacomb, residing with her husband and family at Notting Hill. They had all been at Divine worship that morning in their usual health. The carriage had been sent to take me back to the mourners. I immediately rose and went. On reaching the house I witnessed a scene of domestic distress such as I never witnessed before. My deceased friend had in the morning worshipped with us, in her usual delicate health, and, as I learned, in more than her usual cheerfulness. She was preparing for evening service, when she was suddenly seized with illness, and in a short time expired. The husband and family were in deep distress, but they had a blessed knowledge of Him who brought life and immortality to light. She was a woman rich in spiritual sympathy, and had been no ordinary friend to me and mine, in our early married life. We had a large family, and, though favoured above many, had our domestic trials. How often I thought of what Paul said of “Phoebe, our sister”: “She has been a succourer of many, and of myself also.” I never knew any one who had more tender sympathy in trouble than Mrs. Jacomb, or was more swift in expressing it. Her husband was worthy of her, and her children “rise up to call her blessed.” Those who survive are cherished friends. He was of an old Puritan stock, descendant of Dr. Jacomb, a renowned ejected clergyman after the Commonwealth; and the family genealogy is rich in noted names and memories.

In this chapter I cannot refrain from recording my own domestic sorrows. In 1853 a sweet child had died—little Catherine, born shortly after we left Windsor; and in 1858 another, more advanced in life, a boy named Arnold, full of energy and promise, was taken from us by our Heavenly Father. His illness was brief; but beforehand my dear wife had been anxious for his spiritual welfare, and her conversations were followed by the Divine blessing. His joyous, winning ways had won the hearts of visitors, and his death widely affected my congregation, awakening sympathy to a degree which inspired my liveliest gratitude. Our friend Joshua Harrison preached a funeral sermon for the dear boy, full of pathos and power.

In 1859 a friend accompanied me to the Pyrenees. Travelling by French railways, we reached Bayonne at the end of August, and then crossed the Spanish frontier in a Spanish diligence, which had all the lumber and shabby trappings of French ones. We reached San Sebastian at night, and next morning took a walk on the promenade, where the ladies in mantillas and veils flourished their fans with grace and dignity; and if there be something gay in French solemnity, there is something grave in the gaiety of Spaniards. We again climbed up a diligence, and travelled through the Lower Pyrenees to Pau, where, from the Grand Terrace, we saw peering out from the haze of a hot summer sky the mountain range—not near, as many imagine, but many miles off. Of course we saw the old palace where Henri IV. was born and wrapped up in his shell cradle. Along roads bordered by woods and hills, reminding one of Wharfedale, we reached an elevation at Sevignac, overlooking the valley of the Gave, with magnificent mountains in front, Pic du Midi coming into full view. Eaux Bonnes, with all the luxuries of a French watering-place, was then reached, whence we proceeded to Eaux Chaudes, where the mountains become awfully precipitous. We looked down from zigzag roads, cut out of declivities buttressed by rocks and embankments, with boiling torrents at the foot, roaring like thunder. The Pic du Midi, streaked with snow, rises up so as to remind one of an Egyptian pyramid.

We determined to visit Pantacosa, and passed through a romantic defile, crossed the Spanish frontier again, and halted at a village, where the houses seemed walls without windows, the outlook being altogether from the back. Glimpses of Aragon’s broad plain were caught, as we looked south, and crowds of Spanish muleteers passed us, laden with merchandise. The baths of Pantacosa occupy a gloomy region, shut in by rocks, and there I spent the Sunday as an invalid, my strength being overtaxed; but next day I rose in the enjoyment of health and vigour. Then we made our way to Luz. The church of the Templars built there is half fortress and half sanctuary. You enter through a machicolated gateway, into a church, the gloomiest I ever saw. Through a little door, the Cagots, a proverbial race weak both in body and mind, used to enter for worship.

Near to Luz is St. Sauveur, a narrow valley, richly wooded, with a tiny village jammed in among the rocks. At the time of our visit, the Emperor Napoleon and the Empress Eugenie were staying there. The house they occupied was small and plain; nothing distinguished it but the two sentinels at the door. All was silent and solitary, and nobody seemed to notice the royal residence, besides ourselves. In the afternoon, we saw their Majesties returning from a drive in open carriages with outriders. Napoleon sat on the box, Eugenie was chatting with her lady attendants. On alighting she remained at the door of the house, playing with her walking stick, and receiving a letter-bag. The Emperor came out, lighted a cigar, smoked and then walked on to inspect some men at work on a new road.

We made an excursion to Gavarnie—a shady defile with precipitous rocks, overhanging woods, and a river foaming and roaring four hundred feet below. Beyond is the Cirque, a basin-shaped valley of semicircular rocks, with steps and stages, whilst a drapery of water fringes them all round. We ascended the Pic de Bergons, tarried a day at BagnÈres de Bigorre, a central spot for tourists, with the usual appurtenances of such places. We proceeded to BagnÈres de Luchon, by a romantic drive, commanding a view of the Maladetta with its snows and glaciers.

In the course of our rambles in the Pyrenees we were struck with Eastern customs. An unmuzzled ox went round a heap of corn. Sheep were not driven but led, and wine was kept in leathern bottles.