In the year 1874 I lost my old friend, Thomas Binney. His pre-eminent position amongst Dissenters was attested by copious notices in newspapers, and, by the scene at his funeral. That position arose from several causes—his character, abilities, pulpit popularity, and personal appearance, manifold and far-reaching sympathies, and a genial nature, characteristic of the best Englishmen. His influence in the Congregational denomination throughout the country was aided by the central position of the Weigh-House when London was different from what it is now; [230] by strangers from the provinces who flocked there as to a centre; by visits to various parts of the country at Nonconformist festivals; and by the transfer of so many members of his Church to other congregations throughout the land. Nor do I forget how his name came to be known, beyond that of any other of our ministers, throughout the British colonies, owing to his being the father and founder of the Colonial Missionary Society, and the guide and counsellor of many youths going to seek their fortune in America or the South Seas. Still further was his popularity owing to a visit he paid some years ago to Australia. Also, when I was in Canada, I often heard of a less public visit paid to that country at an earlier period.

Amongst the many subjects in which my friend felt interested, was that of improvement in conducting Nonconformist worship; he gave his views respecting it in an appendix to a work on Liturgies, by the Rev. E. H. Baird of New York. I refer to this subject particularly, because to a considerable extent I sympathised with him; not, however, in consequence of his arguments, but from previous convictions, which, during late years, have become stronger than ever. The authority for excluding all liturgical worship from our places of assembly, neither he nor I could ever understand. I see nothing in Scripture which ties a Christian down to this perverse one-sidedness. On the contrary, both methods are sanctioned in the Old and New Testaments. My experience since retiring from the pastorate has strongly confirmed my previous impressions. When leading public worship, as I did for so many years, my utterances of devotion were spontaneous, and I am sure imperfect; but what was obvious enough before, though sometimes overlooked, came home to my feelings when listening to words in public devotion, often unadapted to inspire or guide supplication and praise. Further, extempore words, though free to the speaker, are, to all intents and purposes, a form to the hearers; and if a form in extempore speech, when thoroughly suitable, be proper, why is not a form in written language? Since I have become deaf, and often cannot catch a brother’s supplications, a form which I can read must obviously be preferable to one which I am unable to understand. Extempore public devotion, under many circumstances is of priceless value; but under some circumstances so is liturgical service. Attempts amongst Dissenters in the latter direction, I am aware, have in some instances failed, owing largely to prejudices handed down through past generations; until those prejudices melt away—some day perhaps they will—an alteration, such as to others like myself, seems quite hopeless. [233]

In the years 1874 and 1875, I took part in commemoration of two world-known Nonconformist celebrations.

The first was the unveiling of Bunyan’s statue at Bedford. I went down with the Dean of Westminster, Lady Augusta Stanley, and Dr. Allon, who all did wisely and well the parts allotted them. Her Ladyship gracefully unveiled the bronze figure of the wonderful dreamer; and her husband uttered immediately afterwards the following effective words:—“The Mayor has called upon me to say a few words, and I shall obey him. The Mayor has done his work, the Duke of Bedford has done his,” (he gave the statue,) “and now I ask you to do yours, in commemorating John Bunyan. Every one who has not read the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ if there be any such person, read it without delay; those who have read it a hundred times, read it for the hundred and first time. Follow out in your lives the lessons which the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ teaches; and then you will all of you be even better monuments of John Bunyan, than the magnificent statue which the Duke of Bedford has given you.”

The Dean and Dr. Allon delivered elaborate addresses at the Corn Exchange, and it was allotted to me, to propose, after a public dinner, “The Memory of John Bunyan.” The thought struck me, that his genius was equally imaginative and realistic. People rise from reading his dream, with impressions of character, as lively as those derived from perusing Shakespeare or Scott. They see in his delineations just such folks as walked the streets of Bedford, and plodded through Midland country lanes, two hundred years ago. I heard gentlemen at table say they thought Bunyan took his conceptions of scenery from neighbouring places. But I said I did not think so. He had never beheld hills like “the Delectable Mountain,” nor a vale or plain like that of “Beulah.” In fact, he took his scenery from Scripture, and gave it reality by allusions such as we employ, when touching on objects of every-day life. He was “Christian,” “Evangelist,” “Greatheart,” all in one—a pilgrim to the Heavenly City and a preacher of the Gospel.

I may here add that two years afterwards brazen doors were given to Bunyan meeting by the Duke, and were opened with due solemnities, the Mayor and Corporation attending on the occasion.

The unveiling of Baxter’s statue at Kidderminster occurred in July 1875, when Dr. Stanley represented the Church of England at the request of the town authorities; and, at the same time, they requested me to speak on behalf of Nonconformity. It was a gala day; shops were shut, flags were hung out, people wore holiday clothes, and a procession of the Corporation, the Bishop, and the speakers marched to the spot where the statue was placed.

Soon after the Kidderminster celebration I visited a worthy friend of mine at Bridgenorth, the Rev. Daniel Evans. Whilst there I received a letter from Dr. Stanley saying that he had heard me mention a design I had of visiting Madeley. He said he found in his interleaved Bible, opposite Dan. iii. 19–27, the words “Fletcher of Madeley,” and asked if I could discover at Madeley a key to this enigma, as it seemed to him. Mr. Evans and I had visited Madeley together, and in conversation recalled to mind an anecdote in Benson’s “Life of Fletcher.” A man threatened to burn his wife if she went to hear the vicar again. She went notwithstanding, and the preacher chose for his sermon one of the lessons for the day, instead of the text he had thought of previously. The lesson was in Daniel on the deliverance of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the fiery furnace. The man followed his wife at a distance to find out what it was in Fletcher’s preaching that so attracted her. When the poor woman returned she found her husband on his knees praying by the side of the fire he had prepared for her martyrdom. I wrote to the Dean and told him the story, as recalled to my mind by my friend Daniel Evans. The Dean sent back his kind regards and thanks to Daniel, “who had discovered his dream and the interpretation thereof.”

I have brought the Bunyan and Baxter celebrations together because of their similarity; and the Madeley incident because it became connected with the last of them.

In 1874, the year between the two celebrations, I resigned my charge at Kensington, when a meeting was held to present a testimonial, to which Archdeacon Sinclair contributed, and the Dean of Westminster, with other Churchmen, besides Nonconformist friends in large numbers, uttered loving words I can never forget.

The following report appeared in The Times:—

“Dean Stanley and the Nonconformists.

“On Thursday evening, April 15th, 1874, the Rev. J. Stoughton, D.D., an eminent Dissenting minister at Kensington, retired from the pastorate of his congregation there, after a connection with them extending over the long period of thirty-three years, during which he has had the reputation, while upholding the principles of Nonconformity, of maintaining the most kindly relations with the neighbouring clergy, and is understood to have enjoyed the respect of the whole community of Churchmen as well as Dissenters. The ceremony of last evening was held in Kensington Chapel, a handsome building in Allen Street, Kensington, where Dr. Stoughton has long ministered, and his congregation attended in great numbers on the occasion. Mr. Samuel Morley, M.P., acted as chairman, and there were present, among others, the Dean of Westminster, Sir Charles Reed, Sir Thomas Chambers, M.P., Mr. James Spicer, the Revs. W. H. Fremantle, M.A., J. Angus, D.D., W. M. Punshon, D.D., Donald Fraser, D.D.; F. J. Jobson, D.D., Henry Allon, D.D., Samuel Martin, and J. C. Harrison, the last-named of whom, on being called to address the meeting, took occasion to say that their reverend friend, Dr. Stoughton, though acquainted with every form of religious thought, had ever held fast to the Gospel; that, as a minister of religion, it had been quite a passion with him to be thoroughly fair and impartial; and that he had all along panted for union among all religious denominations. Later in the ceremony, the Dean of Westminster, having been called upon to speak, presented himself to the meeting, and was much cheered. He said there might perhaps be several reasons why he had been asked to address them. He could not plead the same long acquaintance as the previous speakers had claimed with their venerable pastor; but still, during the last few years of his acquaintance with him, he could truly say that there had been no occasion of joy or sorrow in his life on which he had not received some kind sympathy from him. There was another reason for his addressing the meeting. As a Churchman, and as a minister of the Church of England, he felt called on to express his gratitude towards one, not exactly of his communion, who had never once let fall from his lips a word of bitterness against the community to which the Dean belonged, and through whose heart he verily believed the destruction of Westminster Abbey would send a pang. He only trusted that when the twenty-first century arrived, and some future pastor of the chapel should write the history of Queen Victoria’s reign, he would treat his communion with the same courtesy and appreciation as their present pastor had treated, alike, divergent ministers and pastors of the Church of the Commonwealth. He felt he had come there that evening not so much as a personal friend or as a minister of the Established Church, but rather as her representative of common friends through the writings of Dr. Stoughton and himself. He came there to express obligations which dear old friends of them both, who lived two hundred years ago, would have wished to express on an occasion such as that—Chillingworth, Jeremy Taylor, Sir Matthew Hale, and many more whom his friend had brought to one common platform. They had had before his time histories of the Puritans, where they heard of nothing but Puritans; they had also histories of the Church of England; but the work of Dr. Stoughton was the first that had brought those famous men together. There was, he knew, a charge brought against his friend and himself that they were not sufficiently good haters. However that might be, he was sure that Dr. Stoughton hated, as he did, party spirit, the want of candour, all untruthfulness, and insolent vulgarity, whether in Church or Nonconformity. All these the Dean hated with a detestation so complete that, if it were possible, he would be willing to curse them thirteen times a year. He could not part from that assembly or from that occasion without saying one word on the peculiar aspect of the farewell on which the previous speakers had so touchingly dwelt. Surely it was a transition of life which all of them might envy as they approached the term of their allotted existence, to be able to secure for themselves a margin of life and of comparative quiet before the great end came at last. There was a custom in old monasteries—he trusted it would not be altogether inappropriate to mention it at a meeting of Congregationalists—that when any of the ancient monks had served a term of thirty or forty years—he forgot which—they were then to be relieved altogether from their arduous labours; they were to be called by a gentle name which meant ‘playfellow’; and one condition of their existence was that nothing that was disagreeable should ever be named in their company. Such to their friend Dr. Stoughton was the tranquil period through which he was now passing; and although they might still anticipate for him long years of active usefulness, whether by pen or by voice, there must be a delightful sense on his part in looking forward, having accomplished one period of his existence, to a more undisturbed time in which he might look back on what had been, and forward to what was to be to him and all alike. The Dean’s speech, of which this is necessarily a summary, was repeatedly cheered during its delivery. A valedictory address, expressed in flattering terms, and reviewing the long connection between their pastor and the congregation, was afterwards presented to Dr. Stoughton by Mr. R. Freeman, on behalf of the Church and congregation, accompanied by the spontaneous gift of a purse containing £3000.”

Besides others who were present on the occasion, as noticed in The Times, let me mention my excellent friend and neighbour the Rev. J. Philip Gell, formerly Vicar of St. John’s, Notting Hill. He referred to the well-knit efforts of pastor and people, which had constituted the strength of the Church at Kensington, and remarked that it was little known how the force of public opinion acts and reacts on the life of a large permanent congregation. “The love which was thrilling that night was the Church’s strength, and so long as that lived and flowed on the part of the people, and was sustained by the pastor’s wisdom, so long would the Church live and prosper.”

Dr. Morley Punshon, President of the Wesleyan Connexion, travelled from Leeds, where he had preached that morning. He trusted that the Church would be Divinely guided in choosing a successor. It was encouraging to witness such a presentation as that just made, the like of which many present had never seen before.

The years I spent at Kensington were very happy. I can say from experience that the life of a Congregational minister, in connection with a large and liberal Church—when full play is given to the social affections, elevated and purified by culture as well as religion—is an enviable lot, and calls for the devout gratitude of any one who has enjoyed it.

The friendships formed with many of my flock, a very few of whom are still living, have been amongst the choicest privileges afforded me by Divine Providence. Loving memories of them linger in my heart, amidst sweeping obliterations of names and faces incident to an age of fourscore and more, and those who survive me will, I trust, accept an acknowledgment of obligations deeply felt as these lines are written. I took special interest in some, now goodly matrons, who were school girls at Kensington in my time, and whose happy fortunes I have sympathetically followed through life. If they read these lines, they will understand the fatherly feeling with which they are written. Their parents, now at rest in the eternal home, were no small joy to me, and as they passed away, one after another, they left blanks not to be filled up in this world.

Two deceased friends I may here notice. At an early period in my Kensington pastorate, a gentleman called upon me in the vestry with a transfer to our Church from a communion he had joined in Manchester. At the time he was a rising engineer, and afterwards took part in the construction of railways over the Alps and in South America. He was a botanist, and came to possess a large garden and conservatory where he lived. He received the honour of knighthood, and as Sir James Brunlees became well known. He took a deep interest in our Congregational affairs, and after his change of residence from Addison Road, Kensington, still continued, with his family, to worship with us on Sundays. He was an intimate friend of John Bright, both of them being anglers; and I was entertained by stories of their success, as brethren of the rod. I often spent a few restful days at Argyle Lodge, where he and his kind-hearted lady made me as much at home as I felt at my own fireside. She died suddenly, after my retirement, when she was visiting a friend. I was immediately summoned to meet and comfort the mourning family. Another friend—George Rawson, of Bristol, the gifted hymn-writer—also died after my retirement, leaving memories of intelligence, humour, and affection, which I shall fondly cherish as long as I live. His beloved wife, daughter of the Rev. John Clayton, one of my predecessors in the Kensington pastorate, died some years before at Bristol. The touching memory of her funeral, and of the company then present, passes before me as I write these lines.

When I wrote this chapter, I asked my dear daughter Georgie to give me some results of her own experience whilst visiting the poor. She returned the following notes:—

“Instances of unselfishness are sometimes very touching. I knew a Christian woman who suffered for years with weak sight, and had several operations on both eyes, so that she could only distinguish outlines of different objects. She heard of two little children, distant relations of her husband, being left orphans, and as she had no children of her own, she suggested that they should adopt these little girls, and lead them in early years to a knowledge of Christ. The husband was so touched at his wife’s readiness, with failing sight, to take this burden upon herself that, though a common labourer, he was willing to incur the extra expense, and ever since that home has been one of the brightest I know.

“A poor woman expressed a strong desire that some one would speak to her sailor boy, who was wild and unmanageable. An opportunity occurred not long after, but the lad manifested great disgust at being talked to, and afterwards whenever I called he left the room. When about to start upon a voyage, I went to bid him ‘Good-bye.’ On leaving I said, ‘The time may come when you will feel the need of a true friend; remember that Christ is ready to receive you, for He has said, “Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.” These words may fill your heart with gladness some day.’ I did not hear anything of him for a long time, but one evening I received a note saying he was lying ill in a hospital, and would I go and see him. I complied, and found he had never forgotten the Saviour’s words which I had quoted. He resisted, he said, the voice calling him to forsake his sins and cleave to Christ till he could bear it no longer. At last he yielded, and the change produced in him was remarkable. During a long illness he manifested patience, unlike his old self, and the lad’s cheerfulness and readiness to help his mother were very beautiful. He died in her arms, singing ‘Safe in the arms of Jesus.’

“Many of the poor have seen days of prosperity, and have forgotten God; but, when adversity comes, like frightened children, they rush to the Father’s arms. One man, possessing at one time over £20,000, with a hundred men under him, lost all. Then, when reduced to the greatest distress, he listened to the Divine voice.

“I remember that on Lord Chichester’s library table there always stood a large card, with the words:

‘Lord Jesus, make Thyself to me
A living, bright reality.’

“And such words unite the rich and the poor. One of the poorest women I ever met, had a strong realisation of Christ’s constant presence; and it so beautified her life, that all who entered her humble home felt such a prayer had been answered in her experience. I never talk to her but my mind is carried back to the Stanmer library.”

At the end of this chapter, which closes my Kensington ministry, I venture to speak of my methods of preaching.The main object of my ministrations was the illustration of God’s Holy Word. Archbishop Whately preferred “to set his watch by the sun”; and, therefore, tested the results of his own thinking, and other teachers, by a comparison of them with the decisions of Scripture. When Scripture was plain, the subject on which it pronounced a distinct judgment was regarded as fixed for ever. That method it was my desire habitually to pursue. I made it my aim, not only to interpret the meaning of a particular verse taken by itself, but to catch, and fix in my mind, the drift of Apostolic thought in particular instances. It has been said, irreverently, that some expositors, when persecuted in one verse, flee to another, and the connection between the several parts of a paragraph is overlooked and lost.

It was my desire to look at long trains of thought in the writings of St. Paul as a sacred landscape, in which here and there a verse occurs as a lofty hill, which serves as a commanding point for surveying a landscape of thought round about. A single verse is often a key to an entire paragraph.

It was my habit to go over now and then a large extent of Scripture—doctrinal, biographical, historical. “Stars of the East, or Prophets and Apostles,” formed a series of personal sketches in the Old and New Testaments, afterwards published by the Religious Tract Society. Another course, called “Lights of the World,” were illustrations of character, drawn from records of Christian experience and action, such as “William Tyndale, or Labour and Patience”; “Richard Hooker, or a Soul in Love with God’s Law and Holy Order”; and “Robert Leighton, or the Peacefulness of Faith.”

Besides such methods I did not scruple to lay under contribution to the pulpit, condensed summaries of Puritan works, such as Baxter’s “Now or Never”; also I may mention that a course of Sermons on “Pilgrim’s Progress” excited much interest, and three or four of these I repeated at the close of my pastorate.

As to the real value of a sermon, form must never be confounded with substance. It is vain to vote the mantle into majesty. A royal robe depends for effect on the richness of the material, not on the adjustment of its folds. Toller’s “Sermons” [248] so eulogised by Robert Hall, depend for their impressiveness, not on a careful selection of words—in this respect they are open to criticism—but upon the intrinsic majesty of such thoughts as they express.

There is an obvious contrast between French and English preachers in this respect. They are more attentive to form than we are. I have witnessed effects in Parisian, and in Italian churches as well, produced by modes of delivery, such as I never saw in our own country. Young preachers in England might make their sermons more effective than they are, by greater attention paid to a mode of delivery.

Let me add a word or two as to preparation from week to week. At the beginning of a week I chose subjects for the following Sunday; and then gathered up from day to day, in reading and talking, arguments and illustrations suggested by books, scenery and conversation. One’s mind may be brought to such a state as to gather together what is valuable and useful from time to time, as the magnet attracts to itself grains of precious metal over which it sweeps. And, let it not be forgotten, we may sometimes build up a sermon by adding one thought to another; and at other times plant a sermon through an idea which takes root and grows into a goodly tree. My method then was, on a Saturday evening, to review and revise what I had prepared, to criticise its substance and arrangement, and alter it in matter and form, so that on Sunday morning it could be poured out to the people in freshness and force.

On week-night services, I sometimes took up Church history, or archÆological illustrations of the Bible. Bible-classes, of course, were held; but in the latter part of my Kensington pastorate, I was greatly helped in this, as in other respects by my worthy friend, the Rev. J. Alden Davies, who was for a few years my assistant minister. [250]