Mad Folks Mainly

This may be the time to bring together a few incidents which could not have been easily inserted chronologically in the foregoing pages.

When I was assistant to Dr. Campbell at the Tabernacle, Moorfields, he requested me to call upon an invalid member of the Church, and to explain that he himself was unable to visit her. I was, as may be recollected, twenty-two years of age, very thin, with a large head thickly covered with the darkest brown hair, and wearing a collar as high as Mr. Gladstone’s, and a white neckerchief that lacked nothing of amplitude or display; put upon all this a tall silk hat and you will see what a figure I cut in the early ‘fifties. At this time of life, and in this garb

and fashion, I went upon my pastoral journey.

I found that the invalid’s room was at the very top of a five-storied house, and that the last part of the stairs was more like a ladder than anything else. Imagine the tall silk hat, the thin white face, the long dark hair, and neckerchief enough for a whole denomination! When I ascended to this perilous height I found the invalid alone, and quietly, no doubt nervously, sat down by her bedside. Presently she turned her head in my direction, looked at me steadfastly in a most expressive way, and then calmly said, “I have a strong desire to kill somebody.” Imagine the rest! Imagine the face, the hair, the neckerchief, the tall silk hat suddenly disappearing down the ladder without so much as one word being said on my part! May I here make the mild remark that in my judgment when invalids have a “strong desire to kill somebody” they ought not to be allowed to receive their visitors in solitude? There are times when a third party is essential to security and comfort.

In my early ministry in Manchester a total stranger wrote to me that his wife was very far from well, and that a pastoral visit from me would be a great comfort to her. I remember how the floods of rain came down at Manchester on the day on which I received this letter. Every omnibus was full, no cab was available, yet I felt that in a case of such urgency I ought to face the situation and see the poor creature without delay. From Old TrafFord to Plymouth Grove was a considerable walk at any time; on that morning of storm and flood it seemed to be a walk without end. At length, after an exhausting struggle with the elements, I reached the address which had been indicated. The door was opened in reply to my knocking and bellringing by a quiet-looking woman whom I mistook for an upper servant. On inquiring if the lady could be seen at that early hour, I was told that the lady herself had just opened the door to me, and she inquired the object of my call. Having been cautioned by her husband not to mention his name, I could merely say that having heard she was not well I thought I would like to express my sympathy with her. The subdued-looking creature invited me into her front room. I had hardly sat down when she said: “I have seen the Lord” (at this point my flesh began to creep as did the flesh of old Eliphaz); “yes, I saw Him in Oldham Street Chapel. There was a sword thrust through His side.” At this moment, being, as before, quite alone, I sprang towards the door, and, having opened it, I am afraid I said something to the effect that I would call again on another occasion. Is it right for people to invite ministers to visit invalids in such circumstances? Is it right to withhold every hint of the mental condition of the person you are requested to visit? I will do myself the justice to say that no young man ever went more quickly out of any room than I went out of the two chambers in which my peculiar clients were found.

In some respects the most painful case which ever came under my pastoral attention was that of a brother minister. He is dead and forgotten now, so there can be no fear of exciting his apprehension. He wrote me a long letter giving me a full outline of his personal career, and sent me testimonials and proofs bearing upon the success of his ministry. I never read words of penitence more poignant than were to be found in his pitiable, but most pathetic, statements. He adopted the wise policy of leading me gradually forward step by step until he had established himself, so far as the letter went, in my confidence, and having done this he told me in one thrilling sentence that he was an undetected criminal,

A I’REACHER’S LIFE

and then he asked me what advice I had to give him in such painful circumstances. I was never so nonplussed. The undetected crime had been committed many years before. The criminal had lived a long and penitent life, and had on every hand drawn to himself the appreciation and the confidence of those amongst whom he laboured. The man had voluntarily put himself into my hands. I had no information but what he had himself supplied. Could I take the weapon which the poor fellow had put into my hand and thrust it through his heart? If the intelligence had come to me in any other way the case would have been wholly different; then my course would have been absolutely clear. Had the crime been only a year old the case would have stood on a very different footing. But years had intervened between the crime and its confession, and those years had been marked by every evidence of humiliation, penitence, and strenuous endeavour after restoration. Every man must treat such circumstances upon his own responsibility. For my own part I took the side of mercy, and allowed the poor felloAV to pass away without using against him the tremendous instrument which he had voluntarily put into my hands. I do not know how far I was right or wrong. “Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.”

Curious reports are sometimes circulated about public men. I cannot recollect an instance in which any report about myself was true. An unknown friend wrote to me from a northern county stating that he had heard about me the following particulars:

“You were invited to open a cJiapel in this county. You replied that your fee would be a hundred pounds. Your terms were accepted. When the day came it was a day of awful rain and tempest, so that very few persons were able to get to the chapel. The office-bearers pointed out the circumstances to you and asked whether you could reduce your fee; but you replied that a bargain was a bargain, and that you must insist upon the fulfilment of the contract. How much of this is true?”

I took a pencil and wrote upon the letter itself as follows: “Up and down, through and through, in and out, a lie.” It is in this way that reports become circulated about public men, and I am sorry to say that in this way the reputations of public men are momentarily discredited. My unknown friend took the proper course in the circumstances; he came directly to myself, and from myself he got a direct and final reply.

I never read anonymous letters, yet on one occasion I received an anonymous letter which I was obliged to read. How impossible! Yet it was not only possible, but actual. The letter read to this effect:

“I am a member of the Church of England. One of my eight sons brought me a newspaper in which there was an article upon yourself and your ministiy. I read that article on Saturday night, and it was so violent in its abuse that I determined to go to your church yesterday to see the man about whom such things could be stated. Accordingly I went, and I thank God for what I heard from your lips both in the prayer and in the sermon, and I beg to enclose you an expression of my gratitude and appreciation. The article was so calumnious, and written in so bitter a spirit, that I must in this way express a totally different view of yourself and your work. I enclose a Bank of England note value one hundred pounds.”

It will thus be seen that I was obliged to read even an anonymous letter. Such an enclosure must have an explanation worthy of being read. In such circunistances I am willing to suspend my rule in the matter of anonymous letters. I announced the whole of the circumstance from the pulpit of the City Temple on the following Sunday, and said to my people, “Will you be kind enough to pray that the man who wrote the article may keep on writing, and that the man who read the article may keep on responding!” I often think it is a great pity for people to waste their postage stamps on me. If they have anything to say and will give their proper names and addresses, they may rely upon my serious attention; but if not, their letters will, without perusal, be thrown into the fire, even though they bear such names as “A Well Wisher,” “An Ardent Admirer,” “A Seat-holder.” When a man is ashamed of the name which his mother gave him, his letters are not likely to do me any good. Anonymity is not modesty, though it may easily be either impudence or cowardice.

In my early days I preached at a little Cambridgeshire village, and not many months ago I received a letter from the pastor who is there to-day, from which I make the following extract:

“I visited an ancient couple — each about eighty-five — in this village. The old man used to lead the choir at the time referred to, and played a ‘cello, or a clarionet, or a violin, — all in turn. Our conversation turned upon you. The old lady asked,

“‘Well, did you hear Mr. Parker
yesterday? ’

“‘My old man was saying he
wondered how long it was since Mr.
Parker came here, — I do mean, when
we hoped we should get him for our
minister.” Why,” I says, “I can tell
you that. It’s forty-six year.” And
I’ll tell you how I know. [This to
me.] Our Prank was six months
old, and we taught him to “hold up
for Parker.” When our Naomi come
home from chapel the first time Mr,
Parker preached she said: “Oh, mother,
we have had summat this morning;
I never heard such a sermon in my
life! “Well, I didn’t pay much
attention to that, but when my
husband came in he said the same
thing. All the folks was a-talking
next week, and saying:” You vote
for Parker.” “I shall hold up both
hands for Parker.” And amongst
us Ave teached Frankey; and when
any])ody said to him, “Hold up
for Parker,” he held his right hand
up as high as he could and stuck
up his little finger. Then we’d say,
“Both hands for Parker,” and up
went his other hand. And ’ (she
continued) ‘I believe we should a
had him if it hadn’t a bin for old
Mowbray.” Why,’ I asked, ‘What
did he do?” Why, he went about
among the people, shaking his
old head, and saying, “You may
depend ‘pon it there’s summat
wrong; a clever chap like that
wouldn’t come to a place like this
if there wasn’t summat as we don’t
know.” ‘”

I give this extract as an illustration of a really graphic power on the part of the old lady. She represents a peasantry that is by no means destitute of shrewdness. It will be a great mistake on the jjart of any young man to suppose that he can put off a peasant congregation with his poorest compositions.

The people will soon tell the minister whether his gospel is from heaven or whether it is some petty invention of his own. Paxton Hood told me of an incident which illustrates this very graphically. A young man had been reading an elaborate essay to a rustic congregation. The essay was ethical rather than evangelical. The heads of the peasants dropped upon their breasts in sign of sleepy indifference. There was not a word in the essay adapted to such a congregation. At the close of the effort the old ploughman who gave out the hymns sprang up and said:” Hymn 546- My friends, let us sing a bit o’ Gaspel, for we’ve heerd none:

‘”I sing my Saviour’s wondrous death,

He conquered when He fell; “‘Tis finished,” said His dying breath,

And shook the gates of hell.’

Now, friends, let us sing a bit o’ Gaspel.” This old man held no collegiate appointment, but he had a fine instinct as to the spirit and purpose of true preaching.

At the City Temple I have many arrangements for ringing bells, shutting doors, and calling assistants. One of these arrangements might have got me into trouble. I had a

plan of opening and locking my own vestry door without rising from my seat near the window. I had merely to pull a rope, which raised a bolt, and, behold, the thing was done! Pull the rope, and up comes the lolt; drop the rope, and down goes the bolt and locks the door 1 How exceedingly neat and how easily worked! One Sunday night Miss Glyn, a once popular actress, called ujDon me (as she frequently did) after the service. During our conversation some one knocked at the vestry door, and then attempted to turn the handle and enter, and lo! the door was locked. This was simply astounding! Somehow, in a way absolutely inexplicable to me, the machinery had gone wrong, and this was the result! If any charge had been brought against me, what explanation could I have given? Not a tittle! What defence? None. What jury could have acquitted me? None. What body of strangers could have accepted my denial under such peculiar circumstances r None. I was in the vestry. Miss Glyn was in the vestry, the door was locked, and a friend had to wait until it was opened! Escape was impossible, — doom was inevitable! At least it would have been so but for the fact that my wife was also with us in the vestry, and that it was she who pulled out the bolt and admitted the wondering visitor! But if she had not been there, how then? The incident is worth relating in the hope that it may throw light on many a misjudged case. Always lean to the side of hope and give the utmost benefit of judgment to every person who is accused or suspected. I should have been just as innocent if a third party had not been present, but circumstances would have been against me. Appearances would have had their weight! Some people always believe evil because they want to believe it, and because their own hearts are bad. Personally we may l)e able to despise such contemptible assailants, but there may be circumstances which give colour to their calumny. Better acquit twenty guilty suspects than condemn one honest man. “Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.”