Pastorates

I settled at Banbury in the summer of 1853. In 1858 I went to Cavendish Street Chapel, Manchester. In June 1869 I accejJted the pastorate which I have since occupied in London. Banhury is the centre of an agricultural county; Manchester is the very heart of the manufacturing districts; London is a world in itself, and the city of London in particular is a world within a world. These settlements have afforded me an opportunity of observing every aspect of pastoral life. I know the little country home, I know the busy mercantile environment, I know the urgency and stress of the most absorbing city life. Under all possible conditions I have seen the working of Congregationalism, and having done so I have no hesitation in saying that two distinctly ojjposite pictures of English Xonconformity miht be furnished, each of which would be true, but neither of which would be complete.

During my residence at Banbury — that is during a period of five years — I had seven invitations to change my sphere of service. I could have gone thrice to London, to Coventry, to Leamington, to Manchester. The last invitation was the most unexpected and most surprising. My ambition had never gone beyond the little town of Banbury. My surroundings were all I could desire; my friends were warm-hearted and faithful. My recognition by other denominations left nothing to wish for. Banbury was, of course, what may be called a day of small things. My salary was one hundred and thirty pounds a year, my house rent amounted to six shillings a week, and my clothes did not require many wardrobes for their accommodation. When I asked my draper-deacon how much he would want for a black suit, he said if I did not object to a certain quality of cloth he could let me have a suit at a very moderate price; whereupon I answered: “Now remaineth black, shiny, and cheap; but the greatest of these is cheap.” I got the suit, — I wore it, — I remember it, To one aspect of my Banbury life I ought to allude, as it was made much of at the time. On every summer Sunday afternoon I preached in a large field locally known as the Bear Garden. I had grievously offended the lower orders of the town by a perhaps too vigorous description of the kind of people who, by word and deed, supported the practice of Sunday excursions. I cannot at this remote period recollect the epithets which I applied to the excursionists, but certainly they aroused the most remarkable and most uncontrollable excitement. Most assuredly I would not apply such epithets to such people in like circumstances to-day. But I did apply them, and I had to suffer punishment for the application. I was not to be allowed to preach any more in the Bear Garden. At all risks and costs I must be put down. Accordingly the local roughs (supported to some extent, I am afraid, by men of a much higher class) gathered in great numbers to howl and scream and hiss. There was no doubt about the temper of the opposition. The hatred was deep and intense. Sooty portraits of myself were strongly drawn on large calico sheets and waved in my face as I preached to the excited crowd. Then great shouts arose.

In a moment more the roughest of the gang rushed at the cart, which I used as a platform, and threatened to roll me down the hill. Every time I passed down the street I was liahle to ])e hooted by little knots of people. On one occasion the crowd came to my house on a Sunday afternoon and shook the sooty calico against my window, and threatened to pull down the house. I was alarmed for others, but never for myself. I continued to preach in the field as if nothing had happened, and my Christian friends stood closely round me in all the uproar and tumult. In the end the Christian cause triumphed to such an extent that some who had assailed me with extreme vindictiveness were induced to hear me preach in quieter circumstances. I had reason to believe that not a few of the men were really honest, and that they were expressing a heartfelt indignation against a man who, as they supposed, had so grossly misunderstood them. To this day I never go to Banbury without having a look at the historical Bear Garden. On that very ground I hope some day to see a memorial Christian institution. Who knows to Avliat high issues the wrath of man may be directed by an over-ruling Providence!

All the Banbury clays were hai)py so far as they could be made happy by friendshij) and love and sympathy. The little old-fashioned chapel, hidden up an obscure lane, without schoolroom or vestry, became in due time too small for us; then with great enthusiasm we set about to provide more adequate accommodation. I refer to this comparatively trifling object because it will come up again in another relation. After about four years’ residence in Banbury, I could boast of a chapel, a vestry, and a commodious school-room. What could any man desire more? To have all this at twenty-six years of age seemed to me all that heart could possibly wish for. A very happy life is the life of a country pastor. Its enjoyment is not to be measured by its wealth, but by its freedom, its fresh air, its leisure for study, and its remoteness from those exciting circumstances which constitute the peculiarity of life in the manufacturing districts.

It would be wholly unjust to think of a Christian minister as a man whose time and energy are consumed in the preparation of so many sermons in a week. A minister is something more than a sermon-maker. Consider — taking in a long-continued pastorate- — what ministers do in Bible classes, in the consolation of the afflicted, in the reconciliation of opponents, in the direction of inquirers, in advising parents as to the training and destination of children; consider how in manyrural districts the pastor and his wife are the chief friends of the poor, cheering their loneliness, writing their letters to children far away, speaking comfortably to them when all other human voices are silent; add to this the negative service which they render in deterring unscrupulous men from oppressions which they would gladly perpetrate in secret, in encouraging burdened men to bear a testimony instead of being cowed into suffering silence, in showing contemptuous men how much can be borne by conviction, and how possible it is to be poor, to be snubbed, to be branded with social inferiority, and yet meekly and lovingly to serve the holy cause of Christ; — put all these considerations together, and magnify them by the affectionate appreciation of the people who understand their value best, and then say whether money is not well expended when it is devoted to the partial maintenance and comfort of men whose one ambition is to do good and whose reward is in the love of humble souls.

I have spoken of the pastor and his wife, and in speaking of the wife I recall the most delightful reminiscences. Without being a public slave, the wife can minister abundantly to the profit of the Church through the domestic comfort of the pastor; and I hold it to be the very cruelty of injustice — doubly infamous because done to a woman — which says that the pastor’s wife does nothing for the Church because she does not appear in some public or official capacity. Does she do nothing who almost doubles the little salary by cunning uses of economy? Is she to be reckoned of no account who makes the hearthstone warm in the study at the expense of a little coldness in other chambers? Is she to be treated with indifference who persuades her husband that she is so well that she does not need a holiday, in order that she may not touch the shillings that would lengthen his, when, God knows, a breath of mountain air would make her young again? I accept Mr. Lecky’s picture of life in a rural parsonage, and apply it, with obvious modifications, to many a Nonconformist minister’s household. Speaking of the clergyman’s wife Mr. Lecky says: “In visiting the sick, relieving the poor, instructing the young, and discharging a thousand delicate offices for which a woman’s tact is especially needed, his wife finds a sphere of labour which is at once intensely active and intensely feminine; and her example is not less beneficial than her ministrations.”’

At Banhury my labour was varied. For example, I preached in my own pulpit on Sunday morning, lectured in the Corn Exchange on Sunday afternoon, or preached in the open fields during the summer Sundays; in the evening again in my own pulpit, and during the week I had seldom fewer than three public services, one of them being in the open air in some neglected part of the town. I look back with, peculiar interest on a small institution which I established under the name of a Secular Class. In conducting this class I endeavoured to teach the scholars something of grammar and Latin and history. One of the scholars became a solicitor in the north of England, another became secretary to a millionaire, and another was promoted to a considerable position in the metropolitan police force. During my residence at Banbury I published (1) “A Soldier’s Retrospect,” (2) “Six Chapters on Secularism,” (3) “A Working Church,” (4) “Helps to Truth-Seekers.”

Whilst I was at Banbury I was offered a place in the office of a London lawyer, and I was promised by a distinguished city man my first brief on qualifying for the bar. This offer I declined. I was further offered the sum of fifteen hundred a year and my free Sundays if I would represent a certain literary and commercial enterprise. This offer I also declined. It was in my heart to be a preacher and to be a writer of religious books, and beyond this vocation I had literally no ambition.^ I can truly say in the fear of God that I have never been tempted by any pecuniary offers of opportunities. When I went to Banbury I never asked what the salary was. When I went to Manchester I did not make a single inquiry about money. After being fifty years in the ministry, I can truly say that I am not fifty shillings the richer for any preaching outside my own pulpit.

Banbury! The name lingers in my grateful memory not only for what it was in itself, but also because it is typical of country ministerial life. To live and die in a rural pastorate is no discredit to any man, whatever his faculties may be. The true pastor is a member of every family in his charge. He is no childless man, — no houseless wanderer. He is respected, loved, trusted. He knows the family in its most sacred relations, and ministers to it not only in the pulpit, but at the fireside and at the side of the grave. New ministers may be popular, but old pastors are appreciated for their very venerableness. I had to obey a voice that called me from my rural work, but the quiet domesticity of the obscure service has a charm which I never wish to throw off.

To my great surprise I was invited to preach a Sunday or two in Cavendish Street Chapel, Manchester. I never was more coldly received in my life. I was the guest of a millionaire provision-merchant, who never uttered a word of sympathy or appreciation regarding my services. One of the deacons — Mr. Kershaw, M.P. — bluntly inquired how long I had been at Banbury, and there our intercourse ceased. Having preached two Sundays, I was told that the Rev. Samuel Martin, of Westminster, was unable to preach on the following Sunday, as he had promised to do, and I was asked whether in the circumstances I would remain and preach the Sunday-school anniversary sermons. I had been extremely annoyed by the want of recognition on the part of the deacons, and I am afraid I showed some sign of resentment, certainly I displayed no particular anxiety to continue a work which had been so completely ignored. Whether any better feeling supervened I do not at this moment remember, suffice it to say that I remained a third Sunday amongst the Congregational millionaires of Cavendish Street Chapel. It was a cold atmosphere. Every man seemed to be looking at me over the top of a money-bag. Some of the people seemed to be paralysed or stupefied. Altogether the experience was unique and memorable. What was my surprise on the last Monday morning of my visit to hear the millionaire provision-merchant say, “You must have noticed that your ministry has produced a deep impression upon our people.” I replied, in effect, that I had observed nothing of the kind, and that I was utterly dissatisfied with the reception that had been accorded me, and inclined never to set my foot in their gothic sepulchre again. In the course of a few weeks, however, an inquiry was addressed to me whether I could receive a deputation from Cavendish Street Chapel, Manchester. By this time my Banbury salary had risen to a hundred and fifty pounds a year, and my rent had advanced to about eight shillings a week. The deputation came in due course, bringing several memorials and appeals from the Sunday School, and from the young men and others. I was told that the people were ready to receive me, and that the sphere was one of unsurpassed importance. Dr. McAll had been pastor of the church, and he was succeeded by Dr. Halley, and noAV I was desired to follow in that remarkable succession. Having heard the statement of the Manchester men, I made this reply:

“I thank you for waiting upon me
and presenting this cordial invitation
to become your minister, but my
present circumstances utterly forbid
my acceptance of your terms. Within
the last year or so my people have
built me a chapel, and in doing so
they have incurred a debt of something like seven hundred pounds.
Whilst that debt remains, I remain.
If I had found it here I could have
left it, but in a certain sense the
debt was incurred on my account,
and until that debt is removed 1
must stand by my people, who have
done so much for my comfort.”

The deputation thanked me for my reception and my answer, and then withdrew. I thought nothing more of the matter, but went to my work with a deeper devotion. Banbui*y was the dearer to me from the fact that I had been again invited to leave it. This was the seventh invitation I had declined. In about seventeen days a telegram came asking me whether I could receive another deputation from Cavendish Street Chapel, Manchester. I replied in the affirmative, and the deputation came. I was informed that the Manchester people were prepared to pay off the Banbury debt if I would consent to accept the invitation to Cavendish Street. I replied that I could not give an immediate answer, but I would lay the matter before my Banbury deacons and friends. My position was thus completely altered. There could be no longer any doubt on my part that the Manchester people, though so sullenly silent at first, were interested in my ministry. I called my Banbury friends together and made my statement. Their answer affected mc not a little:

A PEEACHER’S LIFE

“It will be the darkest day in our
life when you leave us, but we have no
doubt that God intends you should
remove to Manchester.”

They gave me a handsome clock, a beautiful solid silver tea-service, a handful of gold, and two massive silver ladles. Thus we parted, — my first pastoral love and I.

In Manchester I had great opportunities and great encouragements in all departments of my work. Cavendish Street Chapel was then probably the finest architectural edifice in English Congregationalism. It provided sitting accommodation for sixteen hundred and sixty-six. From the floor to the point of the roof the chapel was eighty feet high. Perfectly magnificent school buildings immediately adjoined it, the whole property hapving three costly frontages. There were probably not fewer than fourteen hundred children attending the Sunday School, whilst, in Lancashire fashion, institutions of all kinds abounded in connection with the Church. One deacon was a member of parliament, another was a knight, another was the senior surgeon of the city, and another had declined to stand as a parliamentary candidate for a borough which was at his disposal. Eight other deacons drove their carriages, or were otherwise men of substantial position. And I was only twenty-eight! I had never been in a gold mine before. “One thousand” was the unit of this new speech, and I had left behind me a humble salary of a hundred and fifty pounds a year!

I never knew what my salary at Manchester as the pastor of millionaires was to be, but when the first quarter became due I found that it was four hundred and twenty-five pounds per annum! Yet Cavendish Street was known as the carriage-road to heaven! No pastor of the church had received more than five hundred pounds, I question whether any had received so much. But if I could so preach as to let the sittings, my salary would go up in proportion. As a matter of fact, I was enabled, in the providence of God, to let the sittings and to surprise the deacons by the result. I was not indebted to the millionaires for one penny beyond their usual seat rents, so that no man how rich soever was burdened by my ministry.

During my residence at Manchester I wrote (1) “Hidden Springs,” (2) “Church Questions,” (3) “Ecce Deus,” and (4) “The Paraclete,” besides a considerable number of fugitive pamphlets and magazines. Here also I conducted (1) The Congregational Economist and (2) The Pulpit Analyst. At Manchester I founded Cavendish College, which afterwards became the Nottingham Congregational Institute. I served as a member of the Lancashire College committee, as chairman of the Lancashire Congregational Union, and as first chairman of the Manchester Congregational Board.

With regard to my increased salary I had no difficulty in disposing of the money. Though I have never had any family of my Own, I have never been without opportunity to serve the families of other people. During the latter part of my ministry in Banbury a great family trouble befell me. Whilst I was at home I was my father’s book-keeper, and I assisted him in making his estimates for the erection of all sorts of local buildings. My father was quite unable to do this for himself, though as a builder, both practical and theoretical, he was a man of the largest capacity. The calamity which befell me was, that through inability to manage his own book-keeping, and what may be called the literary side of his work, my father was unable to maintain his financial position. Though a man of unimpeachable honour and integrity, he was overborne by circumstances, and he succumbed to the inevitable. In these distressing circumstances I did what he himself would instantly have done if the case had been mine instead of his. I instructed local friends to get together all the accounts and to state the exact amount of his liabilities so far as it could be ascertained either by advertisement or otherwise. Then my life-task was set! I had to repay the thirty shillings paid on that memorable morning when I left the North to make my experiment in London. I had to repay, according to my ability, every penny that had been expended upon my education and outfit, and noAV I had to face this heaviest of all my responsibilities. I had a secret purpose in my heart which I never could have accomplished upon my small Banbury salary, but which I did accomplish to the full as soon as larger opportunities occurred. I paid off every penny ol’ the liabilities, and thus redeemed the name of a just and honourable man. During my last visit to my native town I conversed with two of the leading Nonconformist inlialntants, one of Avliom said, “Your father was a great man,” and the other said, “He was the most open-handed man I ever knew.” I make no boast of having done an act of justice, hut I do thank God for the opportunity of showing a filial and a grateful spirit. Other men, I suppose, have also their family troubles, to which all expression is forbidden; they will know how to sympathise with my struggles, my silence, and my resolution. I have had the greatest possible sorrow outside my own walls, but, thank God, inside those walls I have never had other experience than that of j)rofound rest and unutterable joy.

It never entered my mind that I could leave Manchester. What could any man desire more than some two thousand regular hearers, one of the finest buildings in Nonconformity, and one of the greatest cities in the country! To my unspeakable surprise, on October 22nd, 1867, I was invited by a deputation from the Poultry Chapel, London, to consider whether I could not come to the city, sell the Poultry Chapel, and with the proceeds put up a large building in which the Gospel might be preached. I was simply stunned. After making inquiries as to the London case, I returned to Manchester, and on March 11th, 18G8, I declined the invitation.

How I stood with my own deacons in Manchester will appear from the subjoined letter, signed by every one of the office without a single exception.

“Cavendish Vestry,
“Manchestkk, Nui: 7th, 1867.

“Dear Pastor,

“We have this evening taken into our earnest and prayerful considei ation the communication which you received from the Poultry Chapel, London.

“We desire to express our high appreciation of the truly honourable and straightforward manner in which you received the deputation, and the Christian candour and delicacy with which you replied to them, and to thank you for the early communication you made to us in reference to it.

We congratulate you most sincerely upon the honour implied, and could we see that your removal to London would be beneficial to the cause of Go.l we would, at whatever .sacrifice, bow with submission to the will of Providence. Considering, however, the position which you now occupy in the north of England, the great and daily increasing influence you exercise in the denomination, the great want which is now felt of those high qualities which you so pre-eminently pos.sess, looking also at the work you are now doing as Pastor of Cavendish Chapel, and the various institutions connected therewith, we cannot conceive of any sphere of labour in which you can render more true service to the cause of Chi ist.

“We believe you were guided hither by the hand of God. The success of your ministry is clear; and there is abundant proof that His presence has ever been with you.

“Looking, therefore, at the whole matter in its broadest aspect, we should consider your removal from Manchester as a calamity to the Church and to the denomination, and personally should regard it with profound regret.

“With the strongest assurance of our cordial and hearty support in the future, and expressing our sincere affection and esteem both for yourself and Mrs. Parker, we sincerely trust that you will continue to labour amongst us in this large and important district.

“Praying that the blessing of the Most High may rest upon you,

“We are,

“Dear Pastor,

“Yours Faithfully.”

I can never forget the great meeting of the Church and congregation which followed. Specially memorable was the thrilling speech of John Rylands, the millionaire. At the conclusion, a resolution in the sense of the foregoing letter was moved, seconded, and carried enthusiastically with one dissentient, who was loudly laughed at. The next day I received a letter from him in which he said his heart wished me to remain at Manchester, but he could not ask me to make the sacrifice involved in declining so remarkable an invitation to London.

This was most gratifying, and I regarded it as settling the matter. I felt that on the whole it was much better to sustain a sphere of extensive and undoubted usefulness than to undertake the great movement which was contemplated by the Church at Poultry Chapel; in the one case there was a certainty, and in the other there was risk. A ministry adapted to the North might not be adapted to the South; and the building of chapels is, in the best of circumstances, fraught with many perils. The Manchester people were perfectly unanimous, and the Manchester sphere was in every respect worthy of any minister’s whole strength. On the other hand, the case of the Poultry was by no means destitute of attraction. A great metropolitan chapel was proposed; the main work was to be preaching the Gospel. I should get rid of many duties which have ahvays been irksome to me, such as taking an interest in various societies, attending committee meetings upon subjects that never touch my solicitude, visiting seat-holders who require unreasonable attention, and many other duties and exercises which fall to the lot of every provincial minister. That invitation to the Poultry was declined on March 11th, 1868. On June 10th, 1868, I completed my tenth year of ministry in Cavendish Street Chapel, and on that occasion my friends presented me with seven hundred guineas, accompanied by an illuminated address in the following terms: —

“Cavendish Street Chapel, Manchester.

“The Rev. Joseph Parker, D.D., having this tenth day of June, 1868, completed the tenth year of his ministry in connection with the above Chapel, the Deacons, Members, and friends hereby express their high appreciation of his ministry, and their strong attachment to him, which has been greatly enhanced by the noble and Christian course adopted by him when invited to the pastorate of the Church assembling in the Poultry Chapel, London. Uninfluenced by the prospect of worldly gain, he declined their unanimous invitation, believing that the glory of God would be promoted by his remaining in Manchester. In consequence of such decision, a large meeting of the Church and congregation was held, when it was decided to make such arrangements as would give substantial proof of the gratitude felt by all for the great obligation under which they were thus laid.

“In addition to that arrangement, the hearts of many were constrained to a fuller expression of their Christian love, and with this testimonial would beg Dr. Parker’s acceptance of a purse containing seven hundred guineas.

“This gift is presented with the earnest prayer that the Divine blessing may continue to rest upon him and the work |in which he is engaged, and that both he and his wife, for whom they cherish the warmest Christian affection, may be long spared in their midst.”

In accepting this handsome present I made the follo^■ing remarks, which were much applauded: —

“Let us be quite clear as to the meaning of this gift. If any man has given a single penny to this testimonial under the impression that it is to be regarded as a detainer, or is in any way to buy my service or bribe me in relation to the future, I earnestly beg him to withdraw his contribution at once. Please to understand that I hold myself at perfect liberty to leave Manchester to-morrow if I see that it is the will of God that I should remove. On this distinct understanding alone can I touch the gift which you offer me.”

I repeated the assurance in order that there might be no mistake about it. After the chair had been vacated, one of the deacons, who had kindly spent much time and trouble in the matter, specially congratulated me upon the above remarks, and said, “I for one shall take care to remember them.” Thus the chapter ended, and we all set ourselves hopefully and energetically to work.

Another and most important chapter now opens. On March 11th, 1868, I declined the invitation to the Poultry; on June 25th, 1869, that invitation was renewed. A formal call was presented, signed, in the name and on behalf of the congregation, by every one of the deacons. In that call the following words occur: —

“The basis being the avowed intention of the Church to embrace the earliest appropriate opportunity to sell the property and erect a noble structure on the best available site that can be obtained.”

The Church at the Poultry had been zealously endeavouring for fifteen months to realise their heart’s desire to find a man to lead the important movement which they had in view; no stone had been left unturned; honestly, as in the sight of God, the friends at the Poultry had, as they assured me, sought a pastor and leader. They returned to me with the inquiry: “Does this failure on our part mean anything? For fifteen months Ave have been working without any result. We feel that Ave must once more put ourselves into your hands; we believe that God intends you to come to London.” Immediately upon receiving an intimation that the invitation would be renewed, I named it to one of the Cavendish deacons. On hearing it, he said: “If I were in your circumstances I know what I should do. But don’t appeal to your congregation for another opinion; keep the thing quietly to yourself, and when you have come to a decision announce it.” Acting upon this advice, I kept the matter from almost every one in Manchester as long as I possibly could. How much I underwent during the time of almost silent suspense can never be known. I longed to take my friends into my confidence as I did in the first instance (and as I now believe would have been Avise), but I was kept back by the earnest counsel of my first adviser — a man of the highest standing in Manchester. When the matter pressed for immediate decision I was determined that there should be no difficulty as to the testimonial referred to, so I went to all the principal givers, and their advice as to my course was, to my surprise, singularly unanimous: one and all, they either counselled me to accept the invitation or otherAAise gave me to understand that they themselves would do SO were they in my position. Since my settlement in London they have generously cheered me in many ways, and shown their unabated interest in my personal and ministerial welfare. Their visits, their letters, their messages, their gifts have been peculiarly prized by me in my new circumstances as illustrative of their confidence and approbation. Never can the kindness of my Manchester friends be forgotten; its memory will abide with me through all labour and all sorrow. May the God of heaven bless them, and give them all the good desires of their heart!