SOME FAMOUS PEOPLE ABROAD.

Gladstone. Dr. Brown. Dean Stanley. Shaftesbury, etc.

In a former chapter of this volume I gave my reminiscences of some celebrities in Great Britain sixty years ago. In the present chapter I group together several distinguished persons whom I met during subsequent visits. The first time I ever saw Mr. Gladstone was in August, 1857, when Lord Kinnaird kindly took me into the House of Commons, and pointed out to me from a side gallery the most prominent celebrities. A tall, finely formed man, in a clear resonant voice, addressed the House for a few moments. “That is Gladstone,” whispered Lord Kinnaird. Mr. Gladstone had already won fame as a great financier in the rôle of Chancellor of the Exchequer; but was at this time out of office, occupying an independent position. He was already beginning to break loose from Toryism, and ere long became the most brilliant and powerful leader that the British Liberal party has ever followed. As an orator he is ranked next to Bright; as a party manager, he was always a match for Disraeli, and as a statesman he has won the foremost place in British annals during the last half century.

In June, 1872, I happened to be in London at the time of the great excitement over the famous “Alabama difficulty.” The Court of Arbitration was sitting at Geneva; things were not going smoothly, and there was danger of a rupture with the United States. At an anniversary meeting at Exeter Hall I had made a speech in which I spoke of the cordial feeling of my countrymen, and their desire to avoid a conflict with the mother country. It was suggested to me that I should call on Mr. Gladstone, who was then Premier; and my friend, Dr. Newman Hall, who had always had a warm personal attachment to Gladstone, accompanied me. The Premier then occupied a stately mansion in Carlton House Terrace, next to the Duke of York’s column. We found him in his private sitting room with a cup of coffee before him and a morning newspaper in his hand. Fifteen years had made a great change in his appearance. He had become stouter and broader shouldered. His thin hair was turned gray, and his large eyes and magnificent brow reminded me of Daniel Webster. He received me cordially, and we spent half an hour in conversation about the difficulties that seemed to be obstructing an amicable settlement of the Alabama controversy. Mr. Gladstone appeared to be puzzled about a recent belligerent speech delivered by Mr. Charles Sumner in our Senate chamber, and I was glad to give him a hint or two in regard to some of our eloquent Senator’s idiosyncrasies. What impressed me most in Gladstone’s free, earnest talk was its solemn and thoroughly Christian tone he was longing for peace on principle. On my telling him playfully that the time which belonged to the British Empire was too precious for further talk, he said: “Come and breakfast with me to-morrow morning, and we will finish our conversation.” The next morning Dr. Hall and myself presented ourselves at ten o’clock in Mr. Gladstone’s parlor. We had a very pleasant chat with Mrs. Gladstone (a tall, slender lady, whose only claim to beauty was her benevolent countenance), about the schemes of charity in which she was deeply interested. At the breakfast table opposite to us were the venerable Dean Ramsey, of Edinburgh, and Professor Talbot, of Oxford University. The Premier indulged in some jocose remarks which encouraged me to tell him stories about our Southern negroes, in whom he seemed to be much interested. He laughed over the story of the eloquent colored brother who, when asked how he came to preach so well, said: “Well, Boss, I takes de text fust; I splains it; den I spounds it, and den I puts in de rousements.” Gladstone was quite delighted with this, and said it was about the best description of real parliamentary eloquence. He told us that one secret of his own marvelous health was his talent for sound, unbroken sleep. “I lock all my public cares outside my chamber door,” said he, “and nothing ever disturbs my slumbers.” While we were at breakfast a package of dispatches was brought in and laid beside Mr. Gladstone’s plate. He left them quietly alone until the meal was over and then, taking them to a corner of the parlor, perused them intently. I saw that his face was lighted up with a pleasant smile. Beckoning me to come to him he said, with much enthusiasm: “Doctor, here is good news from the arbitrators at Geneva. The worst is over. I do not pretend to know the purposes of Providence, but I am sure that no earthly power can now prevent an honorable peace between your country and mine.” It has always been a matter of thankfulness that I should have been with the greatest of living Englishmen when his warm heart was relieved of the apprehension of the danger of a conflict with America. After entering our names in the autograph book on the parlor table, we withdrew, and at the door we met the Duke of Argyll, a member of the Premier’s Cabinet, who was calling on official business.

My next meeting with Gladstone was a very brief one, in the summer of 1885. He had lately resigned his third Premiership; his health was badly impaired, his splendid voice was apparently ruined by an attack of bronchitis, and the world supposed that his public career was ended. I called at his house in Whitehall Terrace, and the servant informed me at the door that the physicians had forbidden Mr. Gladstone to see any one. I handed in my card, and said to the servant: “I leave for America to-morrow, and only called to say good-bye to Mr. Gladstone.” He overheard my voice (not one of the feeblest), and, coming out into the hall, greeted me most warmly, but in a voice almost inaudible from hoarseness. I told him: “Do not attempt to speak, Mr. Gladstone; the future of the British Empire depends upon your throat.” He hoarsely whispered, “No, no, my friend, it does not,” and with a very hearty handshake we parted. My prediction came true. Within a year the marvelous old man had recovered his voice, recovered his popularity, resumed the Liberal leadership, and for the fourth time was Prime Minister of Great Britain.

I supposed that I should never see the veteran statesman again, but four years afterward, in July, 1889, he kindly invited me to come and see him, and to bring my wife. It was the week before the celebration of his golden wedding. He was occupying, temporarily, a house near Buckingham Palace. Mrs. Gladstone, the good angel of his long life and happy home, received us warmly, and, bringing out a lot of photographs of her children and grandchildren, gave us a family talk. When her husband came in, I was startled to observe how much thinner he had become and how loosely his clothes hung upon him. But as soon as he began to talk, the old fire flamed up, and he discoursed eloquently about Irish Home-Rule, the divorce question, (one of his hobbies), and the dangers that threatened America from plutocracy and laxity of wedlock, and the facilities of divorce that sap the sanctities of domestic life. It was during that conversation that Gladstone tittered the sentence that I have often had occasion to quote. He said: “Amid all the pressure of public cares and duties, I thank God for the Sabbath with its rest for the body and the soul.” One reason for his wonderful longevity was that he had never robbed his brain of the benefits of God’s appointed day of rest. After our delightful talk was ended, the Grand Old Man went off in pursuit of an imperial photograph, which he kindly signed with his autograph, and gave to my wife, and it now graces the walls of the room in which I am writing.

Many men have been great in some direction: William Ewart Gladstone was great in nearly all directions. Born in the same year with our Lincoln, he was a great muscular man and horseman; a great orator, a great political strategist, a great scholar, a great writer, great statesman and a great Christian. The crowning glory of his character was a stalwart faith in God’s Word, and in the cross of Jesus Christ. He honored his Lord, and his Lord honored him. Wordsworth drew a truthful picture of Gladstone when he portrayed

“The man who lifted high
Conspicuous object in a nation’s eye,
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won;
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
And while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause.”

Who has not wept over the brilliant and beloved Dr. John Brown’s unrivalled story, “Rab and His Friends,” and been charmed with his picture of “Pet Marjorie”? What student of style will deny that his “Monograph” of his father is the finest specimen of condensed and vivid biography in our language? When his “Spare Hours” appeared in America I published an article in the “Independent” entitled, “The Last of the John Browns,” several copies of which had been forwarded to him by his friends in this country. On my arrival in Edinburgh, July, 1862, he called on me at the Waverly Hotel and invited me to breakfast with him. He had the fair Saxon features of Scotland, with a smile like a Summer morning. Not tall in stature, his head was somewhat bald, and he bore a striking resemblance to our ex-President, Van Buren. He showed me in his house some choice literary treasures; among them a little Greek Testament, given to his great-grandfather, the famous John Brown, of Haddington, the eminent commentator. Its history was curious: Brown of, Haddington, was a poor shepherd boy, and once he walked twenty miles through the night to St. Andrews to get a copy of the Greek Testament. The book-seller at first laughed at him and said: “Boy, if you can read a verse in this book, you may have it.” Forthwith the lad read the verse off glibly, and was permitted to carry off the Testament in triumph. You may well suppose that the little volume is a sacred heirloom in the Brown family, which for four generations has been famous. Of course, the author of “Rab and His Friends” had several pictures of the illustrious dog that figured in his beautiful story, and I noticed a pet spaniel lying on the sofa in the drawing room. A day or two after, Dr. Brown called on me, and kindly took me on a drive with him through Edinburgh; and it was pleasant to see how the people on the sidewalk had cheery salutes for the author of “Rab” as he rode by. We went up to Calton Hill and made a call on Sir George Harvey, the famous artist, whom we found in his studio, with brush in hand, and working on an Highland landscape. Sir George was a hearty old fellow, and the two friends had a merry “crack” together. When I asked Harvey if he had seen any of our best American paintings, he replied “No, I have not; the best American productions I have ever seen have been some of your missionaries. I met some of them; they were noble characters.” On our return from the drive Dr. Brown gave me an elegant edition of “Rab,” with Harvey’s portrait of the immortal dog, whose body was thickset like a little bull, and who had “fought his way to absolute supremacy, like Julius Cæsar or the Duke of Wellington.”

When in Edinburgh ten years afterwards, as a delegate to the General Assemblies, I was so constantly occupied that I was able to see but little of my genial friend, Dr. Brown. I sent him a copy of the little book, “The Empty Crib,” which had been recently published, and received from him the following characteristic reply:

25 RUTLAND STREET, EDINBURGH, May 25, 1872.

My Dear Dr. Cuyler

Very many thanks for your kind note, and the little book. It will be my own fault if I am not the better for reading it. I have seen nothing lovelier or more touching than the pictures of those twin heads “like unto the angels”; even there Georgie looks nearer the better world than his brother. There is something perilous about his eyes with their wistful beauty. With him “it is far better” now, and may it be meet for Theodore to be long with you here. I hoped to leave with you a book of my father’s on the same subject, entitled, “Comfortable Words,” but it is out of print. If I can get a copy, I will send it you. There are some letters of Bengel’s which, if you do not know, you will enjoy.

I send you a note of introduction to John Ruskin, and I hope to
hear you to-morrow in Mr. Candlish’s church.

With much regret and best thanks, yours very truly,

JOHN BROWN

P.S. I was in Glen-Garry the other week, and quite felt that look
of nakedness, and as if it just came from the Maker’s hand; it was
very impressive

During the closing years of the Doctor’s life he was often shadowed by fits of deep melancholy. One day he was walking with a lady, who was also subject to depression of spirits, and he said to her: “Tell me why I am like a Jew?” She could not answer and he replied: “Because I am sad-you-see” Tears and mirth dwelt very closely together in his keen, fervid, sensitive spirit. It is remarkable that one who devoted himself so assiduously to his exacting profession should have been able to master such an immense amount of miscellaneous reading, and to have won such a splendid name in literature. It is the attribute of true genius that it can do great things easily, and can accomplish its feats in an incredibly short time. He affirms that the immortal story of “Rab” was written in a few hours! The precious relics of my friend that I now possess are portraits of his father and of Dr. Chalmers, and of Hugh Miller, which he presented to me, and which now adorn my study walls.

While I have always dissented from some of his theological views and utterances, I have always had an intense admiration for Dean Stanley, in whose character was blended the gentleness of a sweet girl with occasional display of the courage of a lion. Froude once said to me: “I wish that Stanley was a little better hater.” My reply was: “It is not in Stanley to hate anybody but the devil.” My acquaintance with the Dean of Westminster dates from the summer of 1872. The Rev. Samuel Minton, a very broad Church of England clergyman, was in the habit of inviting ministers of the Established church and non-conformists to meet at lunch parties with a view of bringing them to a better understanding. One day I was invited by Mr. Minton to attend one of these lunch parties, and I found that day at his table, Dr. Donald Frazer, Dr. Newman Hall, Dr. Joseph Parker, Dean Stanley and Dr. Howard Wilkinson, afterwards Bishop of Truro. Stanley felt perfectly at home among these “dissenters” and asked me to give the company some account of a remarkable discourse, which, he was told, Bishop McIlvaine, of Ohio, had recently delivered in my Lafayette Presbyterian Church, Brooklyn, on “Christian Unity.” In the discourse, Bishop McIlvaine had said: “The only difference between the Presbyterian denomination, and Episcopal denomination, is their difference as to the orders of the ministry.” The Dean was delighted with my account, and said: “Just imagine the Bishop of London preaching such a sermon in Newman Hall’s or Spurgeon’s pulpit; it would rock the old dome of St. Paul’s.” In all of his intercourse with his dissenting brethren the Dean never put on any airs of patronage, for though a loyal Episcopalian, he recognized their equally divine ordination as ministers of Jesus Christ.

A few days afterwards I went up to get a look at Holly Lodge, the residence of Lord Macaulay, in a side street just off Campden Hill. I met the Dean just coming out of the gate. He had been attending a garden party given by Lord Airlie, who then occupied the lodge. It was a pleasant coincidence to meet the most brilliant ecclesiastical historian at the door of the most brilliant civil historian of England. The Dean stopped and chatted about Macaulay, of whom he was very fond, and then said: “Just beyond is Holland House.” We went a few paces and got a glimpse of the famous mansion in which Lord Holland had entertained the celebrities of America and Europe. One of the best hours I ever spent with Stanley was at his own table in the Deanery. He was the most delightful of hosts. Lady Augusta Stanley, daughter of the Earl of Elgin, had been a favorite Maid of Honor to the Queen, and the Dean had accompanied the Prince of Wales on his tour to the Orient. The Queen quite frequently slipped away from the palace for a quiet chat at the Deanery with this pair whom she so loved. A marble bust of Victoria, by her daughter, the Princess Louise, stood in the parlor, a gift of the Queen. If the Dean was very broad in his theology, his cultured wife was as decidedly evangelical in hers and her religious influence was very tonic in all respects. After lunch that day the Dean very kindly took me into the famous Jerusalem chamber and showed me where the Westminster Assembly had sat for six years to give birth to our Presbyterian Confession of Faith and Catechism. I was surprised at the small size of the room that had held seventy or eighty commissioners.

As I was very desirous of hearing the Dean preach in the Abbey, he sent me a very kind invitation to come on the next Sabbath to the Deanery before the service, and on account of my deafness Lady Augusta would take me into a seat close to his pulpit. Accordingly she stowed me in a small box-pew, which was close against the pulpit, and within arms’ length of the Dean. His sermon was a beautiful essay on Solomon and great men, and in the course of it he said: “Such was the greatness of our Lord Jesus Christ.” I felt so pained by what he did not say that I ventured to write him a most frank and loving note, in which I expressed my deep regret that when he referred to the “greatness” of our Saviour he had so entirely ignored what was infinitely His most sublime work, that of our human redemption by His atoning death on Calvary. The dear Dean, instead of taking offense, accepted the frank letter in the same spirit in which it was written. A day or two after he sent me a characteristic note, whose peculiar hieroglyphics, after much labor, I was able to decipher; for it has been often said that the only reason why he was never made a bishop was that no clergyman in his diocese would ever have been able to read his letters.

THE DEANERY OF WESTMINSTER,

July 22, 1872

Dear Doctor –­Pray accept my sincere thanks for your very kind note. I quite appreciate your candor in mentioning what you thought a defect in my sermon. It arose from a fixed conviction which I have long formed, that the only chance there is of my sermons doing any good is by taking one topic at a time. The effect and the nature of the death of Jesus Christ, I quite agree with you in thinking to be a most important part of the Christian doctrine, and Christian history. But as my sermon was on a different subject that of the right use of greatness I felt that I could not speak, even by way of allusion, to the other great doctrine on which I had often preached before.

I sincerely wish that I could come to America. Every
year that passes increases the number of my kind friends
in the New World, and my desire to see the United States.

Farewell; and may all the blessings of our State and
Church follow you westward

Yours faithfully,

A.P. STANLEY.

When Dean Stanley visited America in the autumn of 1878, I met him several times, and he was especially cordial, and all the more so because of my out-spoken letter. The first time I met him was at the meeting of ministers of New York to give him a reception, and hear him deliver a discourse on Dr. Robinson, the Oriental geographer. He recognized me in the audience, came forward to the front of the platform, beckoned me up, and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. I arranged to take him to Greenwood Cemetery on the morning before he sailed for home, and after breakfasting with him at Cyrus W. Field’s we started for the cemetery. Dr. Phillip Schaff and Dr. Henry M. Field met us at the ferry, and accompanied us. When we entered the elevated railroad car, Stanley exclaimed: “This is like the chariots on the walls of Babylon.” With his keen interest in history he inquired when we reached the lower part of the Bowery, near the junction of Chatham Square “Was it not near here that Nathan Hale, the martyr, was executed?” and he showed then a more accurate knowledge of our local history than one New Yorker in ten thousand can boast! That was probably the exact locality, and Dean Stanley had never been there before. Before entering the Greenwood Cemetery he requested me to drive him to the spot where my little child was buried, whose photograph in “The Empty Crib” I have referred to in a previous chapter. When we reached the burial lot he got out of the carriage, and in the driving wind, of a raw November morning, spent some time in examining the marble medallion of the child, and in talking with my wife most sweetly about him. I could have hugged the man on the spot. It was so like Stanley. I do not wonder that everybody loved him. We then drove to the tomb of Dr. Edward Robinson and the Dean said to us: “In all my travels in Palestine I carried Dr. Robinson’s volume, ‘Biblical Researches,’ with me on horseback or on my camel; it was my constant guide book.”

Three years afterward, on my arrival in London, from Palestine I learned that Stanley was dangerously ill. On the door of the Deanery a bulletin was posted: “The Dean is sinking.” That night the good, great man, died. On the 25th of July the august funeral service took place in Westminster Abbey. Outside the Abbey thousands of people were assembled, for the Dean was loved by all London. From a small gallery over the “Poets’ Corner” I looked down on the group, which contained Gladstone, Shaftesbury, Matthew Arnold, and scores of England’s mightiest and best. After the “Dead March,” began a long procession headed by Stanley’s lifelong friend, Archbishop Tait, of Canterbury, and the Prince of Wales (his pupil), and followed by Browning, Tyndall, and a long line of bishops, and poets and scholars moved slowly along under the lofty arches to the tomb in Henry VII.’s Chapel. A fresh wreath of flowers from the Queen was laid on the coffin. Many a tear was shed on that sad day beside the tomb in which the Church of England laid her most fearless and yet her best beloved son. I never have visited the Abbey since, without halting for a few moments beside the chapel in which the Dean and his beloved wife are slumbering. Greater than all his books or literary achievements was Arthur Penryn Stanley, the modest, true-hearted, unselfish, childlike, Christian man.

Soon after I had begun my pastorate in New York, I became a member of the Young Men’s Christian Association, which was one of the first that was organized in this country. Since that time I have delivered more than one hundred addresses, in behalf of this institution, in my own country and abroad. In June, 1857, the New York organization honored me with what was then a novelty in America a public breakfast, and commissioned me as a delegate to the original parent association in London. I there met that remarkable Christian merchant, Mr. George Williams, who was the founder of the Association, and who had got much of his first spiritual inspiration from reading the writings of our American, Charles G. Finney. He is now Sir George Williams, my much loved friend, and I do not hesitate to say that there is not another man living who has accomplished such a world-wide work for the glory of God and the welfare of young men. The President of that first organized London Association was the celebrated philanthropist, the Earl of Shaftesbury, a man whom I had long desired to meet. My acquaintance with him began in Exeter Hall, at a Sabbath service held to reach the non-church going classes. With one or two others we knelt together in a small side room to invoke a blessing on the service in the great hall, and he prayed most fervently. The Earl of Shaftesbury was not only the author of great reformatory legislation in Parliament, and the acknowledged leader of the Low Church Party in the Established Church. He was also a leader of city missions, ragged schools, shoe-black brigades, and other organizations to benefit the submerged classes in London. He once invited all the thieves in London to meet him privately in a certain hall, and there pleaded with them to abandon their wretched occupation, and promised to aid those who desired to reform. He was fond of telling the story of how, when his watch was stolen, the thieves themselves compelled the rascal to come and return it, because he had been the benefactor of the “long-fingered fraternity.” The last time that I saw the venerable philanthropist was just before his death (at the age of eighty-four years). He was presiding at a convention of the Young Men’s Christian Association in Exeter Hall. In my speech I said: “To-day I have seen Milton’s Mulberry Tree at Cambridge University, and the historic old tree is kept alive by being banked around with earth clear to its boughs; and so is all Christendom banking around our honored President to-night to keep him warm and hale, and strong, amid the frosts of advancing age,” The grand old man rewarded me with a bow and a gracious smile, and the audience responded with a shout of appreciation.