Good Men and True
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ARNOLD TOYNBEE. GOOD MEN AND TRUE BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKERS IN THE FIELDS OF BENEFICENCE AND BENEVOLENCE BY ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D. AUTHOR OF “ GOLDEN LIVES,” “MASTER MISSIONARIES," “LIFE OF THOREAU,'' ETC.,’ ETC. SECOND EDITION. T. FISHER UNWIN TATERNOSTER SQUARE 1890 “ Men resemble the gods in nothing so much as in doing good to their fellow-creature—man.”—Cicero. 112053 3 1223 00618 4320 MY LITTLE FRIENDS AND CORRESPONDENTS, TOM, CARL, AND ANNE, GRANDCHILDREN OF THOMAS GUTHRIE, D.D., IN THE HOPE THAT THEY MAY NOT BE WHOLLY DISAPPOINTED WITH THE LITTLE SKETCH I HAVE, IN THIS VOLUME, TRIED TO MAKE OF THEIR REVERED GRANDFATHER, PARTLY FROM THE MEMOIR OF THEIR FATHER AND UNCLE, AND PARTLY FROM IMPRESSIONS OF MY OWN. Oh, young in years, in heart, and hope. May ye of lives like his be led. And find new courage, strength, and scope, In thoughts of him each step ye tread: And draw the line op goodness down Through long descent, to be your crown— A crown the greener that its roots are laid Deep in the past in fields your forbears made. CONTENTS. I PAGE NORMAN MACLEOD, D.D., preacljcr aim Unitor. 13 11. EDWARD DENISON, <£ast=<£nD CCIorLcr aim Social Reformer. 105 hi. ARNOLD TOYNBEE, Christian economist anti Klotiiers’ jFjctenl). 139 ,iv. JOHN CONINGTON, £*)djoIar aim Christian Socialist. 175 v. CHARLES KINGSLEY, Christian Pastor ann /Bofcefist. 197 IO CONTENTS. PAGE VI. JAMES HANNINGTON, SSiggtotiarp 'Bishop attn Crabeiier. 239 VII. THE STANLEYS—FATHER AND SON : Ecclesiastics ann IReformcrgs. 271 VIII. THOMAS GUTHRIE, D.D., Preacher ann jFounDer of 3Rag;gen Schools in Eninlntrgh- 311 IX. SIR TITUS SALT, Manufacturer anD Philanthropist. 375 x. SAMUEL PLIMSOLL, bailor’s SnPocate ann iFrienn of the Poor. 401 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE ARNOLD TOYNBEE . • • Frontispiece NORMAN MACLEOD, D.D. • I 14 JOHN CONINGTON • • . 176 BISHOP HANNINGTON • • . 240 dean Stanley’s father • • . 272 CO On Cl dean Stanley’s mother • • DEAN STANLEY • • . 3DI SAMUEL PLIMSOLL • • . 4°2 NORMAN MACLEOD, D.D. NORMAN' MACLEOD. NORMAN MACLEOD, D.D. the autumn of 1867, a somewhat severe blow, though in nowise an uncommon one, fell on the writer of these lines, which naturally called forth from his more intimate friends their ready ex¬ pressions of sympathy. But what was his grateful surprise to find, amongst the mournful correspondence that kept dropping in day after day, a letter from one whom he had looked on as being too much engaged and preoccupied to be warrantably troubled even with an intimation of such loss as had fallen on him and his. Tidings, however, had been indirectly carried thither, and the over-busy man at once wrote a letter to cheer and strengthen. And such a full-hearted human letter it i6 A FRIENDL Y LETTER. was—so unaffected in its manly courage, yet so frank in its acknowledgments of common weakness, and above all so faithful in its aim ! Surely no one will blame the writer, now that Norman Macleod has gone from among us, for setting it down here, to show how truly con¬ siderate and sympathetic he was. For the writer’s connection with him before that date had been an incidental and professional one, rather than aught else; and, though he had already had good cause to love and admire Dr. Macleod, he had no claim whatever to such friendly consideration as this letter bespeaks :— “ Thursday, Sept. 2, 1867. “My dear Friend,—In the light of a glorious summer, with seven children in health and strength, I am yet able, in some degree very truly, to sympathize with you, who, amidst the turmoil and fret of London, have been burying your dear one. What I know and feel regarding such sorrows I have, from my heart, told in ‘Wee Davie.’ My flesh trembles as I think of them ! I cannot, I dare not, say that I understand all that you and your poor wife must feel—far less can I do so if, what is quite possible, much suffering has made you accept it in calmness 1 Well, my brother, you must think of her not as she was when carrying her cross, but as she is, radiant with glory, and of all she will be to you for ever. The bird whose trembling notes were, in spite A SHEAF OF LETTERS. 17 of their sadness, such sweet music in your house, is singing elsewhere without sadness, and in your future home waiting for you. These are the things which make our Christ dear to us! He was a child. Knew a parent’s heart from loving and being beloved; and was angry at those who, from ignorance of that love which will meet the wants of the weakest, would hinder the parents from bringing their children to Him, that He might clasp them to His heart and bless them ! And I don’t believe these little ones gave a cry, but were soothed into peace in His bosom, as in that of a mother. Your child is better with Him than with you. Yes—yes, as I think of losing one,—I feel I am ‘ weak as is a breaking wave.’ I can only pray that He who took her may comfort you and yours as His own children ; and I can only say that you have my tenderest sympathies.” What wonder that I should after this have been anxious that all should see my friend in the light in which he appeared to me; and that I myself should find access to a yet closer intimacy with him. I may not always have succeeded in the former; I hope I did to some extent succeed in the latter—with this result, that I now hold in my hand a sheaf of letters, which are prized by me as few other things are prized. There they are with their odd devices of signature, so suggestive of the many-moodedness of the man—the kindly humour 2 i8 DR. MACLEOD'S VERSATILITY. shining through all. For he would dash off the cleverest and most expressive caricatures, with a careless turn of the pen; using this playful expedient to get rid of writing the formal subscription, just as though he had come under an obligation to do all that in him lay to defeat and mortify the race of autograph-collectors for all time to come. These letters make one feel how little of him¬ self, after all, Dr. Macleod managed to convey into his books, owing to his other onerous duties. And, if his books bear in on us the conviction that he would have made an admirable soldier or sailor—would, in point of fact, have been in any sphere an influential leader of men—these letters attest that he would, with due train¬ ing, have become a famous artist—in the line of Leech and Teniel, if not something more. A line or two and we have a portrait, which all who have ever seen the originals, could at once recognize—and these so innocent of all bitter feeling, so uniformly kindly; a scratch or two and we have a landscape, or a bit of sea with a boat rolling in it, and our divine himself, broad-hatted, at the helm. Good as Dr. Donald Macleod’s memoir of his brother is, a complete idea of Dr. Norman Macleod’s fineness and healthy versatile breadth of nature can hardly be gained till his letters are collected and care¬ fully edited. Such is our conviction, and we believe it will be shared by most of those who had the honour and the pleasure of being admitted to his intimacy. It would A HUMOROUS PICTURE. 19 be presumptuous in me remotely to forestall any such possibility as this; but one other short extract by way of sample may be allowed me, to give a taste of Dr. Macleod’s epistolary humour. Thus he writes from Cuilchenna, Ouich, in Argyllshire, under date June 10, 1868, shortly after his return from India:— “ I am utterly unfit to write, as I get a violent nervous headache even in writing a few notes—if the subject makes me think or bothers me.” And yet, with the ingenuity of friendliness, he goes on thus to write a racy letter :— “The weather has been horrible—constant rain with hail and wind, which could not be equalled even in the Free Kirk or Irish Assembly! The storm has quite blown my brains out! Glencoe looks exactly like a huge pie covered with white paste. The hills are drunk with water minus the whisky. A bladder full of Indian air would revolutionize Lochaber, and invigorate the bare legs of its freezing inhabitants. I cannot believe that the sun which is here so diddled by Scotch mists is the same which within the last twenty-four hours has made the whole missionary body in India sweat, and given a coup to some fool who defied its beams ! If the Lochaber sun was in the East, Parsee worship would not exist another season. Even Milton’s devil would not curse his beams—for he has none to curse ! No man can understand the genius of whisky or the 20 HUMOROUS BANTER. glory of toddy till he resides in Lochaber, nor would he then wonder at their being the household gods—the * Dei minores ’ of every truly pious home. I believe I am ill because I dare not serve these true gods of the land ! ” The next is a bit of humorous banter in reply to a criticism, pointing out a mixed metaphor in his “ Boat- song,” which appeared some years ago in a Christmas number of Good Words:— “‘The boat cannot love a widow!’ No; I would suggest the following notes to the song :— “‘In calms around his darling Old Ocean flings his arms.’ “ Note— It must not be supposed that an inanimate thing like the Ocean loves ! Then he has no arms to fling ! This was water.