Chapter 82: Mr. Spurgeon's Home Life (Continued...)

Chapter 82.
Mr. Spurgeon's Home Life (continued)

Spurgeon not a Rich Man—Private Talks with Students—Festive Occasions—Anecdotes told by the Host—The Stockwell Orphanage—Dr. Cuyler's Reminiscences—Spurgeon and Gough—Westwood described.

Fully to understand what Mr. Spurgeon was in private life we should have to ask many settled pastors, as well as students, for what they have to say about him. Do not overlook the fact that one of the crosses of his life consisted in his continually being brought into contact with ministerial poverty in its most harrowing phases. Many of these brethren seemed to have contracted a notion that their distinguished friend was rich, whereas, in point of fact, when the agencies he had to maintain are taken due account of, Spurgeon was really one of the poorest men in the country. To myself it was ever a matter for wonder that he made the comparatively small general income of between twenty and thirty thousand pounds go as far as he did. At the same time it was a sorrow to him to be more fully aware of the extent and nature of ministerial poverty than any other pastor of the denomination. How much he actually gave away under this head will never be generally known.

Beyond this what shall be said about the advice given to single individuals in the study or the garden? Many a discouraged pastor has there opened his troubles and has gone away lighter-hearted. Or one about to leave the College and settle in the ministry would x x call upon the President, and before coming away would have some words spoken to him which would for ever afterwards live in the memory. One such in particular once related to me how he had fared. The great preacher led the way into the garden and, kneeling down in a summer-house, prayed for him with characteristic earnestness; and then, while his countenance assumed an expression of solicitude not to be described, he urged his young friend to remember that, as an instrument in God's hands, he would never get other people to be what he was not himself in his own life. Of course the private life of such a man had its comical side in regard to the numberless applications that were made to him by credulous or over-sanguine people, both sane and otherwise. On one occasion, at Helensburgh House, he gave me as extraordinary a collection of letters from this order of correspondents as any mortal ever set eyes on; but when I published some of the things contained in them he laughed at the ludicrous figure they made in print, but thought that one correspondent in particular would be "down" on him or on me. Some of the writers had gratuitous advice to offer. Some were, of course, prophets who made predictions more or less startling; but the chief want appeared to be hard cash, of which a preacher of Spurgeon's standing was supposed to have an unlimited supply. These would back up their pathetic appeals with Scriptural texts supposed to bear upon the subject, and which it was supposed could not be resisted. A man of genius would be in need of the money to bring out a most novel invention; and there was also a due proportion of the concoctions of professional begging-letter writers.

There are many persons living who could reveal some things worth knowing in connection with the private talks they have had with Mr. Spurgeon in his study. The fervour with which he endeavoured to stimulate such as he could influence to live up to the possibilities of the Christian life was as characteristic as the distress he felt when any seemed to fail, or actually to fall—to become moral wrecks. In this respect it was this great man's unhappiness to suffer many disappointments; but this was probably inevitable when we consider what human nature is. Out of so large a number as entered the Pastors' College it was to be expected that one here, and another there, would fall; the Church would have its cases of discipline, and occasionally, even among such as had been allotted places of leadership in the camp, would be found those who had proved themselves unworthy of confidence. I can bear witness to the depression of spirits which such cases caused the pastor. I have a vivid remembrance of a conversation I had with him one afternoon in the study at Clapham after one of his friends had disappointed his expectations. In tones never to be forgotten he spoke of the sorrow he felt when there was any falling away on the part of those in whom he had placed confidence. It was at such a time that even his features seemed to speak, and one could not but regret that the expression of the face could not be preserved by the pencil of an eminent painter. There is no great portrait of Spurgeon to go down to posterity. But what shall be said about the scene presented at Helensburgh House or Westwood on what may be called a fete day? I refer to the occasions on which the tutors and students of the Pastors' College would be entertained on the opening day of each session—about the beginning of August. It was a holiday in the best sense for all concerned—a high festival, when the flow of wit and humour at the hospitable board was not the least part of the entertainment. It was there also that the newly-elected freshmen first made their appearance, and when, marshalled on the lawn, these candidates for hard service in the Baptist ministry would be personally welcomed. Prayer would be offered and a short address given, and then, after a hasty luncheon, all would disperse over the grounds to follow such recreations as had attraction for them. Shall it be cricket or bowls, aiming at a target, or a quiet stretch on the greensward, while eyes and ears are charmed by the surroundings? You notice that the host takes his seat in a convenient situation, and that one by one, in continuous succession, the young men approach him for a brief interview. Whether student or pastor, if you have any case to state to the President, or any advice to ask, now is your opportunity, for later on in the afternoon he will smoke a cigar with the tutors and talk in a different way. Be careful not to occupy the Chief's attention too long, for there are more detectives looking after his interests than you might be disposed to believe. I well remember how a certain self-important neophyte was effectively rebuked when he exceeded the limit of moderation in his interview. A stout Tabernacle deacon had his eyes open, and, stepping up to the offender, said somewhat sternly in his ear, "Don't you take up too much of Mr. Spurgeon's time." At 1.30 George—the President's personal attendant, who to-day has charge of the commissariat department—will give forth the welcome sound of his great gong. We dine al fresco, and at the table there will be some post-prandial speeches, our host leading the way, and being followed by the tutors. If able to do so, Mrs. Spurgeon will make an appearance. After dinner all return to the grounds, and after tea there may be some more speaking. In former years this College festival might not always be held at Mr. Spurgeon's house; but as he was not content to defray the cost out of the subscribed funds, and found the expense was less at his own house, he latterly invited the students there oftener than anywhere else. On such an occasion as this, when Mr. Spurgeon was at ease, speaking to his friends, those present would possibly hear many anecdotes relating to his early days or later adventures. A few examples of the kind he was able to tell may be given here. At one time, when engaged in preaching up and down the country, he visited an important place having a prominent chapel, and put up at the house of one of the principal deacons. While walking down to the chapel in the evening in company with one of the deacon's sons, the preacher asked the young man the pointed question, "Do you love my Master?" To be talked with thus was something so new in the youth's experience that he stopped suddenly in the street, and said, "Mr. Spurgeon, I have walked down to this chapel with the ministers for several years, and not one of them ever asked me such a question before." That became a turning-point in the young man's life.

One of the characters he had encountered in his early days at Waterbeach was a stingy man, of whom he related this story:—"I was told of a man who was so mean and stingy that he never gave anything to anybody. But, I answered, 'He gave me something once. In my early days, when my salary was forty-five pounds a year, my hat had got shabby, and this man at one of our meetings asked me to speak with him. He put into my hand seven-and-sixpence, and said the Lord had bidden him to give it to me. At our next meeting he asked me to pray that he might be delivered from the sin of covetousness. "The Lord told me," he confessed, "to give you ten shillings, but I only gave you seven-and-sixpence." The man then yielded up the missing half-crown.'"

Another anecdote related to a Christian woman who died while sitting with the congregation in a village chapel while he was discoursing of the glories of the heavenly state. She seemed to take in with great avidity what was said about the eternal world, and then, after a more than usually sweet smile had passed over her features, she became motionless. "Friends, I think that our sister over there is dead!" said Mr. Spurgeon; and on this being found to be the case, the body was carried out. Impressed as the congregation must have been, the preacher was still more affected, and he declared that he should be able to recognise those eyes again in the unseen world.

Some old friends may possibly remember Mr. Spurgeon's characteristic anecdote about an adventure with an organ-grinder when he was away from home on a holiday. The story was once given to encourage those who collected for the Stockwell Orphanage:—"I do not beg myself, because people give without my asking; but I did so literally on one occasion at Menton. An organ-grinder—a representative of a fraternity to which I am not very partial—came in front of the hotel; and, not being very successful, I said to the man, 'Here, let me have your organ!' After grinding for a time I held out my hat to the company at the windows and got sixteen shillings for the man. Immediately afterwards a colonel and another gentleman tried the same experiment, but they were not nearly so successful, because the first player was 'the old original,' who had appealed to the people while they were in a merry humour. Thus collectors should always see to it that they get hold of people when they are in the right mood. Two brethren went out together to preach, and, coming to a pond in a secluded place, they resolved that they would enjoy a bath. When they dived in they discovered it to be a leech-pond, and they were soon in a desperate pickle. Leeches always are ready to receive; but people should always be as ready to give as the leeches were to get the blood out of the two preachers." On these occasions the President might possibly feel disposed to give some illustrations of his remarkable experiences in regard to the obtaining of supplies. The history of the Stockwell Orphanage as he could tell it was a remarkable story indeed. On one memorable morning he was at a meeting of trustees, and the state of the exchequer was certainly calculated to inspire feelings of anxiety. "Well, we're cleared out," said Mr. Spurgeon; "we must go to the Great Chancellor of the Exchequer; but before we pray I want to know what you are going to give. I will give twenty-five pounds." As each contributed a like amount, a sum of one hundred and fifty pounds was raised at once. Then followed a prayer—brief, and remarkable for the simple way in which present needs were asked for in behalf of the orphan children. That day was Friday, and when the pastor met his deacons on the following Sunday at the Tabernacle the first question was, "Well, sir, did you get the money?" The fact was that on that memorable Friday eight hundred and fifty pounds came in for the Orphanage, and not far short of a similar amount for other institutions. On that same Friday afternoon when he went to the College to give his weekly lecture to the students something still more strange happened; and it was one of those adventures of which you needed to hear Mr. Spurgeon give the particulars himself to realise their full significance. A stranger looked in who was quite unknown to everybody present. "Are you in need of money, Mr. Spurgeon?" "Always in need of money here, sir." When the College and the colportage were mentioned the visitor gave one hundred pounds for each; and then he said: "Ah, but there is something for which you have greater need than these." The reference was, of course, to the Orphanage, and then for that institution a very large donation was given. Having completed his errand, the stranger said, "You must sit in your chair for five minutes after I am gone; you must not try to find out who I am. I promised God to do this some years ago, and I have never done it till now, and now my conscience is relieved." From that day forward it was never discovered who that man was; and like stories were sometimes told of similar mysterious visitors.

It would be possible to tempt Spurgeon to speak about his early experiences in and around Cambridge. Listen to the account he once gave of his first convert:—"Well I remember beginning to preach in a little thatched chapel, and my first concern was, Would God save any souls through me? They called me a ragged-headed boy; I think I was—I know I wore a jacket. And I preached, and I was troubled in my heart because I thought, 'This Gospel has saved me, but will it save anybody if I preach it?' Some Sundays went over, and I used to say to the deacons, 'Have you heard of anybody finding the Lord? Have you heard of anybody brought to Christ?' My good old friend said, 'There is a woman who lives over at so-and-so who found the Lord three or four Sundays ago through your preaching.' I said, 'Drive me over there—I must go directly;' and the first thing on Sunday morning I was driving down to see my first child. Many fathers here recollect their first child; mothers recollect their first baby—no child like it; you never had another like it since. I have had a great many spiritual children born of the preaching of the Word, but I do think that woman was the best of the lot—at least, she did not live long enough for me to find many faults in her. After a year or two of faithful witness-bearing she went home to lead the way for a goodly number since. I have had nothing else to preach but Christ crucified."

Perhaps I have said enough to show that Mr. Spurgeon loved his home, though he had too little time to give to the fireside circle. You could not spend half an hour with him in his house without hearing his opinion on various matters, besides being entertained. Christian work at home and abroad seemed to interest him most; but a little genuine success, rather than a grand programme, was what yielded him satisfaction. He appeared to harbour a poor opinion of the methods and achievements of the Salvation Army, for example; but seemed to be in his element when entertaining at his table an unpretending Christian worker who, without drums, uniforms, and martial parade, was fighting the battles of the Lord. This description of Mr. Spurgeon at home may fittingly include an account of a visit to Nightingale Lane which Dr. Cuyler wrote in the summer of 1872. The style is somewhat gushing, and there is some exaggeration, but otherwise the picture drawn is genial and graphic:—

"At ten o'clock I drove out with a friend to spend an hour with Mr. Spurgeon. He resides several miles from his church, on the beautiful Nightingale Road, Clapham. The road is lined with shade-embowered villas, like Clinton Avenue, Brooklyn. Helensburgh House, the residence of the great preacher, is a very attractive mansion, surrounded by the most exquisite bit of garden and velvet lawn that I have yet seen in London. The grounds cover two or three acres, and were purchased by Mr. Spurgeon when this quarter of London was new and unoccupied, and the land was comparatively cheap. In time this place will be a fortune to its owner. Mr. Spurgeon's income from his Tabernacle and from his work is large; but nobly has he earned it, and generously does he use it. One of the most laborious of Christ's workers, he has a right to a beautiful home.

"He greeted us in his free, cordial style, which is like my neighbour Beecher's genial manner. There are many points of resemblance between these two foremost preachers of the day—their stout, broad physique, their exuberant spirits, ready wit, marvellous fluency, and superabounding juices of a manhood that seems utterly inexhaustible. Spurgeon's hair is just slightly tinged with its first grey; he is as stout as ever. 'In this flesh dwelleth no good thing,' said he playfully.

"We spent a pleasant hour in his library, which overlooks the charming grounds. He showed us twelve or fifteen volumes of his printed sermons, besides several of his works translated in Dutch, Norwegian, and German. He is now at work on a Bible interspersed with notes and helps of a peculiar kind. But a most interesting object was a small pile of his sermon preparations—each one on a half-sheet of note-paper, or on the back of an envelope. Only the heads of the sermon are committed to paper, and not one syllable more. When we asked him if he had ever written a discourse, he replied, 'I would rather be hung.' His usual method is to choose his text and devote a half-hour to preparing the plan and putting it on a bit of paper. All the rest is left to the pulpit. 'If I had a month given me to prepare a sermon,' said he, 'I would spend thirty days and twenty-three hours in something else, and in the last hour I would make the sermon. If I could not do it in an hour I could not do it in a month.' This is certainly an extraordinary mental habit. But let it be observed that if Spurgeon spends but a few minutes in arranging a sermon, he spends many days in careful, prayerful study of God's Word and of the richest Puritan writers on theology and experimental religion. He is all the time filling up the cask, so that whenever he turns the spigot, a sermon flows out in a few moments. His fluency in language has also become about perfect from long and constant practice. But never does he go to the pulpit without a mental agitation amounting often to physical distress. 'For years,' said he, 'I suffered so much before entering the pulpit that it often brought on violent attacks of vomiting and profuse outbreaks of perspiration. Only lately have I outgrown these fits of physical suffering.'

"Mr. Spurgeon took us through his beautiful grounds. In the rear of his garden he has perched up his old Park Street pulpit into a tree. The pulpit stairs wind down around the trunk, and up in this eyrie he sits on a hot summer day. Like our neighbour Beecher, he has a keen appetite for flowers. His family is small. Two twin boys of the age of sixteen are at school. His invalid wife waved her hand to us as we walked through the grounds before her window. The painful illness of this devoted wife is the shadow that falls over his beautiful home. This crook in the lot has been a chastening, mellowing sorrow to him. The delightful hour that I passed with brother Spurgeon only increased my estimate of him as a minister of our Lord Jesus Christ. His marvellous voice, which sweeps over five thousand auditors in the Tabernacle, is exceedingly pleasing in conversation. As I parted from him I felt anew that there is but one Spurgeon in the world. As he stands in the loftiest pulpit in Europe, long may he continue to have all Christendom for his congregation."

Dr. Cuyler is a typical American and representative of others who, having to "do" England, did not consider the thing at all complete until Spurgeon had been heard in his own Tabernacle as well as seen and spoken with in his own home.

Probably there are friends in various parts of the country who have mementoes of Mr. Spurgeon's home. He might be tempted to present one with an "everlasting flower," plucked from a plant in the garden; a smoker might get "a very particular cigar;" or another might get a pretty box from Menton made of olive-wood. Still more fortunate was Mr. George Goldston, of Hastings, who got possession of a table which the great preacher had used for fifteen years after coming to London. Of course, such an article was supposed to need a certificate of its quality, and this was very cordially given as follows:—

"Clapham, November 16, 1871.

"Warranty of Table.

"This is to certify that the table this day sent to Mr. Goldston has never been known to turn, twist, dance, fly up into the air, or otherwise misbehave.

"It has not been addicted to convivial habits, and has never been known to be on a roar. As a most studious piece of furniture it is sent to a studious man, with the kind regards of "C. H. Spurgeon."

Among other visitors to Helensburgh House was John B. Gough, who in due course made the desirable discovery that the great English preacher was worthy of something better than abuse for not being a teetotaller. Gough says:—

"Mr. Spurgeon has had a reputation for eccentricity fastened upon him, in common with many other popular preachers. As he says, 'Throw mud enough, and some of it will be sure to stick.' It is interesting to trace the pedigree of a pulpit story, though it is not always possible to discover its actual parent. Like Topsy, they may say, 'I growed.' He says, 'These same anecdotes occur from age to age, but they are tacked on to different men. Liars ought to have good memories, that they may recollect that they have already assigned a story to someone else.'

"I once asked him in reference to several tales I had heard of him whether they were true—whether he ever said on entering the pulpit, 'It's d------d hot this morning!' He said, 'Never, never;' and yet some time after I heard a clergyman relate this story, and when I told him of Mr. Spurgeon's denial of it, he said, 'My friend heard him say it, and I believe my friend.' He was once represented as sliding down the balustrades of his pulpit, and he says he never gave even the remotest occasion for the falsehood, and yet he hears of persons who were present when he did it, and saw him perform the silly trick. Mr. Spurgeon says that' a minister who is much before the people has need to be thick-skinned.' A literary gentleman sent me what he called authentic stories of Mr. Spurgeon. When I was with him I asked him about them. Not one of them was true.

"He is very fond of a joke, and there is a comical twinkling of the eye when he perpetrates one that is irresistible, reminding you of Sam Weller's winks, that always caused a laugh, though we are utterly ignorant of the cause of the winking.

"On one occasion an artist had drawn a sketch of him and brought it for his inspection. Looking at it, he said—

"'Ah, this is very well; but women and fools are, they say, the best judges of these things, so I must hunt up somebody.'

"Just then up came one of Mr. Spurgeon's deacons.

"'Ah, brother, you are just in time. What do you think of this sketch of me?'

"Another artist wished to make an engraving of him.

"'I hope,' said Mr. Spurgeon, 'you will not make it an expensive one—the public would not give more than twopence for me. A friend of mine, to do me honour, published a photograph of me at eighteenpence, and he lost a lot of money by it.'

"I think these anecdotes show that he is one of the most natural of men, with no false pride or starch about him. He says just what he thinks, in the most natural and homely manner. He is a troublesome customer to pompous people who fancy themselves somebodies when they are nothing of the kind.

"The strangest stories have been in circulation with regard to his drinking. I am glad to be able to say that I know he is at present, and, has been for some time, a total abstainer, and that when he took stimulants it was by his physician's prescription. When he took it he made no secret of his course, but freely spoke of it wherever he might be.

"Personally he is fascinating. He may not be called prepossessing; there is nothing finical about him—not the shadow of a sham. Someone has said, 'His face is heavy;' but when illuminated by a smile it is beautiful. His first greeting captured me. I think the few hours spent with him were as delightful and profitable as any in my life. He is full of genial humour. His laugh is infectious. Yet with all his wit and fun, with the keenest faculty of seeing the ludicrous side of things, there is no unbecoming levity. It would not shock you if after a hearty laugh he should say, 'Let us have a word of prayer.'"

Mr. Spurgeon's home-life at Westwood was well sketched in an evening journal at the time of the Jubilee celebration of 1884:—

"Westwood, where he at present lives, is a house on the extreme western edge of Beulah Hill, the southern ridge of the wooded heights of Sydenham. A more charming spot it would be difficult to find in the loveliest suburbs of London. The house, which is a large one, stands in the midst of well-wooded and spacious grounds, commanding from its windows an extended view of a wide expanse of Surrey. All is so peaceful and still that the house and the grounds might be fifty miles from town instead of being but three-quarters of an hour's drive from the Tabernacle—that swarming hive of ceaseless activity in the heart of busy London. The house is approached by a carriage-drive entered by the lodge gates. The miniature lake, in which a somewhat water-logged boat was floating at the time of our visit, lies immediately below the house. The grounds are tastefully laid out, the lawns well-kept, the shrubberies in good order. Mr. Spurgeon loves to bask in the sunshine, and regrets nothing so much at Menton as the delight of bathing in the southern sunlight all day long. A friend recently gave him a waterproof mattress, on which he can be in the grounds at Beulah Hill without fear of rheumatism; but the blazing effulgence of the southern skies no mattress can supply. The stables and coachhouse lie out of sight down the hill. They are protected against witches, warlocks, and all the uncanny tribe by a monstrous horseshoe, weighing a couple of hundredweight, the gift of a friend who evidently deemed quantity an invaluable specific against evil spirits. There is a fountain with gold-fish in another part of the garden, and any number of beehives; for Mr. Spurgeon is a great apiarian, and loves to hear the murmur of the bees as he strolls through his small domain. The borders of the kitchen-garden are all aglow with pinks and other homely English flowers, the beds of which yield every week a heavy crop of floral fragrance for the slums of Southwark. The flower-mission in connection with the Tabernacle—there is almost everything in connection with the Tabernacle except a theatre and public-house—sends its gleaners regularly to Westwood, and their baskets of flowers gladden many a home in the dark and dreary alleys of London. Rustic arbours and convenient seats offer pleasant resting-places; nor is the sense of restful seclusion and tranquillity much disturbed even by the presence of one or two fat pugs, ugly with the beauty of their breed, which run about the garden as if it belonged to them."

Then followed a picture of life within doors:—

"Within, the house is very bright and airy. The first thing that strikes a visitor is the peculiar arrangement by which Westwood in summer-time stands all day long with all its doors open to the air and sunlight without any insecurity. Within the hall, entrance to the house is barred by a wire-lattice fastened with a small brass lock, allowing free egress to the air, but excluding all more unwelcome intruders. Mr. Spurgeon rather prides himself upon this contrivance, and in the hot and stuffy London summer it would be a benefit to be able to leave the door open without any sense of danger. Passing the lattice door, recalling reminiscences of the wicket-gate, the visitor finds himself in a small entrance-hall, from which the dining-room opens to the right, and Mrs. Spurgeon's book-fund room, Mrs. Spurgeon's own room, and Mr. Spurgeon's library. Mrs. Spurgeon's room, from whence she directs the distribution of the books provided by a book fund, adjoins the small room,, where innumerable volumes accumulate until the fortnightly waggon arrives from the Globe Parcel Express and carries them off from Westwood to all parts of the world. Mr. Spurgeon received me in his study just as he came in from the garden, upon which the study windows open directly. From the windows the eye wanders over the kitchen-garden, murmurous with bees, to Thornton Heath, with Croydon in the distance. In this study Mr. Spurgeon keeps two private secretaries constantly going. He has two or more at the Tabernacle, one or two at the College, and others elsewhere. One of them at Westwood is a shorthand writer, and, together with his colleague, he is kept busy till six. All moneys sent for the College, Orphanage, etc., are sent direct to Mr. Spurgeon, who is the paymaster-general of all his institutions. 'It is my constant labour,' said Mr. Spurgeon, 'to thrust off some portion of my work on other shoulders, but it all comes back on me. The more I do, the more there is to do.' The study is a work-a-day room, the walls lined with books, and the spacious table in the centre bearing abundant traces of work and wear. Mr. Spurgeon himself, in a white felt wide-awake and a light alpaca garden coat, chatted pleasantly of men and things. A genial, hearty man, full of shrewdness and humour, whose character has broadened and deepened as he has made his way through life, and who, having lived down the calumnies with which he was almost overwhelmed at first, now marvels most of all at the all-encompassing atmosphere of reverence and love in which he spends his life. Mr. Spurgeon has mellowed much with time; like a generous wine, he has improved with age."