G. Campbell Morgan, the man and his ministry

Front matter

PROMINENT WORKS By G. CAMPBELL MORGAN

THE ANALYZED BIBLE

THE CRISES OF THE CHRIST

Contents

I FIRST FRUITS PROLOGUE . aU SERCO Ne ae E EarLty DAYS AND EARLY WAYS II. PREPARATORY YEARS

III. THE WIDENING FIELD

II IN LABOURS ABUNDANT IV. WONDERFUL WESTMINSTER!

Epilogue

INDEX .

17 35

ILLUSTRATIONS

Dr. MorcAn’s FATHER AND MOTHER .

CAMPBELL MorRGAN AT THIRTY-FIVE (1898) INTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER CHAPEL, LONDON . Dr. CAMPBELL MorGAN AND His Four Sons

Mrs. CAMPBELL MORGAN AND HER DAUGHTERS

FRONTISPIECE

Sars Laie Ts

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth! ISAIAH 52: 7.

Kae

IRST FRUITS

And Samuel grew and the Lord was with him, and did let none of his words fall to the ground. And all Israel from Dan even to Beersheba knew that Samuel was established to be a prophet of the Lord. I SAM. 3: 19, 20.

The first fruits of thy labours which thou hast sown in the field . . . and hast gathered in thy labours out of the field. EXODUS 23: 16.

For souls redeemed, for sins forgiven, For means of grace and hopes of heaven, Father, what can to Thee be given,

Who givest all?

We lose what on ourselves we spend We have, as treasures without end, Whatever, Lord, to Thee we lend, Who givest all.

CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH.

Prologue

N utter stranger to the ’bus routes of the twin- A cities of London and Westminster, the young Pilgrim made his way afoot—up Fleet Street, along the Strand, past Charing Cross, through Whitehall, and came, at last, to Parliament Street. The month was November, the morning drear. Over street and park and river a blanketing fog hung like a vapoury pall, and halfhidden in its mephitic folds, St. Stephen’s and the Abbey loomed in the half-light, like a pair of grotesque, gigantic shadows. }

Aided by the guidance given him by a friendly policeman, the Pilgrim made his way in the general direction of Buckingham Gate. Despite the prevailing gloom, the face of the traveller was illumined as by the radiance of an inner light. And this was because his whole being was aglow with a tense, eager expectancy. With each successive stride, he knew himself to be drawing nearer his desired goal—to the one place which, in all the vast wilderness men called London, he had fared forth to seek. Soon he would gaze with physical eyes upon that which for years he had been fashioning in the chambers of his imagery and giving form and substance to in the province of his dreams.

Away amid the silences of his native Western hills, he had long and ardently awaited the coming of this day, and prayed for its speedier dawning. He had draped the shrine towards which his steps were now bent in the habiliments of beauty, and had conceived of it as being altogether lovely. Should he discover the pillars of the place he sought to be of glistening alabaster, the discovery would occasion him no surprise. Were its casements found to be of crystal and its gateways of pure gold, nothing more deeply-seated than a satisfying sense of fitness’ would be appealed to by the revelation, and no enhancement or enrichment made in the magic of his dreams.

For this young stranger in the English metropolis, the years of youth and early manhood were years of circumscribed opportunity. Often discouraged, sometimes despairing, he had lived through slack, laggard days, which came and went with a maddening tardiness, such as left the goal of his longing still far away. Yet within his soul some undying aspirations burned as cleanly and fiercely as a forest flame. Impelled by them, stung into action by them, he would reach forward, only to grasp at shadows, and upward, only to clutch at empty air. Yet, despite the futility of his outward seeming, the flame within him still continued to burn.

In the silent watches of the night, too, there were visions that came to him which gladdened for him the darkened hours—visions of persons, and places, and possibilities, which made his soul glad and his heart to rejoice. When morning came he would awaken to find himself strangely refreshed and greatly strengthened. With renewed hope and vigour he would square his shoulders and set out on yet another stretch of the hard and lonely road.

Often, these dreams of his were of London Town, and, always, they were dreams that thrilled his soul. There, he conceived of deeds of valour and of daring being done, each and every day; of men, who rode fearlessly into the fiercest of the fray, never faltering, never yielding. Above all things else, these dreams of London brought with them glimpses of a certain great and famous sanctuary which he regarded as being the centre and citadel of moral and spiritual emprise.

Occasionally, when, during the long hours of the dragging day, he desired some measure of mental respite, he would climb the slopes of his favourite hill. Reaching the

PROLOGUE 15 summit, he would gaze away to the southward, and permit his thoughts to overleap the intervening distances which lay between that hilltop and London Town—between himself and the great house of worship that had become to him a hallowed shrine. And that which his imagination conjured up, brought a glow to his cheek and a light to his eye. In some strange, unexplained way, all weariness of body and staleness of mind would drop away from him, as he contemplated the visions that came to him, amid the clarified atmosphere of the uplands. After this fashion, had the thought of London and of one especial sanctuary within her gates, inspired the young man of the hills.

To the little cottage wherein he dwelt, the village postman often brought an eagerly awaited and a gladly welcomed message. Upon its cover it bore the legend—The Westminster Pulpit, and in its pages were words which became as wings to his soul. Sermons, which had blessed and enheartened a great London congregation but a few days before, blessed and enheartened him. In them he found satisfying spiritual sustenance. They became to him as ‘‘ wine, and milk, and gospel grace.”

And now at “ the lang last,” amid the murk of a London fog the Pilgrim drew near to the Mecca of his dreams. The great sanctuary was just around the bend. Would he be disappointed with its contour? Would its outward appearance match the dinginess of the streets through which he hurried? Or would it be all he had imagined it, in the profuse magnificence of its visioned splendour?

At last he came upon it looming darkly through the fog. To be sure, there were no alabaster columns to be seen, no jasper facade; the windows were not of crystal, nor innocent of city grime; the doors certainly were not of gold, and not open. Yet the Pilgrim’s heart leaped within him, the vision in his soul remained unimpaired. He was instantly enamoured of the dull red brick of the exterior— the grim, doughty character of the place—and straightway dismissed the claims of crystal and alabaster, once and for ever.

He tried the vestry door, and it yielded to his touch. No one appeared to be in attendance, so unchallenged he made his way along a passage and so on into the body of the church. The great pulpit faced him. Slowly, fearfully, he ascended its stairs and stood facing the vast auditorium, now empty and silent. After a few moments spent in reverent meditation, he knelt in prayer. Recollections of past blessing crowded into the foreground of his memory, chief among them being the thought of all that that sanctuary and its gifted minister—through whom God had spoken so clearly—had meant to his soul, and for these inestimable blessings his prayer of thanksgiving rose reverently to God. Never was prayer offered in greater sincerity; never any hour more definitely sacred in the life of any man, than this, in the life of the young Pilgrim. Never had he looked upon the face of the man who ministered in that holy place; and yet, in that hour, he knew him to be what he had been for years—what he still is— the very father of his soul.

Long years were to pass ere the Preacher and the Pilgrim stood face to face. When they did, the story of the pilgrimage was duly told. As the latter related it, the eyes of the former filled with tears. ‘“‘ May God bless you, my young friend,’ he said, as he turned aside. Walking a short distance away, he stood for a moment or two with face uplifted. Then he returned and placed his hand on the other’s shoulder.

‘‘You have done my soul much good,” he said quietly. ‘“‘T sorely needed a word, such as you have brought me in this hour. Of a very truth, God does move in a mysterious way.”

I thing approaching an analytical dispassionate biog- HM. raphy was a thing unattempted and unheard of. A writer undertaking a volume of personal memoirs frankly placed himself in a friendly or antagonistic attitude to his subject and proceeded accordingly. But in that comprehensive revision of the art which followed the epoch-marking day that gave us Lytton Strachey’s delineation of Queen Victoria, the new-style biographer appears to regard it as being his rightful duty to approach his task largely, if not altogether minus any affinity to his subject at all! Writer and written stand in glaring or piquant contrast, and no matter what other illusion or error the former may fall into, he is enabled to escape that of unbalanced sympathy with the latter; just as Mr. Strachey—if his pages be regarded as any criterion—shows little or no sign of having succumbed to the wiles of the artless prose and underscored sentences of the English Queen.

Apart from stylist cunning, psychological analysis is the common tool and hall-mark of the new biographer, and its application is apt to accentuate still further his detachment from his subject; he is the surgeon tabulating symptoms, and human interest has to contend with the scientific methods of the operating-room. |

Yet, although this method of writing biography is barely ten years old, most of us have come to see that, already, the whole business has been badly overdone, until it actually has become the fashion to completely over-psychologize the protagonist, in the crises of action. Time and again we

| N an earlier day, gone, as it would seem, for ever, anyfind ourselves being told with considerable detail what the subject of a biography was thinking in the hour of his most notable actions and we pause to wonder whether he was thinking anything of the sort; we even reflect that, at the time, he was probably too tired, too driven, too dedicated to the task in hand, to be thinking anything at all! This, perhaps, is to overstate the case, but it comes much nearer the mark than do the elaborate processes through which the ultra-modern biographer usually conducts his hero.

No attempt will be made in these pages to apply such a highly hypothetical method as that just outlined, to the subject of which they treat. The vigorous and colourful personality which they attempt to portray certainly will not be obscured by any of the embroideries of an author’s hazards, as to matters implying motive and design. Wherever and whenever possible, Dr. Morgan will appear as his own interpreter; the key to whatever of impulse and incentive that have been his, will be found in the record and merit of achievement. Nor will anything approaching an atmosphere of superior detachment be permitted to pervade the pages of this record. The compiler’s attitude is, frankly, one of sympathetic admiration for a splendid preacher and a remarkable personality.

Than George Campbell Morgan, no man living possesses a superior claim to the credit and kudos which are considered to be the just reward of something attempted, something done; and it is virtually certain that, were he questioned as to what had been uppermost in mind, and which led him to enter upon this or the other of the notable enterprises in which he has engaged, he would reply, simply: “Its accomplishment, of course.” And with such an answer, all those possessing any knowledge of him would be prepared to rest content.

As a general rule—a rule to which conformity is made with a frequency amounting almost to unanimity—the life-story of a minister of the Gospel is of the kind that is characterized as “uneventful.” The narrative contains nothing exciting, nothing gripping; usually, it can be described, briefly yet truthfully, as being just one pastorate (or charge, or station, or circuit, or church) after another. Even in the instances of men whose gifts and achievements lift them clean above the rank and file of their brethren, the dramatic, episodic element is, almost always, at a minimum. Without any difficulty at all, one’s recollection can be made to revert to half-a-score of preachers of the past thirty years, who while living, not only exerted an immense influence in religious circles, but occupied a large and notable place in other areas, yet whose personal history was of such a pitiably meagre order, as to render the compilation of anything approaching a sizable or epoch-marking “ Life,” a thing impossible. With the man’s living, pulsing personality withdrawn, nothing remained but peaceful pastures and still waters, the placidity of which gave his biographer no earthly opportunity to add to the common stock of generally-held or easily-accessible knowledge, concerning the subject of his pages.

Happily for this biographer, as for those who may deign to read what he has succeeded in compiling, Campbell Morgan is a shining exception to everything just above written. He is colourful “‘ copy ”—a man who has accomplished things, which had about the manner of their accomplishment a touch of pageantry, more than a mere touch of drama, an unquestioned atmosphere of consecration, and the authentic stamp and sign-manual of a workman, needing not to be ashamed.

-“ George Morgan, father of the subject of these pages, was a native of Monmouthshire—that great border county sometimes claiming to be British, at others, Saxon—the land of Arthurian legend and Celtic tale. _ The elder

Morgan was a Baptist minister, highly esteemed both as

preacher and pastor. ) He was, moreover, of Welsh descent

and inherited the fervour and mysticism of the Celt, in generous measure. Becoming attracted by the benign influence that radiated from the lives of those two saints of

Western England, Robert Chapman and George Miiller,

and although thoroughly successful in the Baptist ministry,

he determined to resign his pastorate the better to follow the dictates of his conscience. ‘These led him in the direction of the Plymouth Brethren and although never formally uniting himself with them in church membership such were his leanings towards their doctrines that he

hired a small hall in Tetbury, Gloucestershire, where with a

company of fellow-believers, he broke bread each Sabbath

morning and worshipped God “‘ according to the pattern shewed him in the mount.”

Of Elizabeth Fawn Brittan, Campbell Morgan’s mother, one who knew her well wrote: ‘“ She is a true saint, and gives the impression of a greatness which is always gentle, and a godliness which is always radiant and full of peace.” A daughter of Thomas Brittan, ‘a very saint of God,” her descent is traced back through generations of staunch Christians to that early Protestant family, of which, Anne Askew, who suffered for her faith at Smithfield in 1546, was a member.

/ To these godly folk, then living at Cutwell Villa, Tetbury, in the county of Gloucester, was born, December 9, 1863, their second child—a boy, to whom the names George Campbell were given. About four months after the child’s birth, the family removed from the little town among the

-< Cotswolds to South Wales, settling, finally, at Cardiff.

Dr. Morgan’s earliest memories cluster around the home of his father at Wordsworth Street, Roath, the nursery of that home, where pleasant hours were spent, and the

Wesleyan Church at Roath Road, where the family attended public worship. An event (of which a lively recollection survives) was the opening of a new church building at Roath. A large number of people attended the services, but none among them evinced more interest in the preachers than young Campbell Morgan. Very attentively he watched and listened to the “ venerable and eloquent men ” who preached, whose names were: George T. Perks (father of Sir Robert Perks), Gervase Smith, and Richard Roberts.

To young Morgan’s juvenile mind, Perks was an almost patriarchal figure—spare, dignified, “‘ wearing a long swallow-tailed coat and a high white cravat wound many times . around his throat—one of the last of the grand old school of Methodist preachers.” So occupied was the boy in watching this father in Israel that he failed to pay much attention to what was said. But he remembers, distinctly, much of the sermon of Gervase Smith, who preached from the words, “ For the preaching of the cross—” But of the three men, the boy was interested, most, in Richard Roberts, through whose ministry his father had been brought to God, years before.

For many days following, those services in the Wesleyan Church at Roath Road, were echoed in the little church in the Morgan nursery, where each gesture was reproduced, and each sermon improved upon, according to ~ the conceptions of the preacher in embryo, destined, in later days, to attain a pulpit fame fully commensurate with these noted Wesleyans, who had warmed his childish heart. The early life of Campbell Morgan was not more eventful than that of other preachers’ sons of that age and time. Possibly it was less so, for he had no companions outside his own home; he was not permitted to play on the streets of the town or in the park with other lads, and often his heart yearned for those whose company a2 G. CAMPBELL MORGAN and friendship he was not permitted to cultivate. As a consequence of his being too much alone, the unnatural quietness with which he was surrounded became natural, and the seclusion a characteristic, not only of the boy, but, later, of the man.

ety cont ¢

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I have always been slow to form friendships ‘Dr. Morgan declared in a recent address]. Perhaps it is partly owing to the circumstances of my childhood that, even to-day, I have to fight against a natural indisposition to talk to strangers. I do not think that my friends would describe me as unsociable. The companionship of those I am privileged to know well, is very pleasant; but anybody that creates in me a feeling of restraint, I cannot bear near me. Always, I would rather address a thousand people than one. For me, an ideal existence would be a house buried in the woods, a quick transit to a crowded church, and—back again to the woods!

(But although denied the companionship of playfellows outside his own home, the boy found ample compensation in the companionship of his only sister, a girl four years his senior. ‘There were just these two, but they were all the world to each other.) With the door of the nursery closed against intrusion, the children would talk together of the happenings of the day, and unburden themselves of their secrets, one to the other. Together they would laugh, together weep. Lizzie was all that a sister could be to George, George was all that a brother could be to Lizzie. The love that other boys divide between brothers, sisters, friends and games, George centred upon his sister, and all the warmth and affection of his sister’s heart was wholly his. Together, they filled each other’s lives.

My sister and I were real inseparable pals | Dr. Morgan says]. We were as one in our play, one in work, one in thought. There was never anything happening that could come between us. We were happy in each other’s love, and when we were together we desired no other companions.

Just these two, in a nursery, with the door shut, and all the rest of the world outside the door! But to this boy and girl, that nursery was far more interesting than the world outside. For was it not peopled by the wonderful creations of their own imaginings? In that nursery, dolls and other toys were their playmates, and each of the playmates had a life-story to tell; and the two knew their stories. Some could tell of long journeyings made to the nursery, and of the warm hearts that had sent them. Others knew of lands beyond the seas, and of people that worshipped strange gods. Curious, romantic tales they were, made all the more so by the colourful threads of imagination the two would weave into them. It was largely a make-believe world, yet one none the less real to the girl and boy, whose days of happiness were long and full.

There were occasions, however, when the company gathered in that nursery was a very solemn one. Lizzie would muster all her dolls, change their dresses, brush their curls, and inform them that Sunday had come. There were a number of such Sundays in each week, when the dolls had to sit very quietly, for the Reverend George was coming to preach! ‘The little mother busied herself in making the nursery look as church-like as possible. There was an improvised pulpit to be draped, books to be distributed among the congregation, special care to be taken that each member of the congregation who could sit was comfortably seated, and that those made only to stand erect or lie down, were propped securely against something solid, so that no unseemly disturbance might result from their falling down. When all was in readiness the little mother took her place with her family, and awaited the coming of the preacher. Punctual to the minute the Reverend George would enter, carrying his Bible and notes. Public worship would then begin.

The preacher was but seven years of age. Had he been seventy, there could have been no increased dignity in his bearing, no greater solemnity in his deportment. To him the service was a real service in a veal church, and a very veal sermon indeed was the discourse he delivered. When the service had ended, Lizzie would not fail to impress upon the worshippers the great privilege that was theirs in having a church in their home, and such a wonderful preacher at their call.

When Dr. Morgan speaks of these early days, he does so with great tenderness. And small wonder, for not only were they fragrant, but formative years:

™ When I think of those bright days [he says], so cloudless and dear, some of the gladness of them comes back to me. I felt, even then, that I belonged to God; and that it was my duty to preach the Gospel. Of my “ calling ” to preach I had not the slightest doubt, and I do not think that I have ever preached with greater devotion than I did when eight years of age. What meetings they were! And how I loved my little draped pulpit and my congregation! ( It was all very real, and inspiring, until one sad day, early in 1872, when all my dreams were shattered, and I suffered my first great sorrow. Well do I remember the day when, into all our brightness, came the dark shadow of death. God took my sister to Himself and I was left, a lad of eight, without a companion in the world. A perplexed and puzzled child was I, awakened one morning at break of day to make that long walk to the little graveyard, . where, with the mist all about me, I stood bereft of my only sister and dear companion. With her going went all my happiness, and I returned to my home—and desolation. ‘There, at that house in Cardiff I lay long in my little bed before sleep found me, closing my eyes and dreaming myself away to where Lizzie was, and talking with her. I believe, with all my heart, that at such times God gave her back to me, to be a ministering spirit, and I think she has watched with me, since, through many a day of darkness. After that fateful day, my “ church in the nursery ” ceased to be. A great sorrow had come upon me; my __land of make-believe had become a very real, and tragic world.)

For young George Morgan the days that followed were days of bitterness—long, dreary, companionless. Often when quite overcome by his sorrow he would steal away to some quiet corner where, undisturbed, he could weep silently and long; later, he would be found, tired with weeping, lying quite still, and ‘“‘ asleep for sorrow.” Nights, too, were painful, and often sleepless, while the coming of another day brought no comfort to a grief-stricken young heart.

It was after one such sleepless night that his parents found his bed empty, and the boy absent from the house. After a fruitless search had been made for him in every room, his mother said, ‘“‘ George has gone to Lizzie’s grave’; and there his parents found him lying across the little mound in a state of unconsciousness.

It appeared, later, that when the lad, impelled by grief, set out that morning to be near to his sister, it was still dark. He ran nearly all the way to the graveyard, only to find the gate shut, and climbing the railings set around the place used up all his remaining strength. Laboriously he drew near to the grave, and panting for breath fell across it and lapsed into unconsciousness. His father carried him home, only to learn that the lad had contracted pneumonia. For many days his life was despaired of, and there came a day when every one thought the boy dead.

As the father lifted his boy’s body to lay it on the same board that had borne that of his other child but a short while before, the soul awakened out of its sleep, and the lad stirred. To this day Dr. Morgan remembers the moment of that awakening—a faint moving of life within. When, finally, he emerged from the dark shadows, the danger point had been passed, and recovery was simply a question of time.

Let no man imagine that the merry life of the child can never be clouded over by a sorrow [Dr. Morgan has said], or © that the very young are incapable of great grief. Do not make that mistake. Your child, blithe of spirit, happy as the dawn, can suffer sorrow, even to the breaking of the heart. I have known that since I was eight years of age.

During convalescence, George was allowed a visitor, a boy named Frank Fifoot, who became his friend and daily companion. ‘The friendship formed then has remained to this day, and holds the two men in a tender and intimate comradeship.

Some time after the death of his sister, and when the little Morgan family lived at Chepstow in the beautiful Wye Valley, George attended a private school. After study-hours he would often wander for miles along the banks of the river, lonely and sad, thinking of the sister he had loved, and lost. The beauty of the winding valley; the smooth, silent flow of the waters dazzlingly reflecting the golden glow of the setting sun; the peacefulness of the summer evening, and the vesper song of the birds in the topmost branches of the trees—all these would interweave with the lad’s sorrow, until sorrow and beauty became strangely intermingled in his young mind. He came to love that solitary walk, for while taking it he learned the wonderful lesson that all one day must learn—that among things beautiful and beautifying; among things pure and purifying, sorrow ever has a place,—the eternal lesson of the presence of the cross in the very heart of love, of the grave in the beauty of a garden.

A distinctly formative factor in the life of Campbell Morgan at this time was his attendance as a pupil at a private school in Cheltenham. The principal was Mr. J. L. Butler of whom Dr. Morgan has often spoken in terms of praise.

He was a man of fine character, a magnificent disciplinarian, and one of the best teachers 1 have known [he says of him].

I think that he had a great influence on my life. He wisely insisted on my playing cricket. Gradually I came to like the game, and played it a good deal. I never learned quite how to bat well, but I could bowl. ‘Taking part in the school games brought me into contact with other boys more frequently than formerly. So much did I value the instruction gained at Cheltenham, and such was the beneficent influence of this good man upon my life, that, many years later, when I had to decide upon a school for my sons, I sent them to Mr. Butler.

Another of the cherished recollections of Dr. Morgan’s boyhood is his meeting with John Nelson Darby, who had called on a visit to his father. He vividly recalls the almost reverential awe that lay upon him in the presence of that truly great man, and how the awe gave place and the reverence remained, when the visitor spoke kindly to him about his studies. 3

Campbell Morgan’s first sermon to “real men and women ” was preached in the schoolroom of the Wesleyan | Methodist Chapel, Monmouth, in the year 1876—that~ is, when the boy was .thirteen_years of age. The service was one of a series of special meetings arranged for by the members of the church. His theme was “ Salvation.”’ The sermon had four divisions, each made by Biblical reference, a method Dr. Morgan has resolutely followed to this day. These divisions were as follows: (1) A great salvation. Hebrews 2: 3; (2) A common salvation. Jude 3; (3) The eternal salvation. Hebrews 5:9; (4) A present salvation. II Corinthians 6: 2. Then, as now, he did not read his sermon, but preached from a “ brief,” and thus, at the age of thirteen, the passionate Cee oF his soul found expression. It was his first sermon to “ real” people, and the occasion was epoch-marking and momentous, in the life of Campbell Morgan. Man