“_Colchester_, _September_ 16, 1812.
“SIR,
“Last evening I had an interview with Clark’s father, who wishes him
to comply with your wishes. I mentioned to him respecting Church’s
conduct, and I find the last night to be the worst. Likewise that he
would have committed the act had not Clark prevented him. The
particulars I told you when in London, but find them worse than what
I described to you. They are not able to be at any expense; but if
the gentlemen wish to prosecute, and to pay Clark’s expenses up to
London, &c. he will have no objection to come when you please to
send. I need only say I wish you to inform the gentlemen, and give
me a line.
I am, dear Sir, your’s, &c.
C. WIRE.”
In addition to the above testimonies, a very long narrative of atrocities
committed by JOHN CHURCH; while he resided at Banbury, has been written
by a minister at that place; but the facts are too disgusting and
shocking to be published.
In the month of April, 1813, a Mr. Webster, who was employed in the house
of Messrs. Evans and Co. eminent Hop Merchants, in the Borough, having,
this being the time the first public exposure of Church’s character took
place, asserted his readiness to prove Church’s infamy, was immediately
seized upon by a fellow of the name of Holmes, and another creature of
the name of Shaw, a sort of attorney in St. George’s Fields, who had been
employed by Church, and dragged to a lock-up-house in the Borough, on a
charge of riot, of which the following account appeared in the Morning
Chronicle.
_Riots at the Obelisk_.—Tuesday, a Mr. Webster, who is employed in the
house of Messrs. Evans and Co. eminent Hop-Merchants, in the Borough, was
charged at Union-Hall, by a person of the name of Shaw, with committing a
riot and a breach of the peace, on Sunday morning, at the Obelisk, in St.
George’s Fields, near the entrance of a chapel belonging to a preacher
named John Church. The magistrate said, that as Mr. Birnie, who had, on
a former day, heard another case similar to this, was absent, they wished
the case might be deferred until next day, and desired Mr. Webster to
attend accordingly. The prosecutor observed, that it would be dangerous
to allow Mr. Webster to be at large, and desired that he might be kept in
custody or held to bail. The magistrate asked if there was any person
present ready to be bail for his appearance. Mr. Robert Bell, the Editor
of the _Weekly Despatch_, who accompanied Mr. Webster as his friend, a
housekeeper, in Lambeth, said he was ready to bail him. The prosecutor
then said, he had also a very serious complaint to make against Mr. Bell,
for the article which he published in his last Sunday’s newspaper,
respecting Mr. Church, and he had one of the papers in his hand. Mr.
Bell told the Magistrates that he was ready to meet any complaint of this
kind, that he conceived it to be his duty, as one of the guardians of
public liberty, and public morals, to send forth the statement in
question; that he could prove the truth of every thing he had written and
published. The worthy magistrate then asked Mr. Webster if he would
promise, on his honour, to attend next day, which Mr. Webster assured him
he would do, and retired. It is necessary to mention that Mr. Webster
had been kept in a state of imprisonment during the greater part of
Sunday, and all Sunday night.
April 7, 1813, Mr. Webster having appeared again before the magistrates,
disclosed, in the course of the examination, the fact of Church having,
some years since, made an attempt of an abominable nature, on the person
of his younger brother, the magistrate, struck with horror, immediately
stopt all proceedings against Mr. Webster, and desired his brother to be
brought forward. The office was cleared of all persons, except the
parties immediately concerned; the brother’s deposition was taken, and a
warrant was issued for Church to appear there the next day.
On Wednesday, J. Church appeared, in consequence of the warrant issued
the day before for his apprehension on a charge of abominable practices,
attended by a number of his deluded followers. Mr. W. Webster having
deposed as to his attempts on him, Church was ordered to find bail for
his appearance at the next Middlesex Sessions, and Mr. Webster bound over
to prosecute. The magistrate observed that from the length of time which
had elapsed since the offence had been committed, he thought a jury would
not feel justified in finding him guilty. Mr. Johnston, a young
gentleman of the law, who attended for Mr. Webster, replied, that it was
not the time for them to discuss what was likely to be the verdict of a
jury;—that he had recommended Mr. Webster to prefer an indictment against
Church, and Mr. Webster had come to that resolution; and whatever might
be the result of the trial, the evidence relating to the conduct of
Church would be of that disgusting nature as to stamp his name with
eternal infamy and disgrace. Church’s attorney observed that it was a
conspiracy amongst another sect to ruin Mr. Church’s character. This Mr.
Johnson denied and said that it was merely a desire to bring him to
merited punishment. Mr. Johnston also said that if Mr. Church acted like
a man of prudence, and consulted his own interest, he would desist from
preaching until the indictment had been tried, as it would be the means
of preventing a breach of the peace, but this he declined; and Shaw; his
attorney, said they should follow their own advice. Mr. Johnston
informed Church’s attorney that it was Mr. Webster’s intention to indict,
or bring an action against him for an assault and false imprisonment.
On that very evening (incredible as it may appear) this very man held to
bail for trial on the most horrid charges, given on oath, had the
impudence to go into his chapel and preach to a crowded audience.
On the 6th of June, 1813, the Grand Jury for the county of Middlesex
found a bill of indictment against John Church, for his attempt, some
years ago, on a lad, named Webster. On the 12th of July following, he
was tried and _acquitted_.—If any surprise is manifested at this
acquittal, let it be recollected, that this prosecution was ordered by
the magistrates, and did not _originate_ with the prosecutor, William
Webster, on whom the abominable attempt was alleged to have been made
(now fourteen years ago). The very mention of the attempt was a mere
incidental circumstance arising out of another proceeding then before the
Magistrates. Let the reader also take notice of the following
sentence:—“The magistrate observed, that from the length of time which
had elapsed since the offence had been committed, he thought a Jury would
not feel justified in finding him guilty.” This William Webster,
therefore, must be considered, in all respects, as an unwilling
prosecutor. He was supported only by one counsel, then of young
standing, (Mr. Adolphus,) who had to struggle against two of the most
able advocate (Messrs. Gurney and Alley) in the criminal courts. It
appears also that Webster gave his evidence with embarrassment and
trepidation, and that he suffered himself to fall into some
inconsistencies. With this _solitary_ and confused evidence, and after a
lapse—after a _silence_ of ELEVEN YEARS, was it possible to suppose that
a Jury would have found any man guilty? But the verdict did not, in the
slightest degree, affect any of the numerous accusations, of a more
recent date, which have been made against John Church. From the reports
that had gone abroad, that he was addicted to certain abominable
propensities, gentlemen in the neighbourhood of the Surrey Theatre,
dreading the disgrace of pollution which Christianity might suffer from
the immoral character of any of its teachers, investigated these rumours,
and the following fact came to light.—James Cook was released from his
two year’s imprisonment, on the 21st of September, 1813, the landlord of
the infamous house in Vere-street. They accidentally met and recognized
each other, and a correspondence took place between these _old_
acquaintances, on the 13th of October following. A _fac simile_ of the
letter has been published, in Church’s own hand-writing, offering Cook
assistance to set up another house, as may be perceived:—
“Dear Sir,
“Lest I should not have time to call or converse with you, as I shall
not be alone to Day, I thought it But right to Drop you a Line. I
wish you all the success you can desire in getting a house _fit for
the business_ in the public line; and, as you had a great many
acquaintances, they ought not to fail you; if every one acted right,
according to there ability, I am sure you would soon accomplish it.
As I am By no means Rich, but rather embarrassed, I hope you will
accept my mite towards it, 1l. 1s. and you shall have another as
convenient, wishing you all prosperity,
“I Remain Your’s sincerely,
J. CHURCH.”
For Mr. Cook, at Mr. Halladay’s, Richmond: buildings, Dean-street.
There is another letter bearing the two-penny post mark of the 20th of
October.—It is as follows:—
“Dear Sir,
“I received your note this morning in Bed, as I have contracted such
a Dreadful cold Being wet on Tuesday I am very much grieved i have
not been able to comply with the request concerning Mr. C— But I
shall certainly keep my eye upon him and Do him all the Good it lays
in my power where ever he is he knows my Disposition too well to
impute any remissness to my conduct But I cannot do impossibilities
as I have Lately had and have now Got so many Distressing cases in
hand Beside, I will Be sure to call on you as soon as I can—But am
not able to day
“I remain Yours, J. CHURCH.
“32 hercules Buildings”
Badly directed to Mr. Oliver, (or Holloway,) No. 6, Richmond’s
Buildings, Dean-street, Soho.
The following is a narrative which Cook has given of his acquaintance
with _Parson Church_; and which was taken down from his own dictation by
Mr. E— B—:
“In May, 1810, I was in company with Mr. Yardley and another young
man by the name of Ponder. I found after that the said Ponder was a
drummer in the Guards; I called at a house in the London-road, where
I saw Mr. Church the first time in my life: there was at this house
about twelve or fourteen altogether, drinking gin, and Mr. Church
handed me a glass of the same, which I took; Church behaved very
polite to me, and said what a fine fellow I was; he pressed me very
much to stop and get tea with them, for he said he would call and see
me when I was settled in the house in Vere-street. I stopped a
little while, and was about to leave them, when Church said I should
not go before I had tea, and flung down, a dollar; and a man, by the
name of Gaiscoin, took the money and went for the tea and other
things, but I would not stay: Church came out of the room with me,
and walked with me as far as the turnpike; there he met another
gentleman, which I never saw before, and I went on and left him for
that time; I think it was six or eight days. I went to live at the
Swan, and saw Church again; he came about three o’clock in the
afternoon, and Mr. Yardley accosted him, “Parson, what are you come
to see the chapel?” He said “Yes, and to preach too.” Church asked
me how I was; I said I was not very well: he asked me why I went away
in that shy manner; I told him he was a stranger to me, and I did not
like to be intruding on strange people: he said I was shy—he did not
know what to make of me; he also pressed me very much to take a walk
with him, but I declined it: he said I must go, but I still declined,
and did not go with him; he staid some time, and joined the company
in the back parlour—persons by the name of Miss Fox and Miss Kitty
Cambrick was among them, and the Queen of Bohemia. As Mr. Church was
going away, he came to the bar and spoke to me, and said I must take
something to drink, which I did, and he paid for it, and left the
house for that time. In a few days he called again, in the
afternoon, and there was not many people there; he asked if Yardley
was at home; I said he was not; he said he was very sorry for it; I
asked him what he wanted; he said he came on purpose for me to take a
walk with him, but I did not go: he said he would wait until Yardley
came in. Church said I should do him a great favour if I would take
a walk with him; I would not go—he still pressed me very much to go:
I said I would if he would wait till I had cleaned myself: he waited
more than two hours for me; I went to sleep because I would not go
with him; and in the mean time he waited so long that he was tired;
he sent the waiter to call me, which he did, and said the Parson
wanted me, and had been waiting two hours for me; I said, let him
wait, for I should not come; he returned, and said if I would but
speak to him, he should go away happy; I found I could not get rid of
him—I went down stairs; he said, well, sir, I hope your nap has done
you good; I said, I don’t know, don’t bother me. He said I was very
cross to him; I told him there was other men without me; if he wanted
to preach, not to preach to me about crossness. He said, well, if
that was the case, he was very sorry he had offended me; I told him
he had not offended me nor pleased me; but as I was not well, the
less any one talked to me the better I liked it; he said, if I was
but friends with him, and shake hands with him, he should go away
happy. Mr. Yardley said, he never see such a fellow as I was, for I
had affronted every body that came to the house. I then shook hands
with the Parson, for at that time I did not know his name. He shook
hands with me, and we had something to drink, and Mr. Church paid for
it and went away. I never saw him till I came out of Newgate; I was
talking to Mr. and Mrs. Holloway, and telling them there was a Parson
somewhere about St George’s Fields, but his name I did not know. He
asked me if I should know him if I saw him, I said I should; by that
I went to the chapel and saw Mr. Church, and then I asked the people
what was the Parson’s name; they told me his name was Church. I said
he ought to be ashamed of himself to preach there, a ******** and
rascal, and left the place, and went home in the greatest pains I
ever felt in my life, and was resolved to see him, which I did the
next day, and give him one of the hand-bills; and the manner he
received me, was like a young man would his sweetheart;—I began my
conversation; Well, sir, I suppose you do not know me? He said he
did not. I said my name was Cook, that kept the Swan, in
Vere-street. He said he thought so, but was not sure: he said why
did I not call before and shake hands with a-body. I told him I did
not know where he lived, nor I did not know his name until I went to
the chapel and found him out. He told me not to make it known that
he ever came to my house, for he and Rowland Hill had daggers drawn,
and that he should be obliged to indite Hill to clear up his
character, and for God’s sake do not expose me.”—(_Here the narrative
breaks off_.)
As an orator, he delivers himself in a full, clear, articulate, tone of
voice; but, to criticise his style, or analyse the _substance_ of his
discourse, would be a fruitless labour; it would be like dissecting a
cobweb. Unmeaning rhapsodies and unconnected sentences, through which
the faintest gleam of morality is not to be traced, must, from their
evanescent nature, set the powers of recollection at defiance, they even
escape the lash of contempt. But, to gratify the reader, the following
_notes_ of a SERMON was taken down in short-hand as he delivered it:—
“God is frequently going forth, and we also are often going to the
window to look for him; the more _vile I am_ made to appear to the
_world_, the more God will _assist_ me. Every citizen is a
free-born. Many have wondered how I could go through so much
trouble. There have been a great many that have wished to see me—I
can inform them, I had much rather they had wished to see Christ.
People may be laughed at for being fools, but, you may depend upon
it, the more God will like them. All that believe not will certainly
be damned. The duties of christianity are not to be preached to an
ungodly world. John Church is very much spoken of, but they had much
better speak of Jesus. The people of the established church feel no
spiritual joy. Spiritual discourse is enlivening to the senses. &c.
The bread of life is not to be given away to _dogs_. I am not going
to turn auctioneer, but I am going to inform you, that, next Lord
day, I am going to publish a book, proving that God, the Son, and the
Spirit, are all one great God. My sermon will be good news and
comfort to all poor sinners. Satan and all his spirits never sleeps;
the power of life and death is only in the hands of our Lord Jesus
Christ. Devils are allowed to harass the people of God day and
night,—no wonder they perplex those they can’t destroy. People are
mostly liable to fall, in their first love, into awful heresies and
temptation. All the Lord’s people do not see into the glory of my
text—’tis like a jewel in a rock of adamant.—The worst sin was the
murdering of God’s saints. When I sit in darkness the Lord will be a
light unto me. I am never tired of preaching, and, I believe, my
dear brethren are never tired of hearing me. Many men laugh at the
doctrine of the new birth—are there not many learned doctors that
know nothing of it? Let a man come under any circumstances, I will
receive him—Don’t laugh at the doctrine of inspiration; be wise, it
has often been preached by our church. If every one that is saved
should be as bright as the sun, what a place heaven must be, where
there will be so many millions! Angels beckon me away, and Christ
bids me come. The sight of Christ, you may depend on’t, will be
worth suffering for. O that I had the voice of an archangel, I would
indeed do wonders. I doubt the superiority of one angel over another
in heaven—Christ is entirely independent of or with God. We must
have the spirit of God before we are his people. Believe in the
predestination of eternal life, but not in eternal death; people that
suffer were before-hand predestined so to do _by God_. Bad or horrid
is the religion of a proud pharisee. The MOB is seldom stirred up
but through priests; there is now a case of the very kind: envy
bursts forth through jealous and envious neighbouring _priests_, and
published by _deists_, there can be nothing to fear; and, I verily
believe; that any thing prayed for to Christ will certainly be
granted, as has always been the case with me. Let us for ever
endeavour to turn every thing, whether good or bad, into good. I do
not care who hears me, whether _God_ or _man_, _friends_ or _foes_,
_devils_ or _angels_, or any thing else; and let them call me an
Antinomian again if they please. There must be spiritual life in the
soul. I do not believe that God begot Jesus Christ—they say too that
Joseph was an impostor, at this very day:—everything that is done
against the church is done against Christ; also, that which is done
against Christ is done against the church; and anything done against
the people of God is done against Christ. It is a most blessed thing
that we can throw our burthens upon Christ. That religion that is
preached by the people of God is God himself. There can be no going
forth until the spirit of God has entered. The Lord Jesus Christ and
the people of God are all one. Christ has no sorrow but the people
of God must sympathise with him; and the people of God have no
affliction but that Christ sympathises with them. This monster—when
he was about to preach, would frequently say to his
_favorites_;—“Well, I am going tip ’em a gammoning story, my old
women would believe the moon to be made of green cheese, If I was to
tell them so. And I must tell them something.”
In consequence of a respectable young tradesman, in the Borough, Mr. E—
B—, who was one of his hearers, becoming disgusted with his hypocrisy,
and some attempts he had made upon him, leaving him altogether, he wrote
the following beastly epistles:—
Had this wretch received a classical education, one might suppose he had
been writing a paraphrase on Virgil’s eclogue, beginning with the
line—_Formasum_ Pastor Corydon _Ardebat Alexin_.
Copy of a letter, written by the Rev. John Church, Minister of the
Obelisk-Chapel, Blackfriars’-Road, to Mr. E— B—, Rodney-Street,
Kent-Street, Borough, dated March 3, 1809.
“Dear Ned,
“May the best blessings be yours in life and in death, while the
sweet sensations of real genuine disinterested friendship rules every
power of your mind, body, and soul. I can only say I wish you as
much captivated with sincere friendship as I am; but we all know our
own feelings best. Friendship, those best of names,—affection, those
sweetest power,—like some powerful charm that overcomes the mind. I
could write much on this subject, but dare not trust you with what I
could say, much as I esteem you.—You would consider it unmanly and
quite effeminate; and having already proved what human nature is, I
must conceal even these emotions of love which I feel. I wish I had
the honour of being loved by you as much and in as great a degree as
I do you. Sometimes the painful thought of a separation overpowers
me; many are now trying at it; but, last night, I told the persons
that called on me that, let them insinuate what they would, I would
never sacrifice my dear Ned to the shrine of any other friend on
earth; and that them you did not like, him should have none of my
company at all. I find, dear Ned, many are using all their power to
part us; but I hope it will prove in vain on your side: the effect
all this has upon me is to make me love you ten times more than ever.
I wish opposition may have the same effect upon you in this
particular; but I fear not. However, I am confident if you love me
now, or any other time, my heart will ever be sat upon you, nor can I
forget you till death. Your leaving of me will break my heart,—bring
down my poor mind with sorrow to the grave, and wring from my eyes
the briny tears, while my busy meddling memory will call to
remembrance the few pleasant hours we spent together. I picture to
my imagination the affecting scene, the painful thought. I must
close the affecting subject; ’tis more than my feelings are able to
bear.—My heart is full, my mind is sunk.—I shall be better when I
have vented out my grief. Stand fast, my dearest Ned, to me: I shall
to you whether you do to me or no; and may we be pardoned, justified,
and brought more to the knowledge of Christ. O help me to sing—
When thou, my righteous judge, shall come
To fetch thy ransom’d people home,
May I among them stand;
Let such a worthless worm as I,
That sometimes am afraid to die,
Be found at thy right hand.
I love to be among them now,
Before thy gracious feet to bow,
Though vilest of them all;
But, can I bear the piercing thought,
What if my name should be left out,
When thou for them should call.
Learn these two verses by heart, and then I will write two more, as
they are expressions of mind, fears, sensations, and desires.—I must
close, I long to see your dear face again, I long for Sunday morning,
till then God bless you.
I remain unalterably thy dear,
thy loving friend.
J. CHURCH.”
Another letter was received by Mr. E— B— on the 15th of March, 1809, from
Church, without a date, as follows:
“Dear Sir,
“Is this thy kindness to thy once professed much loved friend, surely
I never, never, did deserve such cruel treatment at your hands; why
not speak to me last night in James-Street when you heard me call,
stop! stop! Ned! do, pray do; but cruel, cruel, Ned, deaf to all
intreaties—O why was I permitted to pass the door of Mr. Gibbons when
you and West were coming out. Why was I permitted to tramp up and
down the New Cut after you; I only wanted to speak one bitter,
heart-breaking, painful, distressing, word, farewell: I only wanted
to pour my sorrows into your bosom, to shake hands with you once
more, but I was denied this indulgence. I never, never, thought you
would deceive me—O, what an unhappy man am I; the thing that I most
feared is come upon me, no excuse can justify such apparent
duplicity; O, my distress is great indeed. O my God! what shall I
do? O Christ! O God! support me in this trying hour, what a night
am I passing through; I cannot sleep, its near three o’clock; alas!
sleep is departed, how great my grief, how bitter my sorrows, the
loss of my character is nothing to the loss of one dearer to me than
anything else. O let me give vent to tears; but I am too, too, much
distressed to cry; O that I could. I feel this like a dagger; never,
never, can I forgive the unhappy instrument of my distress in
Charlotte-street. Why did my dear friend Edward deceive me? O how
my mind was eased on Wednesday night; alas, how distressed on
Thursday. I have lost my only bosom friend, nearest, dearest,
friend, bosom from bosom torn, how horrid! Ah, dear Suffolk-court,
never surely can I see you again. How the Philistines will triumph;
there, so would we have it: how Ebeir, Calvin, Thompson, Edwards,
Bridgman, all will rejoice, and I have lost my friend, my all in this
world, except the other part of myself, my wife, and poor babes;
never did I expect this from my dear E— B—. O for a calm mind, that
I might sleep till day-light; but no, this I fear will be denied me.
How can I bear the piercing thought, parted; a dreadful word, worst
of sensations, the only indulgence, the only confident, the only
faithful, the only kind and indulgent, sympathising, friend, to lose
you. O what a stroke; O what a cut, what shall I do for matter on
Sunday; O that I could get some one to preach for me; how can I lift
up my head. O sir, if you have a grain of affection left for me, do
intreat of God to support me; this is a worse affliction than the
loss of my character nine months ago. A man cannot lose his
character twice. O, I did think you knew better; I did think I had
found one in you that I could not find elsewhere; but no, the first
object presented to you, seen suddenly, gained your mind, gained your
affections; and I, poor, unhappy, distressed, I, am left to deplore
your loss. O for submission, but I am distressed; woe is me. O that
I had never, never, known you, then I should never feel what I do;
but I thank you for your company hitherto, I have enjoyed it four
months exactly, but this is over for ever; miserable as I am, I wish
you well for ever, for ever. I write in the bitterness of my soul
which I feel. May you never be cursed with the feelings I possess as
long as you live. What a day I have before me! I cannot go out of
my house till Sunday morning. How can I conceal my grief from my
dear wife?—how shall I hide it?—what shall I say?—I am miserable, nor
can I surmount the shock at all. I have no friend to pour out my
sorrows to now, I wish I had; I am sorry you are so easily duped by
any to answer their purposes: my paper is full, my paper is full, my
heart is worse; God help me! Lord God support me! What shall I do,
dear God! O Lord have mercy on me! I must close; this comes from
your ever loving, but distressed,