SOME PREACHERS I HAVE KNOWN.
MR. MOODY.
I heard Mr. Moody preach twice when he paid his first visit to this
country. Borrowing an idea from another profession, he had a series of
rehearsals before he came to London. It was in the Free Trade Hall,
Manchester, and service opened at eight o'clock on a frosty morning in
December. I had to stand during the whole of the service, one of a crowd
wedged in the passages between the closely-packed benches. Every
available seat had been occupied shortly after seven, when the doors
were thrown open. The galleries were thronged, and even the balconies at
the rear of the hall were full to overflowing. The audience were, I
should say, pretty equally divided in the matter of sex, and were
apparently of the class of small tradesmen, clerks, and well-to do
mechanics; that was the general class of the morning congregation. But
it must not therefore be understood that the upper class in Manchester
stood aloof from the special services of the American gentlemen. At the
afternoon meeting, elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen, wearing
spotless kid gloves and coats of irreproachable cut, struggled for a
place in the mighty throng that streamed into the hall.
Punctually at eight o'clock the meeting was opened by one of the local
clergymen, who prayed for a blessing on the day and the work, declaring,
amid subdued but triumphant cries from portions of the congregation,
that "the Lord has risen indeed! Now is the stone rolled away from the
sepulchre, and the Kingdom of God is at hand." Mr. Moody, who sat at a
small desk in front of the platform, advanced and gave out the hymn,
"Guide us, O Thou Great Jehovah," the singing of which Mr. Sankey,
sitting before a small harmonium, led and accompanied, the vast
congregation joining with great heartiness.
"Mr. Sankey will now sing a hymn by himself," said Mr. Moody; whereupon
there was a movement in the hall, a rustling of dresses, and a general
settling down to hear something special.
The movement was so prolonged that Mr. Moody again stood up, and begged
that every one would be "perfectly still whilst Mr. Sankey sang." There
was another pause, Mr. Sankey waiting with marked punctiliousness till
the last cougher had got over his difficulty. Presently the profound
stillness was broken by the harmonium--"melodeon" is, I believe, the
precise name of the instrument--softly sounding a bar of music. Then Mr.
Sankey suddenly and loudly broke in with the first line of the hymn,
"What are you going to do, brother?"
Mr Sankey has a fairly good voice, which he used in what is called "an
effective" manner, singing certain lines of the hymn _pianissimo_, and
giving the recurrent line, "What are you going to do, brother?" _forte_,
with a long dwelling on the monosyllable "do." When he reached the
last verse, he, after a short pause, began to play a tune well known at
these meetings, into which the congregation struck with a mighty voice
that served to bring into stronger prominence the artificial character
of the preceding performance. The words had a martial, inspiriting sound,
and as the verse rolled forth, filling the great hall with a mighty
musical noise, one could see the eyes of strong men fill with tears.
"Ho, my comrades! see the signal
Waving in the sky;
Reinforcements now appearing,
Victory is nigh!
'Hold the fort, for I am coming,'
Jesus signals still;
Wave the answer back to Heaven,
'By Thy grace we Will.'"
The subject of Mr. Moody's address was "Daniel"--whom he once,
referring to the prophet's position under King Darius, dubbed "the
Bismarck of those times," and always called "Dan'l." One might converse
for an hour with Mr. Moody without discovering from his accent that he
comes from the United States. But it is unmistakable when he preaches,
and especially in the colloquies supposed to have taken place between
characters in the Bible and elsewhere.
He began his discourse without other preface than a half apology for
selecting a subject which, it might be supposed, everybody knew
everything about. But, for his part, he liked to take out and look upon
the photographs of old friends when they were far away, and he hoped his
hearers would not think it waste of time to take another look at the
picture of Dan'l. One peculiarity about Dan'l was that there was nothing
against his character to be found all through the Bible. Nowadays, when
men write biographies, they throw what they call the veil of charity
over the dark spots in a career. But when God writes a man's life he
puts it all in. So it happened that there are found very few, even of
the best men in the Bible, without their times of sin. But Dan'l came out
spotless, and the preacher attributed his exceptionally bright life
to the power of saying "No."
After this exordium, Mr. Moody proceeded to tell in his own words the
story of the life of Daniel. Listening to him, it was not difficult to
comprehend the secret of his power over the masses. Like Bunyan, he
possesses the great gift of being able to realise things unseen, and to
describe his vision in familiar language to those whom he addresses. His
notion of "Babylon, that great city," would barely stand the test of
historic research. But that there really was in far-off days a great
city called Babylon, in which men bustled about, ate and drank, schemed
and plotted, and were finally overruled by the visible hand of God, he
made as clear to the listening congregation as if he were talking about
Chicago.
He filled the lay figures with life, clothed them with garments, and
then made them talk to each other in the English language as it is
to-day accented in some of the American States.
On the previous night I had heard him deliver an address in one of the
densely populated districts of Salford. Admission to the chapel in which
the service was held was exclusively confined to women, and,
notwithstanding it was Saturday night, there were at least a thousand
sober-looking and respectably dressed women present. The subject of the
discussion was Christ's conversation with Nicodemus--whose social
position Mr. Moody incidentally made familiar to the congregation by
observing, "if he had lived in these days, he would have been a doctor
of divinity, Nicodemus, D. D, or perhaps LL D." His purpose was to make
it clear that men are saved, not by any action of their own, but simply
by faith. This he illustrated, among other ways, by introducing a
domestic scene from the life of the children of Israel in the Wilderness
at the time the brazen serpent was lifted up. The dramatis personae were
a Young Convert, a Sceptic, and the Sceptic's Mother. The convert, who
has been bitten by the serpent, and, having followed Moses' injunction,
is cured, "comes along" and finds the sceptic lying down "badly bitten."
He entreats him to look upon the brazen serpent which Moses has lifted
up. But the sceptic has no faith in the alleged cure, and refuses.
"Do you think," he says, "I'm going to be saved by looking at a brass
serpent away off on a pole? No, no."
"Wall, I dunno," says the young convert, "but I was saved that way
myself. Don't you think you'd better try it?"
The sceptic refuses, and his mother "comes along," and observes,
--"Hadn't you better look at it, my boy?"
"Well, mother, the fact is, if I could understand the f'losophy of it I
would look up right off; but I don't see how a brass serpent away off on
a pole can cure me."
And so he dies in his unbelief.
It seemed odd to hear this conversation from the Wilderness recited,
word for word, in the American vernacular, and with a local colouring
that suggested that both the sceptic and the young convert wore
tail-coats, and that the mother had "come along" in a stuff dress. But
when the preacher turned aside, and in a few words spoke of sons who
would not hear the counsel of Christian mothers and refused to "look
up and live," the silent tears that coursed down many a face in the
congregation showed that his homely picture had been clear as the
brazen serpent in the Wilderness to the eyes of faith before which
it was held up.
The story of Daniel is one peculiarly susceptible of Mr. Moody's usual
method of treatment, and for three-quarters of an hour he kept the
congregation at the morning meeting enthralled whilst he told how
Daniel's simple faith triumphed over the machinations of the unbeliever.
Mr. Moody's style is unlike that of most religious revivalists. He
neither shouts nor gesticulates, and mentioned "hell" only once, and
that in connection with the life the drunkard makes for himself. His
manner is reflected by the congregation in respect of abstention from
working themselves up into "a state." This makes all the more impressive
the signs of genuine emotion which follow and accompany the preacher's
utterance. When he was picturing the scene of Daniel translating the
king's dream, rapidly reciting Daniel's account of the dream, and
Nebuchadnezzar's quick and delighted ejaculation, "That's so!" "That's
it!" as he recognised the incidents, I fancied it was not without
difficulty some of the people, bending forward, listening with
glistening eye and heightened colour, refrained from clapping their
hands for glee that the faithful Daniel, the unyielding servant of
God, had triumphed over tribulation, and had walked out of prison
to take his place on the right hand of the king.
There was not much exhortation throughout the discourse, not the
slightest reference to any disputed point of doctrine. It was nothing
more than a re-telling of the story of Daniel. But whilst
Nebuchadnezzar, Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, Darius, and even
the hundred and twenty princes, became for the congregation living and
moving beings, all the ends of the narrative were, with probably
unconscious, certainly unbetrayed, art, gathered together to lead up to
the one lesson--that compromise, where truth and religion are concerned,
is never worthy of those who profess to believe God's word.
"I am sick of the shams of the present day," said Mr. Moody, bringing
his discourse to a sudden close. "I am tired of the way men parley
with the world whilst they are holding out their hands to be lifted
into heaven. If we're gwine to be good Christians and God's people let
us be so out-and-out."
"BENDIGO."
Bendigo, the erewhile famous champion of England, I one evening found in
the pulpit at the London Cabman's Mission Hall. After quitting the ring,
Bendigo took to politics; that is to say, he, for a consideration,
directed at Parliamentary elections the proceedings of the "lambs" in
his native town of Nottingham. Now he had given up even that
worldliness, and had taken to preaching. His fame had brought together a
large congregation. The Hall was crowded to overflowing, and the
proceedings were, as one of the speakers described it, conducted "by
shifts," the leaders, including Bendigo, going downstairs to address the
crowd collected in the lower room after having spoken to the
congregation in the regular meeting hall.
The service was opened with prayer by Mr. John Dupee, superintendent of
the Mission, after which the congregation vigorously joined in the
singing of a hymn. A second hymn followed upon the reading of a psalm;
and Mr. Dupee proceeded to say a few words about "our dear and saved
brother, Bendigo." With a frankness that in no wise disconcerted the
veteran prizefighter, Mr. Dupee discussed and described the condition
in which he had lived up to about two years ago. The speaker was, it
appeared, a fellow-townsman of Bendigo's, and his recollection of him
went back for nearly forty years, at which time his state was so bad
that Mr. Dupee, then a lad, used to walk behind him through the streets
of Nottingham praying that he might be forgiven. Now he was saved, and,
quoting the handbill that had advertised the meeting, Mr. Dupee hailed
him as "a miracle of mercy, the greatest miracle of the nineteenth
century," which view the congregation approved by fervent cries of
"Praise the Lord!" "Hallelujah!"
Whether Bendigo would stand steadfast in the new course he had begun
to tread was a matter which--Mr. Dupee did not hide it--was freely
discussed in the circles where the ex-champion was best known. But
he had now gone straight for two years, and Mr. Dupee believed he
would keep straight.
Before introducing Bendigo to the meeting, Mr. Dupee said his own
"brother Jim" would say a few words, his claim upon the attention of
the congregation being enforced by the asseveration that he was "the
next great miracle of the nineteenth century." From particulars which
Mr. Dupee proceeded to give in relation to the early history of his
brother, it would be difficult to decide whether he or Bendigo had
the fuller claim to the title of the "wickedest man in Nottingham."
A single anecdote told to the discredit of his early life must
suffice in indication of its general character. He was, it appeared,
always getting tipsy and arriving home at untimely hours.
"One night," said the preacher, "he came home very late, and was
kicking up an awful row in the street just before he came in. I
opened the window, and, looking out, said to him very gently, 'Now
Jim, do come in without waking mother.' And what d'ye think he said?
Why, he said nothing, but just up with a brick and heaved it at me.
That was Jim in the old days," he continued, turning to his brother
with an admiring glance. "He always was lively as a sinner, and
he's just the same now he's on his way to join the saints."
"Jim" even at the outset fully justified this exordium by suddenly
approaching the pulpit desk with his hands stretched out, singing the
"Hallelujah band." In the course of an address delivered with much
animation and filled with startling phrases, it became clear that
"Jim" had been the immediate instrument of the conversion of Bendigo.
He added considerably to the stock of information respecting the
early life of that personage, and told in detail how better things
began to dawn upon him.
At the outset of his new career Bendigo's enthusiasm was somewhat
misdirected, as was manifested at an infidel meeting he attended in
company with his sponsor.
"Who's them chaps on the platform?" said Bendigo to Jim.
"Infidels," said Jim.
"What's that?" queried Bendigo.
"Why, fellows as don't believe in God or the devil."
"Then come along, and we'll soon clear the platform," said Bendigo,
beginning to strip.
Jim's address lasted for nearly half an hour, and when at last brought
to a conclusion he went below to "begin again" with the crowd in the
lower room.
Mr. Dupee again appeared at the desk and said they would sing a verse
of a hymn, after which Bendigo would address them, and the plate would
be handed round for a collection to cover the cost of the bills and of
Bendigo's travelling expenses. The hymn was a well-known one, with, as
given out by the preacher, an alteration in the second line thus:
"Praise God from whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him for brother Bendigo."
This sung with mighty volume of sound, Bendigo, who had all this time
been quietly seated on the platform, advanced, and began to speak in a
simple, unaffected, but wholly unintelligent manner. He was decently
dressed in a frock-coat, with black velveteen waistcoat buttoned over
his broad chest. He was still, despite his threescore years, straight
as a pole; and had a fine healthy looking face, that belied the fearful
stories told by his friends of his dissipation. Except a certain
flattening of the bridge of the nose, a slight indentation on the
forehead between the eyebrows, and the crooked finger on his left hand,
he bore no traces of many pitched fights of which he is the hero, and
might in such an assembly have been taken for a mild-mannered family
coachman.
His address, though occasionally marked by the grotesque touches which
characterised the remarks of the two preceding speakers, was not without
touches of pathos.
"I've been a fighting character," he said, and this was a periphrastic
way of referring to his old occupation in which he evidently took great
pleasure; "but now I'm a Miracle. What could I do? I was the
youngest-born of twenty-one children, and the first thing done with me
was to put me in a workhouse. There I got among fellows who brought me
out, and I became a fighting character. Thirty years ago I came up to
London to fight Ben Caunt, and I licked him. I'm sixty-three now, and
I didn't think I should ever come up to London to fight for King Jesus.
But here I am, and I wish I could read out of the blessed Book for then
I could talk to you better. But I never learnt to read, though I'm
hoping by listening to the conversation around me to pick up a good
deal of the Bible, and then I'll talk to you better. I'm only two years
old at present, and know no more than a baby. It's two years ago since
Jesus came to me and had a bout with me, and I can tell you He licked
me in the first round. He got me down on my knees the first go, and
there I found grace. I've got a good many cups and belts which I won
when I was a fighting character. Them cups and belts will fade, but
there's a crown being prepared for old Bendigo that'll never fade."
This and much more to the same purport the veteran said, and then Mr.
Dupee interposed with more "few words," the plate was sent round, and
the superintendent and Bendigo went downstairs to relieve "brother Jim,"
the echo of whose stentorian voice had occasionally been wafted in at
the open door whilst Bendigo was relating his experiences.
"FIDDLER JOSS."
It was at another Mission Chapel in Little Wild Street, Drury Lane, that
I "sat under" Fiddler Joss. His "dictionary name," as in the course of
the evening I learned from one of his friends, is Mr. Joseph Poole. The
small bills which invited all into whose hands they might fall to "come
and hear Fiddler Joss" added the injunction "Come early to secure a
seat." The doors were opened at half-past six, and those who obeyed the
injunction found themselves in a somewhat depressing minority. At
half-past six there were not more than a score of people present, and
these looked few indeed within the walls of the spacious chapel. It is a
surprise to find so well-built, commodious, it may almost be added
handsome, a building in such a poor neighbourhood, and bearing so humble
a designation. It provides comfortable sitting room for twelve hundred
persons. There is a neat, substantial gallery running round the hall,
and forming at one end a circular pulpit, evidently designed after the
fashion of Mr. Spurgeon's at the Tabernacle--a building of which the
Mission Chapel is in many respects a miniature.
The congregation began to drop in by degrees, and proved to be of a
character altogether different from what might have been expected in
such a place on such an occasion. Out of ten people perhaps one belonged
to the class among which London missionaries are accustomed to labour.
But while men and women of the "casual" order were almost entirely
absent, and men of what is called in this connection "the working class"
were few and far between, there entered by hundreds people who looked as
if they were the responsible owners of snug little businesses in the
provision, stationery, or "general" line. An air of profound
respectability, combined with the enjoyment of creature comforts,
prevailed.
Whilst waiting for seven o'clock, the hour for the service to commence,
a voluntary choir sang hymns, and the rapidly growing congregation
joined in fitful snatches of harmony. Little hymn-books with green paper
backs were liberally distributed, and there was no excuse for silence on
the score of unfamiliarity with the hymns selected. At seven o'clock the
preacher of the evening appeared on the rostrum, accompanied by two
gentlemen accustomed, it appeared, to take a leading part in conducting
the service in the chapel. One gave out a hymn, reading it verse by
verse, and starting the tune with stentorian voice. This concluded, his
colleague prayed, in a loud voice, and with energetic action. "We must
have souls to-night," he said, smiting the rail of the pulpit; "we must
have souls--not by ones and twos--and we must have them to-night in this
place. There is a drunkard in this place. Give us his soul, O God! There
is a thief in this place; I do not know where he sits, but God knows. We
want to benefit God, and we must have souls to-night, not by twos and
threes, but in hundreds."
After this there was another hymn, sung even with increased volume of
sound. Energy was the predominant characteristic of the whole service,
and it reached its height in the singing of hymns, when the congregation
found the opportunity of joining their leaders in the devotional
utterance. There were half a dozen women in the congregation who had
solved the home difficulty about the baby by bringing it with them to
chapel. The little ones, catching the enthusiasm of the place, joined
audibly in all the acts of worship save in the singing. They crowed
during the prayers, chattered during the reading of the lesson, and
loudly wept at intervals throughout the sermon. But there was no room
for their shrill voices in the mighty shout which threatened to rend the
roof when hymns were sung.
Fiddler Joss, being impressively introduced by one of the gentlemen in
the pulpit, began without preface to read rapidly from the fifth chapter
of Romans, a task he accomplished with the assistance of a pair of
double eyeglasses. He formally appropriated no text, and it would be
difficult to furnish any connected account of his sermon. Evidently
accustomed to address open-air audiences, he spoke at the topmost pitch
of a powerful voice. Without desire to misapply rules of criticism, and
in furtherance of an honest intention to describe impressions in as
simple a form as may be, it must be added that the sermon was as far
above the heads of a mission-chapel congregation as was the pitch of the
preacher's voice. Its key-note was struck by an anecdote which Joss
introduced at the outset of his discourse. There was, he said, a
clergyman walking down Cheapside one day, when he heard a man calling
out, "Buy a pie." The clergyman looked at the man, and recognised in him
a member of his church.
"What, John," he said, "is this what you do in the weekdays?"
"Yes," said the man, "I earn an honest living by selling pies."
"Poor fellow," said the parson, "how I pity you."
"Bother your pity; buy a pie," retorted the man.
That, according to Fiddler Joss, is the way in which constituted
authorities in church and chapel matters deal with the poor man in
London and elsewhere. Mr. Methodist would not speak to Mr. Baptist, Mr.
Wesleyan would have nothing to do with Mr. Congregationalist, Mr. High
Church scoffed at Mr. Low Church, Mr. Low Church did not care what
became of any of the rest, and among them all the poor man was utterly
neglected.
"How we pity you," these people said to the poor man.
"Bother your pity," the poor man answered; "buy a pie."
Beyond this central argument, affirmation, or illustration, Fiddler Joss
did not get far in the course of the thirty-five minutes during which he
addressed the congregation. At this period he suddenly stopped, and
asked for the sympathy of his friends, explaining that he was subject to
attacks of sickness, one of the legacies of the days of sin, when he was
"five years drunk and never sober." After a pause he recommenced, and
continued for some five minutes longer, when he abruptly wound up,
apparently having got through only one half of his discourse.
It is only fair to regard the sermon as an incomplete one, and to
believe that the message which "Fiddler Joss" had entered St. Giles's to
speak to the poor and suffering lay in the second and undelivered
portion.
DEAN STANLEY.
On St. Andrew's Day, 1875, I was present at two memorable services in
Westminster Abbey. For many years during Dean Stanley's reign this
particular day had been set apart for the holding of special services
on behalf of foreign missions. What made this occasion memorable in the
annals of the Church was the fact that the evening lecture was delivered
by Dr. Moffat, a Nonconformist minister who, in the year after the
Battle of Waterloo, began his career as a missionary to South Africa,
and finally closed his foreign labours in the year when Sedan was
fought. As being the first time a Nonconformist minister had officiated
in Westminster Abbey, the event created wide interest, and lost none of
its importance by the remarkable sermon preached in the afternoon by
Dean Stanley.
The Dean took for his text two verses, one from the Old Testament, the
other from the New. The first was from the 45th Psalm, and ran thus:
"Instead of thy fathers shall be thy children, whom thou mayest make
princes in all the earth." The second was the 16th verse of the 10th
chapter of the Gospel of St. John: "And other sheep I have, which are
not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear My
voice; and there shall be one fold and one shepherd." Thus the verse
runs in the ordinary translation, but the Dean preferred the word
"flock" in place of fold, and used it throughout his discourse.
Referring to an address recently delivered by Mr. W. E. Forster on
"Our Colonies," the Dean observed that the right hon. gentleman had set
himself the task of considering the question, "What were to be the
future relations of the Mother Country to the Colonies?" The Dean
proposed to follow the same course, with this difference: that the
empire of which he had to speak was a spiritual empire, and the question
he would consider was what ought to be the policy of the Church of
England towards fellow-Christians separated from it on matters of form.
There were, he said, three courses open to the Church. There was the
policy of abstention and isolation; there was the policy of
extermination or absorption; and there was a middle course, avoiding
abstention and not aiming at absorption, which consisted of holding
friendly and constant intercourse with Christians of other Churches,
earnestly and lovingly endeavouring to create as many points of contact
as were compatible with holding fast the truth. The errors of all
religions run into each other, just as their truths do. There was, no
doubt, some exaggeration in the statement of the Roman Catholic
authority who declared that "there is but one bad religion, and that is
the religion of the man who professes what he does not believe." But
there was no reason why, because the Church of England had done in times
past and was still doing grand work, there should be no place for the
Nonconformists. Church people rejoiced, and Nonconformists might
rejoice, that the prayers of the Church of England were enshrined in a
Liturgy radiant with the traditions of a glorious past. But that was no
reason why there should be no room where good work was being done for
men who preferred the chances of extemporaneous prayer--a custom of
Apostolic origin, and perhaps (very daintily this was put) fittest for
the exigencies of special occasions.
If some of the extremer Nonconformists, desirous of wrapping
themselves in the mantle once worn by Churchmen, and possessed by a love
for uniformity so exaggerated that they would tear down ancient
institutions and reduce all Churches to the same level, there was no
reason why Churchmen should return evil for evil and repay contumely
with scorn. There was a nobler mission for Christians than that of
seeking to exterminate each other, a higher object than that of
endeavouring to sow the seeds of vulgar prejudice either against new
discoveries or ancient institutions.
DR. MOFFAT.
Dean Stanley preached his sermon within the chancel, and it formed part
of the customary afternoon service of the Church of England. Dr. Moffat
delivered his lecture in the nave, its simple preface being the singing
of the missionary hymn, "From Greenland's icy mountains."
The pioneer of missionary labour in South Africa was at this time close
upon his eightieth year, but he seemed to have thriven upon hard work,
and showed no signs of physical weakness. His full, rich voice, musical
with a northern accent, which long residence in South Africa had not
robbed of a note, filled every corner of the long aisle, and no section
of the vast congregation was disappointed by reason of not hearing.
Wearing a plain Geneva robe with the purple hood of his academic degree,
he stood at the lectern, situated not many paces from the grave where
his friend and son-in-law, Dr. Livingstone, lies.
Dean Stanley was one of many clergymen present, and occupied a seat just
in front of the lectern.
Dr. Moffat began by protesting that he was very nervous, because, having
been accustomed for fifty years or more to speak and teach and preach in
a language altogether different from European, he had contracted a habit
of thinking in that language, and sometimes found it momentarily
difficult to find the exact expression of his thoughts in English.
"If I might," he said, with a touch of dry humour that frequently
lighted up his discourse, "speak to you in the Betchuana tongue I could
get along with ease. However, I will do what I can."
The lecture resolved itself into a quiet, homely, and exceedingly
interesting chat, chiefly about the Betchuanas, with whom Dr. Moffat
longest laboured. When he arrived in the country, early in the present
century, he found the people sunk in the densest ignorance. Unlike most
heathen tribes, they had no idea of a God, no notion of a hereafter.
There was not an idol to be found in all their province, and one the
lecturer's daughter showed to an intelligent leader of the people
excited his liveliest astonishment. He was, indeed, so hopelessly
removed from a state of civilisation that he ridiculed the notion of any
one worshipping a thing made with his own hands.
Dr. Moffat seems to have been, on the whole, kindly received by the
natives, though they could not make out what he wanted there. A special
stumbling-block to them was, how it came to pass that when, as sometimes
happened, he and Mrs Moffat were disrespectfully treated, they did not
retaliate. This was satisfactorily explained to the popular mind by the
assertion of a distinguished member of the community that the foreigners
had run away from their country, and were content to bear any treatment
rather than return to their own people, who would infallibly kill them.
The great difficulty met by Dr. and Mrs. Moffat on the threshold of
their mission was their ignorance of the native language. There were no
interpreters, and there was nothing for it but to grub along, patiently
picking up words as they went. The Betchuanas were willing to teach them
as far as they could, occasionally relieving the monotony of the lesson
by a little joke at the pupils' expense. Once, Dr. Moffat told his
hearers, a sentence was written down on a piece of paper, and he was
instructed to take it to an aged lady, who was to give him something he
was in need of. He found the old lady, who was scarcely handsome, and
was decidedly wrinkled, and upon presenting the paper "she blushed very
much." It turned out that the missionary had been the unconscious bearer
of a message asking the old lady to kiss him, "which," Dr. Moffat added,
with a seriousness that appeared to indicate a sense of the awkwardness
of the position still present in his mind, "I did not want to do at
all."
But he mastered the language at last, and then his moral mastery over
the strange people amongst whom he had been thrown commenced. He found a
firm ally in the Queen, who, first attracted by the flavour of the pills
and other delicacies he was accustomed to administer to her in his
capacity of physician, became his constant and powerful friend. Under
her auspices Christianity flourished, and in Betchuana at the present
time, where once a printed book was regarded as the white man's charm,
thousands now are able to read and treasure the Bible as formerly they
treasured the marks which testified to the number of enemies they had
slain in battle. Peace reigns where once blood ran, and over a vast
tract of country civilisation is closely following in the footsteps of
the missionary.
Dr. Moffat concluded a simple address, followed with intense interest by
the congregation, by an earnest plea for help for foreign missions. "If
every child of God in Europe and America," he said, "would give
something to this mission, the dark cloud which lies over this neglected
and mysterious continent would soon be lighted, and before many years
are passed we might behold the blessed sight of all Africa stretching
forth her hands to God."
MR. SPURGEON.
In a lane leading from the station at Addlestone is a massive oak,
which, if the gossips of the neighbourhood be trustworthy, has seen some
notable sights. It is said that under its far-reaching branches
"Wycliffe has preached and Queen Elizabeth dined."
Here one summer evening I first heard Mr. Spurgeon preach. The occasion
was in connection with the building of a new Baptist Chapel, and when I
arrived the foundation stone was being utilised as a receptacle for
offerings, over which Mr. Spurgeon, sitting on the wall, and shaded from
the sun by an umbrella reverently held over his head by a disciple,
jovially presided.
After tea a pulpit was extemporised, upon the model of the one at the
Tabernacle, by covering an empty provision box with red baize, and
fastening before it a wooden railing, also with its decent covering of
baize. A pair of steps, constructed with a considerable amount of
trouble, were placed in position before the rostrum; but when, a few
minutes after seven o'clock, the preacher appeared, he scorned their
assistance, and scrambled on to the box from the level of the field,
grasping the rail as soon as he was in a position to face the
congregation, as if he recognised in it a familiar friend, whose
presence made him feel at home under the novel circumstances that
surrounded him. There might, when Mr. Spurgeon stood up, have been
some doubt whether his voice could be heard throughout the vast throng
gathered in front of the tree. But the first tones of the speaker's
voice dispelled uncertainty, and the congregation settled quietly down,
whilst Mr. Spurgeon, with uplifted hands, besought "the Spirit of God to
be with them, even as in their accustomed places of worship." A hymn was
sung, a portion of the 55th chapter of Isaiah read, another prayer
offered up, and the preacher commenced his Sermon.
He took for his text a portion of the 36th verse of the 9th chapter of
Matthew--"He was moved with compassion." At the outset he sketched, with
rapid eloquence, the history of Jesus Christ. The first declaration that
might have startled one not accustomed to the preacher's style of
oratory was his expression of a preference for people who absolutely
hated religion over those who simply regarded it with indifference.
These former were people who showed they did think, and, like Saul of
Tarsus, there was hope of their conversion.
"It is," he said, "a great time when the Lord goes into the devil's
army, and, looking around him, sees some lieutenant, and says to him,
'Come along; you have served the black master long enough, I have need
of you now.' It is astonishing how quietly he comes along, and what a
valiant fight he fights on the side of his new master."
Mr. Spurgeon had a protest to make against the practice of refusing to
help the poor except through the machinery of the Poor Law. Referring to
Christ's having compassionated the hungry crowd and fed them, he said:
"If Jesus Christ were alive now and presumed to feed a crowd of people,
He would be had up by some society or other, and prosecuted for
encouraging mendicancy. If He were alive in these days He would, I much
fear, have occasion to say, 'I was hungry, and ye fed Me not; thirsty,
and ye gave Me no drink; destitute, and you told Me to go on the
parish.'"
He thought tracts were very good things in their way, but should not be
relied upon solely as a means of bringing poor people to the Lord. "I
believe a loaf of bread often contains the very essence of theology, and
the Church of God ought to look to it that there are at her gates no,
poor unfed, no sick untended." He was rather hard on "the clergy of all
denominations," regretting to say that "as fish always stunk first at
the head, so a Church when it goes wrong goes bad first among its
ministers." He concluded by an eloquent appeal to his hearers to lose no
time in seeking salvation, calling "heaven and earth, and this old tree,
under which the Gospel was preached five hundred years ago, to bear
witness that I have preached to you the word of God, in which alone
salvation is to be found."
The sermon occupied exactly an hour in the delivery, and was listened to
throughout with profound attention. When it was over, Mr. Spurgeon held
a sort of levee from the pulpit, the people pressing round to shake his
hand, and it was nearly nine o'clock before the last of the congregation
had passed away, leaving Wycliffe's Tree to its accustomed solitude.
The next time I heard Mr. Spurgeon preach was in his famous church. The
Tabernacle will hold six thousand people when full, and on this night it
was thronged from door to door, and from floor to ceiling, with a
congregation gathered together to "watch" whilst the Old Year died and
the New was born. At eleven o'clock when Mr. Spurgeon, gownless and
guiltless of white neck-tie, or other clerical insignia, unceremoniously
walked on to the platform which serves him for pulpit, there was not a
foot of vacant space in the vast area looked down upon from the
galleries, for even the aisles were thronged. The capacious galleries
that rise tier over tier to the roof were crowded in like manner, and
the preacher stood, faced and surrounded by a congregation, the sight of
which might well move to the utterance of words that burn a man who had
within him a fount of thoughts that breathe.
There was no other prelude to the service than the simply spoken
invitation, "Let us pray," and the six thousand, declaring themselves
"creatures of time," bent the knee with one accord to ask the "Lord of
Eternity" to bless them in the coming year. After this a hymn was sung,
Mr. Spurgeon reading out verse by verse, with occasional commentary, and
not unfrequent directions to the congregation as to the manner of their
singing.
"Dear friends, the devil sometimes makes you lag half a note behind the
leader. Just try if you can't prevail over him to-night, and keep up in
proper time."
There is no organ, nor even a tuning-fork, in use at the Tabernacle. But
the difficulties, apparently insuperable under these circumstances, of
leading so vast a congregation in the singing of unpractised tunes is
almost overcome by the skilful generalship of the gentleman who steps
forward to the rails beside the preacher's table, pitches the note,
and leads the singing. The hymn brought to a conclusion, Mr. Spurgeon
read and commented upon a passage of Scripture from the 25th of Matthew.
Then another hymn. "Sing this verse very softly and solemnly," says the
pastor; and the congregation in hushed tones, that seem to thrill all
through the aisles and up through the crowded galleries, sing:
"Who of us death's awful road
In the coming year shall tread,
With Thy rod and staff, O God,
Comfort Thou his dying bed."
After another prayer from the pastor, and one from one of the deacons
who accompanied him on the platform and sat behind in the crimson velvet
arm-chairs, a third hymn was sung, and Mr. Spurgeon began his short
address.
He took for text the 42nd verse of the 12th chapter of Exodus: "It is a
night to be much observed unto the Lord for bringing them out from the
land of Egypt: this is that night of the Lord to be observed of all the
children of Israel in their generations." The night referred to in the
text was that of the Passover--"a night of salvation, decision,
emigration, and exultation," said the preacher, "and I pray God that
this night, the last of a memorable year, may be the same for you, my
friends. Oh for a grand emigration among you like that of the departure
of the people of Israel--an emptying out of old Egypt, a robbing of
Pharaoh of his slaves, and the devil of his dupes!"
It was understood that Mr. Spurgeon was labouring under severe
indisposition, and probably this fact gave to his brief address a tone
comparatively quiet and unimpassioned. Only once did he rise to the
fervent height of oratory to which his congregation are accustomed, and
that at the close, when, with uplifted hands and louder voice, he
apostrophised the parting year: "Thou art almost gone, and if thou goest
now the tidings to the throne of God will be that such and such a soul
is yet unsaved. Oh, stay yet a while, Year, that thou mayest carry with
thee glad tidings that the soul is saved! Thy life is measured now by
seconds, but all things are possible with God, and there is still time
for the salvation of many souls."
At five minutes to twelve the preacher paused, and bade his hearers "get
away to the Throne of Grace, and in silent prayer beseech the Almighty
to bless you with a rich and special blessing in the new year He is
sending you."
The congregation bent forward and a great silence was upon it, broken
only by half-stifled coughing here and there, and once by the wailing of
an infant in the gallery. The minutes passed slowly and solemnly as the
Old Year's "face grew sharp and thin" under the ticking of the clock
over the kneeling preacher and his deacons. The minutes dwindled down to
seconds, and then--
"Alack, our friend is gone!
Close up his eyes, tie up his chin
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth at the door."
"Now, as we have passed into the New Year," said Mr. Spurgeon, advancing
to the rails as the last stroke of midnight died away, "I do not think
we can do better than join in singing 'Praise God from whom all
blessings flow.'"
No need now of instructions how to sing. The congregation were almost
before the leader in raising the familiar strain, with which six
thousand voices filled the spacious Tabernacle.
Then came the benediction, and a cheery "I wish you all a happy New
Year, my friends," from Mr. Spurgeon.
A great shout of "The same to you!" arose in response from basement and
galleries, and the congregation passed out into a morning so soft, and
light, and mild, that it seemed as if the seasons were out of joint, and
that the New Year had been born in the springtime.
IN THE RAGGED CHURCH.
The Ragged Church is one of the numerous by-paths through which the
managers of the Field Lane Institution strive to approach and benefit
the poor of London. It is situate in Little Saffron Hill, Farringdon
Road, the service being held in a barn-like room, which on weekdays
serves for school, and is capable of accommodating a thousand children.
No money has been expended in architectural embellishment, and no
question of a controversial character is likely to arise in connection
with accessories in the shape of altar, surplice, or candles. The Ragged
Church avoids these stumbling-blocks by the simple expedient of doing
without candles, surplices, or altar. It does not even boast a pulpit,
but draws the line so as to take in a harmonium, indispensable for
leading the tunes. At one end of the room is a platform, on which the
harmonium stands, and whereon the service is conducted.
It is the congregation rather than the preacher that I remember best in
connection with the Ragged Church. Half-past eleven is the hour for the
commencement of service, and was fixed upon chiefly to suit the
convenience of a portion of the congregation, who, having slept
overnight in the casual wards, are considerately detained in them till
eleven o'clock, by which time society is supposed to be comfortably
seated in its own churches, and is thus saved the shock of suddenly
coming upon Rags and Tatters going to church or elsewhither--Rags and
Tatters, it being well understood, not always showing themselves proof
against the temptation of improving the occasion by begging. At a
quarter to eleven there filed into the church threescore little girls,
all dressed in wincey dresses, with brown, furry jackets and little
brown hats, a monotony of colour that served to bring into fuller
contrast the red and black wool scarf each wore tightly tied round her
neck. They all looked bright, clean, and happy, and one noted a
considerable proportion of pretty-faced and delicately-limbed children.
How they were born, or with what parentage, is in many cases a question
to which the records of the institution supply no answer. They were
simply "found" on a doorstep, or arrested when wandering about the
street crying for the mother or the father who had cast them off. This
class of school-girl is generally distinguished by the fineness of her
Christian name, Blanche, and Lily, and Constance, being among the waifs
and strays who have found a refuge with the kindly matron of the Field
Lane Institution. There are others whose history is written plainly
enough in the records of the police-courts.
There is one, a prematurely aged little woman in her eleventh year, who,
previous to being sent here, passed of her own free will night after
night in the streets, living through the day on her wits, which are very
sharp. Another, about the same age, when taken into custody on something
more than suspicion of picking pockets, was found the possessor of no
fewer than seven purses. A third, who is understood to be now in her
ninth year, earned a handsome livelihood in the Haymarket by frequenting
the public houses, and with dramatic gestures singing the more popular
concert-hall songs. One of the most determined and head-strong young
ladies of the establishment was not privileged to be present at the
morning service, being, in fact, in bed, where she was detained with the
hope that amid the silence and solitude of the empty chamber she might
be brought to see in its true light the heinousness of the offence of
wilfully depositing her boots in a pail of water.
Conviction for offences against the law is by no means a general
characteristic of the girls. For the most part, destitution has been the
simple ground on which they have obtained admission to the institution.
The girls being seated on the front benches to the right of the
harmonium, the tramp of many feet was heard, and there entered by the
opposite side of the church some sixty boys in corduroys, short jackets,
and clean collars. They took up a position on the left of the harmonium,
and, with one consent, gravely folded their arms. Their private history
is, in its general features, much the same as that of the girls. All
are sent hither by order of the police-court magistrate, but
many have not committed any crime save the unpardonable one of being
absolutely and hopelessly homeless. It is not difficult, stating the
broad rule, to pick out from the boys those who have been convicted of
crime. As compared with the rest they are generally brighter looking,
and gifted with a stronger physique.
The distinction was strongly marked by the conjunction of two boys who
sat together on the front form. One who had stolen nothing less than a
coalscuttle, observed projecting from an ironmonger's shop in Drury
Lane, was a sturdy, ruddy-cheeked little man, who folded his arms in a
composed manner, and listened with an inquiring interest to the words
poured forth over his head from the platform. The boy next to him, a
pale-faced, inert lad, who stared straight before him with lack-lustre
eyes, had the saddest of all boys' histories. He was born in a casual
ward, his father died in a casual ward, and his mother nightly haunts
the streets of London in pursuance of an elaborately devised plan, by
which she is able so to time her visits to the various casual wards as
never to be turned away from any on the ground that she had slept there
too recently.
The foreground of the Ragged Church was bright enough, for whilst there
is youth there is hope, and in the present case there is also the
knowledge that these children are under guardianship at once kind and
wise. Presently the back benches began to fill with a congregation such
as no other church in London might show. Crushed-looking women in limp
bonnets, scanty shawls, and much-patched dresses crept quietly in. With
them, though not in their company, came men of all ages, and of a
general level of ragged destitution--a gaunt, haggard, hungry, and
hopeless congregation as ever went to church on a Sunday morning. Some
had passed the night in the Refuge attached to the institution; many had
come straight from the casual wards; others had spent the long hours
since sundown in the streets; and one, a hale old man who diffused
around him an air of respectability and comfort, was a lodger at
Clerkenwell Workhouse. His snuff-coloured coat with two brass buttons at
the back was the solitary whole garment visible in this section of the
congregation.
It was his "Sunday out" and having had his breakfast at the workhouse,
he had, by way of distraction, come to spend the morning and eat his
lunch at the Field Lane Institution.
One man might be forgiven if he slept all through the sermon, for, as he
explained, he had "passed a very bad night." He had settled himself to
sleep on various doorsteps, with the fog for a blanket and the railings
for pillow. But there appeared what in his experience was a quite
uncommon activity on the part of the police, and he had been "moved on"
from place to place till morning broke, and he had not slept a wink or
had half an hour's rest for the sole of his foot.
There were not many of the labouring class among the couple of hundred
men who made up this miserable company. They were chiefly broken-down
people, who, as tradesmen, clerks, or even professional men, had
gradually sunk till they came to regard admission to the casual ward at
night as the cherished hope that kept them up as they shuffled their
way through the day. One man, who over a marvellous costume of rags
carried the mark of respectability comprehended in a thin black silk
necktie tied around a collarless neck, is the son of a late colonel of
artillery, and has a brother at the present time a lieutenant in one of
her Majesty's ships. After leading a reckless life, he turned his
musical acquirements to account by joining the band of a marching
regiment. Unfortunately, the death of his grandfather, two years ago,
made him uncontrolled possessor of £500, and now he is dodging his
way among the casual wards of London, holding on to respectability and
his good connections by this poor black silk necktie.
Among the congregation was a bright-eyed, honest-looking lad bearing the
familiar name of John Smith. Three months ago he was earning his living
in a Yorkshire coal pit, when a strike among the men threw him out of
work. There being no prospect of doing anything in Yorkshire, he set out
for London, having, as he said, "heard it was a great place, where work
was plenty." With three shillings in his pocket he started from Leeds,
and walked to London, doing the journey in nine days. He had neither
recommendation nor introduction other than his bright, honest, and
intelligent face, and that seems to have served him only to the extent
of getting an odd job that occupied him two days.
The service opened with singing, of which there was a plentiful
repetition, the boys and girls in the foreground singing, the melancholy
throng behind standing dumb. Hymn-books were supplied to them, and if
they could read they might have found on the page from which the first
hymn was taken a hymn so curiously infelicitous to the occasion that it
is worth quoting a couple of verses. These are the two first:--
Let us gather up the sunbeams
Lying all around our path;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day
With a patient hand removing
All the briars from the way.
Strange we never prize the music
Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown,
Strange that we should slight the violets
Till the lovely flowers are gone;
Strange that summer skies and sunshine
Never seem one half so fair
As when winter's snowy pinions
Shake the white down in the air.
After the opening hymns _Sankey's Sacred Song-Book_, in which this rhymed
nonsense appears, was abandoned, and the congregation took to the
admirable little selection of hymns compiled for the use of the
institution, containing much less sentiment, and perhaps on the whole
more suitable. After prayer and a short address, the boys and girls
filed out as they had come in. Then the rest of the congregation rose,
and as they passed out received a large piece of bread, supplemented by
the distribution from a room on a lower storey of a cup of hot cocoa.
Stretching all down the long flight of stone steps, they drank their
cocoa and greedily munched the bread, and when it was done passed out
into the sabbath noon, to slouch about the great city till the doors of
the casual wards were open.
They had "gathered up all the sunbeams lying around their path" as far
as the day had advanced, and there was no more for them till, at eight
o'clock in the evening, the bread and tea should be set out before them
under the workhouse roof.