I know not that there is a happier berth in the world than that of a
fashionable Evangelical preacher in this enlightened city and enlightened
age. See him in the pulpit, adored by the women, envied by the men!
Wherever he goes he is made much of. The shops in his neighbourhood
abound with his portrait; his signature graces a thousand albums; young
ladies of all ages and conditions work him his worsted slippers; his
silver teapot and his easy chair are the contributions of his flock. If
there be an elysium on earth, it is his private residence. If a man is
to be deemed fortunate this side the grave, it is he. If mortal ever
slept upon a bed of roses, such is his enviable fate. In old times men
suffered for their religion; were deemed as dirt and dishonour; were
things to point at and to shun. In old times they had to suffer more
than this: the man who would be loyal to his conscience or his God might
not look for happiness and peace on earth. He had to wander in
sheepskins and goatskins; he had to renounce father, mother, sister,
brother--all that was dear to him as his own life. From the fair
enjoyments of the world and the bright love of woman he had to tear
himself away. A sad, solitary life, and a bitter and bloody death, were
what Christianity entailed on you in the olden time. Ay, you must have
been a strong man then to have borne its yoke. And yet, sustained by a
living faith, young, tender, delicate women bore it as if it were a
wreath of flowers. Men might talk of self-denial and taking up the cross
then: they did so then. But they are gone; and now, if you wish to learn
self-denial and take up the cross, you must renounce Christianity. Its
sleek and popular minister can tell you little either of one or the
other. Religion now dresses in silk and satin, goes to court, has all
Belgravia hallooing at her heels. Her ways indeed are ways of
pleasantness, and her paths, paths of peace. Dr. Watts was right--
'Religion never was design'd,
To make our pleasure less.'
Take, for instance, the honourable and reverend rector of St. George's,
Bloomsbury. As the brother of a Lord, Mr. Villiers has great claims on a
British public; as a canon of St. Paul's, the rector of a well-filled
church, still greater. Bloomsbury Square is not exactly high life, but
it is respectable. The better sort of professional men and merchants
abound in it. Its neighbourhood is a step in a genteel direction. It is
not part and parcel of that vulgar place, the City. It is on the way to
the West-end. One might live in a worse place. Its natives are
civilised, eschew steel forks, and affect silver spoons. Most of them
speak English, and a few have carriages of their own. The place has seen
better days; but it is not altogether of the past. It abounds with the
latest fashions. It can talk of the last new novel. Even its religion
smacks of the genteel--carries a morocco prayer-book, with silver clasps,
is followed by a page with buttons of shining hue, and has its services
performed by men of honourable and exalted name. Many in the Church have
been born in low stations--have risen up to high rank, nevertheless.
Still it is a merit to be of aristocratic descent, and even in the Church
that fact is as patent as in the world. It is only in Turkey that birth
carries no weight--but then the Turk is but little better than one of the
wicked.
Independently, however, of these considerations, Mr. Villiers must have
been a popular preacher. He is a fine, well-made man; his figure is
prepossessing--a great thing in a public speaker. Weak, stunted,
deformed, wretched-looking men have no business in the pulpit. A man
should have a portly presence there. He should also have a fine voice,
and Mr. Villiers is singularly happy in this respect. In the Church
there is not a man who can read its stately service with more effect.
And that service, well read to the hearer in a fitting mood, is a sermon
itself. Nor does Mr. Villiers' merit end here. He is no dull drone when
the service is over and the sermon has begun. With downcast eye he reads
no moral essay that touches no conscience and fires no heart. On the
contrary, he is exceedingly active and energetic in the pulpit. He looks
his congregation in the face--he directs his discourse to them. He takes
care that not a single word shall lose its aim. His musical voice is
heard distinctly in every part of his crowded and enormous church. Mr.
Villiers is not an intellectual preacher; nor is he a man of original
mind; nor does he revivify old themes, so as to make them seem fresh and
new. The common truths of orthodox Christianity are those which form the
staple of his discourses. To convert the sinner and edify the saint are
his aim. Philosophy and the world's lore he passes by. His plainness
makes him popular. The poorest can understand what he says, and they
love to hear him, especially when he denounces the fashionable follies of
high life. Against such fashions Mr. Villiers is always ready to
protest. The theatre and the ballroom are the objects of his bitterest
denunciations; the frequenters of such places find no mercy at his hands.
Of course this plainness delights his congregation. As they frequent
neither the one nor the other, they care little what harsh things he says
of those who do.
Out of the pulpit we know little of Mr. Villiers. One does not hear of
him at Exeter Hall. The Freemasons' Tavern seldom echoes the sound of
his voice. His parish duties seem to absorb him. He does not publish a
new volume of theology every month, like Dr. Cumming, though he has
published a volume or two of his Sermons, and some of his Lectures to
Young Men. To be sure he has enough to do where he is. But still many
ministers attempt much more, and his preaching cannot be a very severe
tax on his mental powers. Robert Montgomery published a book, called
'The Gospel before the Age'--the Gospel of Mr. Villiers certainly has no
such claim. The school to which he belongs has very little reference to
the age--has a very easy way of settling all the problems of the
heart--never seems to imagine that there can be two sides to a question
at all. This makes it very easy work for preacher and people. Such
being the case, the wonder is not that Mr. Villiers preaches so well, but
that, with his powerful voice and action, he does not do it better.
Since the above was written Episcopalianism in Bloomsbury has sustained a
loss--Mr. Villiers is now a bishop.
The Independent Denomination.