"Don't be so particular" is a particularly popular phrase. It comes
up constantly from the rough quarry of human nature--is a part of
life's untamed protest against punctilliousness and mathematical
virtue. Particular people are never very popular people, just
because they are particular. The world isn't sufficiently ripe for
niceties; it likes a lot, and pouts at eclectical squeamishness; it
believes in a big, vigorous, rough-hewn medley, is choice in some of
its items, but free and easy in the bulk; and it can't masticate
anything too severely didactic, too purely logical, too strongly
distinct, or too acutely exact. But it does not follow,
etymologically, that a man is right because he is particular. He may
be very good or very bad, and yet be only such because he is
particularly so. Singularity, eccentricity, speciality, isolation,
oddity, and hundreds of other things which might be mentioned, all
involve particularity. But we do not intend, to "grammar-out" the
question, nor to disengage and waste our gas in definitions. The
particular enters into all sorts of things, and it has even a local
habitation and a name in religion. What could be more particular
than Particular Baptism? Certain followers of a man belonging the
great Smith family constituted the first congregation of English
Baptists. These were of the General type. The Particular Baptists
trace their origin to a coterie of men and women who had an idea
that their grace was of a special type, and who met in London as far
back as 1616. The doctrines of the Particular Baptists are of the
Calvinistic hue. They believe in eternal election, free
justification, ultimate glorification; they have a firm notion that
they are a special people, known before all time; that not one of
them will be lost; and they differ from the General Baptists, so far
as discipline is concerned, in this--they reject "open communion,"
will allow no membership prior to dipping; or,--to quote the exact
words of one of them, who wrote to us the other day on the subject,
and who paled our ineffectual fire very considerably with his
definition--"All who enter our pail must be baptised." If there is
any water in the "pail" they will; if not, it will be a simple
question of dryness.
The chapel used by the Particular-Baptists, in Vauxhall-road,
Preston, has a curious history. It beats Plato's theory of
transmigration; and is a modern edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses. The
building was erected by Mr. George Smith (father of the late
Alderman G. Smith, of this town), and he preached to it for a short
time. Afterwards it was occupied by a section of Methodists
connected with the "Round Preachers." Then it was purchased by a
gentleman of the General Baptist persuasion, who let it to the late
Mr. Moses Holden--a pious, astronomical person, who held forth in it
for a season with characteristic force. Subsequently it was taken
possession of by the Episcopalians, the Rev. Mr. Pearson, late of
Tockholes, being the minister. He, along with some of his flock, was
in the habit of holding prayer meetings, &c., in different parts of
the town; the Vauxhall-road building being their central depot. But
when the Rev. Carus Wilson was appointed Vicar of Preston an end was
put to both their praying and preaching. When the Episcopalians made
their exit, a section of religious people called the Fieldingites
obtained the building. They drove a moderately thriving business at
the place until permission was unwittingly given for a Mormon
preacher to occupy the pulpit just once--a circumstance which
resulted in a thorough break-up; many of the body liking neither Joe
Smith nor his polygamising followers. After the Mormon fiasco and
the evaporation of the Fieldingites, another denomination took it.
The Particular Baptists--some people call them Gadsbyites--were at
this period working the virtues of their creed in a small room
towards the bottom of Cannon-street; and on hearing that Vauxhall-
road Chapel was on sale, they smiled, made a bid at it, and bought
it. Their first minister, after the removal, was a certain Mr.
Mc.Kenzie, who stimulated the elect with many good things, and
eventually died. The question as to who should be his successor next
presented itself; "supplies" were tried; various men from various
parts were invited into the pulpit, looked at, and listened to; the
object being to get "the right man in the right place."
There was considerable difference of opinion as to that said "right
man;" one portion of "the church" wanting a smart, well-starched,
polished individual, and the other desiring a plain, straightforward
"gospel preacher"--a man of the Gadsby kidney, capable of hitting
people hard, and telling the truth without any fear. This was in
1848, and about this time a plain, homely, broad-hearted "Lancashire
chap," named Thomas Haworth, a block printer by trade, and living in
the neighbourhood of Accrington, who had taken to preaching in his
spare time, was "invited" to supply the Vauxhall-road pulpit.
"Tommy"--that's his recognized name, and he'll not be offended at us
for using it--came, saw, and conquered. He made his appearance in a
plain coat, a plain waist-coat, and a pair of plain blue-coloured
corduroy trousers; and as he went up the steps of the pulpit, people
not only wondered where he came from, but who his tailor was. And if
they had seen his hat, they would have been solicitous as to its
manufacturer. The more elaborate portion of the "church" pulled
uncongenial features at the young block-printer's appearance,
thought him too rough, too unreclaimed, too outspoken, and too
vehement; the plain people, the humble, hard-working, unfashionable
folk liked him, and said he was "just the man" for them. Time kept
moving, Tommy was asked to officiate in the pulpit for 52 Sundays;
he consented; kept up his fire well and in a good Gadsbyfied style;
and when settling day came a majority of the members decided that he
should remain with them. The "non-contents" moved off, said that it
would not do; was too much of a good thing; escaped to Zoar; and, in
the course of this retreat, somebody took--what!--not the pulpit,
nor its Bible, nor the hymn books, nor the collecting boxes, nor the
unpaid bills belonging the chapel, but--the title deeds of the old
place! and to this day they have not been returned. This was indeed
a sharp thing. How Shylock--how the old Jew with his inexorable
pound of flesh-worship, creeps up in every section of human society!
Vauxhall-road Chapel, which has passed through more denominational
agony than any twenty modern places of worship put together, is
situated in a poor locality--in a district where pure air, and less
drink, and more of "the Christ that is to be," as Tennyson would
say, are needed than the majority of places in the town.
Architecturally the chapel is nothing; and if it were not for a few
tall front rails, painted green, a good gable end pointed up, and a
fairly cut inscription thereon, it would, ecclesiastically speaking,
seem less than nothing. It has just been re-painted internally, and
necessarily looks somewhat smart on that account; but there is no
pretension to architecture in the general building. Between 500 and
600 persons might be accomodation in it; but the average attendance
is below 200. People are not "particular" about what church or
chapel they belong to in its locality; and some of them who belong
to no place seem most wickedly comfortable. There is a great deal of
heathenish contentment in Vauxhall-road district, and how to make
the people living there feel properly miserable until they get into
a Christian groove of thought is a mystery which we leave for the
solution of parsons. The interior of Vauxhall-road Particular
Baptist Chapel is specially plain and quiet looking, has nothing
ornamental in it and at present having been newly cleaned, it smells
more of paint than of anything else. The pews are of various
dimensions--some long, some square, all high--and, whilst grained
without, they are all green within. This is not intended as a
reflection upon the occupants, but is done as a simple matter of
taste. The "members" of the chapel at present are neither increasing
nor decreasing--are stationary; and they wilt number altogether
between 50 and 60. Either the chapel is too near the street, or the
street too near the chapel, or the children in the neighbourhood too
numerous and noisy; for on Sundays, mainly during the latter part of
the day, there is an incessant, half-shouting, half-singing din,
from troops of youngsters adjoining, who play all sorts of chorusing
games, which must seriously annoy the worshippers.
The music at the chapel is strong, lively, and congregational.
Sometimes there is more cry than wool in it; but taken altogether,
and considering the place, it is creditable. There is neither an
organ, nor a fiddle, nor a musical instrument of any sort that we
have been able to notice, in the place. All is done directly and
without equivocation from the mouth. The members of the choir sit
downstairs, in a square place fronting the pulpit; the young men--in
their quiet moments--looking very pleasantly at the young women, the
older members maintaining a mild equillibrium at the same time, and
all going off stiffly when singing periods arrive. The hymn books
used contain, principally, pieces selected by the celebrated William
Gadsby, and nobody in the chapel need ever be harassed for either
length or variety of spiritual verse. They have above 1,100 hymns to
choose from, and in length these hymns range from three to twenty-
three verses. Whilst inspecting one of the books recently we came to
a hymn of thirteen verses, and thought that wasn't so bad--was
partly long enough for anybody; but we grew suddenly pale on
directly afterwards finding one nearly twice the size--one with
twenty-three mortal verses in it. It is to be hoped the choir and
the congregation will never he called upon to sing right through any
hymn extending to that disheartening and elastic length. We have
heard a chapel choir sing a hymn of twelve verses, and felt ready
for a stimulant afterwards to revive our exhausted energies; if
twenty-three verses had to be fought through at one standing, in our
hearing, we should smile with a musical ghastliness and perish.
At the back of the chapel there is a Sunday-school. It was built in
1849. The number of scholars "on the books" is 120, and the average
attendance will be about 90. In connection with the school there is
a nice little library, and if the children read the books in it, and
legitimately digest their contents, they will be brighter than some
of their parents. There are two Sunday services at the chapel--one
in the morning, and the other in the evening. No religious meetings
are held in it during weekdays; the minister couldn't stand them; he
is getting old and rotund; and, constitutionally, finds it quite
hard enough to preach on Sundays. "He would be killed," said one of
the deacons to us the other day, in a very earnest and sympathetic
manner, "if he had to preach on week days--he's so stout, you know,
and weighs so heavy." We hardly think he would be killed by it.
Standing in a narrow pulpit for a length of time must necessarily be
fatiguing to him; but why can't things be made easy? If a high seat-
-a tall, broad, easy, elastic-bottomed chair--were procured and
fixed in the pulpit, he could sit and preach comfortably; or a swing
might be procured for him. Such a contrivance would save his feet,
check his perspiration, and console his dorsal vertebra. We suggest
the propriety of securing a chair or a swing. It would be grand
preaching and swinging.
The congregation at Vauxhall-road Chapel is pre-eminently of a
working-class character. Nearly the whole of the pew holders are
factory people; not above six or seven of them find employment
outside of mills. They are a plain, honest, enthusiastic, home-spun
class of folk. A few there may be amongst the lot who are
authoritative, or saucy, or ill-naturedly solemn; but the generality
are simple-dealing, quaintly-exhuberant, oddly-straightforward, and
primitively-pious people--distinctly sincere, periodically
eccentric, and fond of a good religious outburst, a shining
spiritual fandango now, and then.
As we have before intimated the minister of the Chapel is Mr. Thomas
Haworth. During the first 18 years of his ministry he received 20s.
a week for his services; for three years afterwards he got 25s.;
during the last two he has had 30s. per week; and his temporal
consolation is involved in a sovereign and a half at present. Be is
54 years of age, has had very little education, believes in telling
the truth as far as he knows it, and cares for nobody. He has a
strongly intuitive mind; is full of human nature; is broad-faced,
very fat and thoroughly English in look: has a chin which is
neither of the nutmeg nor the cucumber order, but simply double;
weighs heavier than any other parson in Preston; couldn't run; gets
out of breath and pants when he goes up the pulpit stairs; has his
own ideas, and likes sticking to them, about everything; has neither
cunning nor deception in him; is rough but honest; is without polish
but full of common sense; would have been a good companion for Tim
Bobbin in his better moments, and for Sam Slick in his unctuous
periods; cares more for thoughts than grammar; likes to rush out in
a buster when the spell is upon him; can either shout you into fits
or whisper you to sleep--is, in a word, a virtuous and venerable
"caution." He is the right kind of man for humble, queer-thinking;
determined, sincerely-singular Christians; is just the sort of
person you should hear when the "blues" are on you; has much pathos,
much fire, much uncurbed virtue in him; is a sort of theological
Bailey's Dictionary--rough, ready, outspoken, unconventional, and
funny; is a second Gadsby in oddness, and force, and sincerity, but
lacks Gadsby's learning. Unlike the bulk of parsons, Mr. Haworth
does his own marketing. You may see him almost any Saturday in the
market, with a huge orthodox basket in his hand--a basket bulky, and
made not for show, but for holding things. He has no pride in him,
and thinks that a man shouldn't be ashamed of buying what he has to
eat, and needn't blush if he has to carry home what he wants to
digest. His sermons in both manner and matter are essentially
Haworthian. There is no gilt, no mock modesty in his style; there is
to vapid sentimentalism in the ideas he expounds. A broad, unshaven,
every-day Lancashire vigour pervades both; and what he can't make
out he guesses at. In the pulpit he seems earnest but uneasy--
honest, but fidgetty about his eyes, and legs. Watch him: he
preaches extemporaneously, but often peers up and winks, and often
looks down at his bible and squeezes his eyes. He has a great
predilection for turning to the left--that he apparently thinks is
the right side for small appeals of a special character; and when he
gets back again, for the purpose of either looking at his book or
sending out a new idea, he makes a short oscillating waddle--a
sharp, whimsical, wavy motion, as if he either wanted to get his
feet out of something or stir forward about half an inch. He pitches
his hands about with considerable activity, and often flings himself
suddenly into a white-heat, tantrum of virtue, and the brethren like
him when be does this. He is original when stormy; is refreshing
when his temper is up. His style is natural--is a reflection of
himself--is warm with life, is odd, and at times fierce through the
power of his sincerity. His illustrations are all homely; his
theories most original; his expressions most honest and quaint. He
has a fondness for the Old Testament--likes to get into the company
of Isaiah, Jeremiah, &c.; sometimes touches the hem of Habakkuk's
garment; and nods at a distance occasionally at Joel and the other
minor prophets. We should like to see a Biblical Commentary from his
pen; it, would be immortal on account of its straightforwardnsss and
oddity. Adam Clarke and Matthew Henry must sometimes turn over in
their graves when he expounds the more mysterious passages of sacred
writ. To no one does Mr. Haworth hold the candle; he is candid to
all, and pitches into the entire confraternity of his hearers
sometimes. He said one Sunday "None of you are ower much to be
trusted--none of us are ower good, are we? A, bless ya, I sometimes
think if I were to lay my head on a deacon's breast--one of our own
lot--may be there would be a nettle in't or summut at sooart." He is
partial to long "Oh's," and "Ah's" and solemn breathings; and
sometimes tells you more by a look or a subdued, calmly-moulded
groan than by dozens of sentences. He spices his sermons
considerably with the Lancashire dialect; isn't at all nice about
aspirates, inflection, or pronunciation; thinks that if you have got
hold of a good thing the best plan is to out with it, and to out
with it any way, rough or smooth, so that it is understood. He never
stood at philological trifles in his life, and never will do. Those
who listen to him regularly think nothing of his singularities of
gesture and expression; but strangers are bothered with him.
Occasionally the ordinary worshippers look in different directions
and smile rather slyly when he is budding and blossoming in his own
peculiar style; but they never make much ado about the business, and
swallow all that comes very quietly and good-naturedly. Strangers
prick their ears directly, and would laugh right out sometimes if
they durst. There are not many collections at the chapel, but those
which are made are out of the ordinary run. Two were made on the
Sunday we were there, and they realised what?--not 5 pounds, nor 10
pounds, nor 12 pounds, as is the custom at some of our fashionable
places of worship,--no, they just brought in 63 pounds 3s. 9d. At
the request of the minister, who announced the sum, the congregation
set to and sung over it for a short time. Simplicity and liberality,
mingled with much earnestness and a fair amount of self-
righteousness, are the leading traits of the "elect" at Vauxhall-
road chapel; whilst their minister is a curious compilation of
eccentricity, sagacity, waddlement, winking, straightforwardness,
and thorough honesty.