 15. A peep at an old house of commons from the lady's gallery. No, Mrs. Chilton-100 said, when I asked was she in these days a constant visitor at the house of commons. Chilton, you know, has accepted a place of profit under the crown, and is no longer eligible to sit as a member. It is such trouble to get in, and when you are there the chances are that nothing is going on, so I have given it up. I remember very well the first time I was there. I wrote all about it to an old school fellow. If you are interested in the subject I will show you a copy of what I then jotted down. I was much interested, and when I saw the letter was glad I had expressed my interest. The copy, placed at my disposal, was undated, but internal evidence showed that Mrs. Chilton-100 had paid her first visit in the session of 1874, when Mr. Disraeli had for the first time in his history been returned to power as well as to office, and Mr. Gladstone, crushed by an overwhelming defeat, had written his famous letter to my dear Granville, announcing his retirement from political life. Looking down through the grill, the visitor in the gallery saw many bearers of well-known names who have travelled far since that date, some beyond the grave. Here are Madame's notes, written in her own angular handwriting. Be in the Great Hall at four o'clock. Those were Chilton's words to me as he hurried off after luncheon, and here we were in the Great Hall, but there was no Chilton which was vexatious. True it was half-past four, and he is such a stickler for what he calls punctuality, and has no sympathy with those delays which are inseparable from going out in a new bonnet. One of the strings, but there. What does it matter? Here we were, standing in the Great Hall, where we had been told to come, and no one to meet us. There was a crowd of persons standing before the entrance to a corridor to the left of the hall. Two policemen were continually begging them to stand back and not block up the entrance, so that the members who were passing in and out—I daresay on the lookout for their wives, so that they should not be kept here a moment—might not be inconvenienced. It is really wonderful how careful the police about Westminster are of the sacred persons of members. If I crossed the road at the bottom of Parliament Street by myself, I may be run over by a handsome cab, or even an omnibus, without the slightest compunction on the part of the police on duty there. But if Chilton happens to be with me, the whole of the traffic going east and west is stopped, and a policeman with upstretched hands stands waiting till we have gained the other side of the road. We were gazing up with the crowd at somebody who was lighting the big chandelier by swinging down from somewhere in the roof a sort of sensor, when Chilton came out of the corridor, and positively began to scold us for being late. I thought that at the time very mean, as I was just going to scold him. But he knows the advantage of getting the first word. He says, why were we half an hour late, and how could he meet us there at four, if at that time we had not left home? But that's nonsense. Chilton has naturally a great flow of words, which he has cultivated by close attendance upon his parliamentary duties. But he is mistaken, if he thinks I am a resolution, and am to be moved by being spoken to. We walked through a gallery into a hall something like that in which Chilton had kept us waiting, only much smaller. This was full of men chattering away in a manner of which an equal number of women would have been ashamed. There was one nice, pleasant-looking gentleman carefully wrapped up in an overcoat with a fur collar and cuffs. That was Earl Granville, Chilton said. I was glad to see his lordship looking so well, and taking such care of himself. There was another peer there, a little man with a beaked nose, the only thing about him that reminded you of the Duke of Wellington. He had no overcoat, being evidently too young to need or care for such encumbrance. He wore a short sertu and a smart blue necktie, and frisked about the hall in quite a lively way. Chilton said that he was Lord Hampton, with whom my great-grandfather went to eat him. He was at that time playing John Russell, not Lord John, of course, and has for the last forty-five years been known as Sir John Packington. But then Chilton has a way of saying funny things, and I am not sure that he was in earnest in telling us that this active young man was really the veteran of Droitwich. From this hall through a long carpeted passage, catching glimpses on the way of snug writing-rooms, cosy libraries, and other devices for lightening senatorial labours, we arrived at a door over which was painted the legend to the Ladies' Gallery. This opened onto a flight of steps, at the top of which was another long corridor, and we found ourselves at last at the door of the Ladies' Gallery, where we were received by a smiling and obliging attendant. I expected to find a fine, open gallery, something like the orchestra at the Albert Hall, or at least like the dress-circle at Drury Lane. Picture my disappointment when, out of the bright light of the corridor, we stepped into a sort of cage, with no light save what came through the trellis-work in front. I thought this was one of Chilton's stupid practical jokes, and being a little cross through his having kept us waiting for such an unconscionable long time, was saying something to him when the smiling and obliging attendant said, hush, and pointed to a placard on which was printed like a spelling-lesson, the impertinent injunction, silence is requested. There was no doubt about it. This was the Ladies' Gallery of the British House of Commons, and a pretty place it is to which to invite ladies. I never was good at geometry and that sort of thing, and cannot say how many feet or how many furlongs the gallery is in length, but I counted fourteen chairs placed pretty close together, and covered with a hideous green damask. There are three rows of chairs, the two back rows, being raised above the height of one step. As far as seeing into the house is concerned one might as well sit down on the flight of steps in Westminster Hall, as sit on a chair in the back row in the Ladies' Gallery. On the second row it is tolerable enough, or at least you get a good view of the little old gentleman with the sword by his side, sitting in a chair at the far end of the house. I thought at first this was the speaker, and wondered why gentlemen on the cross-benches should turn their backs to him. But Chilton said it was Lord Charles Russell, Sergeant at Arms, a much more important personage than the speaker, who takes the mace home with him every night, and is responsible for its due appearance on the table when the speaker takes the chair. In the front row you can see well enough what there is to be seen, for I confess that my notion of the majesty of the House of Commons is mightily modified since I beheld it with my own eyes. In the first place you are quite shut out of sight in the Ladies' Gallery, and I might have saved myself all the trouble of dressing, which made me a little late, and gave Chilton an opportunity of saying disagreeable things which he subsequently spread over a fortnight. I might have been wearing a cold-skuttled bonnet or a mushroom-hat, for all it mattered in a prison like this. There was sufficient light for me to see with satisfaction that other people had given themselves at least an equal amount of trouble. Two had arrived in charming evening-dress, with the loveliest flowers in their hair. I dare say they were going out to dinner, and at least I hope so, for it is a disgraceful thing that women should be entrapped into spending their precious time dressing for a few hours' stay in a swept and garnished coal-hole like this. The smiling and obliging attendant offered me the consolation of knowing that the gallery is quite a charming place compared with what it used to be. Thirty or forty years ago, whilst the business of Parliament was carried on in a temporary building, accommodation for ladies was provided in a narrow box, stationed above the stranger's gallery, once they peered into the house through pigeon-holes, something like what you see in the framework of a peep-show. The present gallery formed part of the design of the new houses, but when it was opened it was a vastly different place. It was much darker, had no anti-rooms worth speaking of, and the leading idea of a sheet-pen was preserved to the extent of dividing it into three boxes, each accommodating seven ladies. About twelve years ago one of the dividing-walls was knocked down and the ladies' gallery thrown into a single chamber with a special pen to which admission is obtained only by order from the speaker. Still much remained to be done to make it even such a place as it now is, and that work was done by that much, and as Chilton will always have it, unjustly abused man, Mr. Ayrton. It was he who threw open the back of the gallery, giving us some light and air, and it is to him that we ladies are indebted for the dressing-room and the tea-room. This being shut up is one reason why I was disappointed with the House of Comments. Another is with respect to the size of the chamber itself. It is wonderful to think how big men can talk in a room like this. It is scarcely larger than a good-sized drawing-room. I must say for Chilton that we got seats in the front row, and what there was to be seen we saw. Right opposite to us was a gallery with rows of men sitting six-deep. It was a big night, and there was not a seat to spare in this which I suppose was the stranger's gallery. Everybody there had his hat off, and there was an official sitting on a raised chair in the middle of the top row. Something like I saw the warders sitting amongst prisoners at Milbank one Sunday morning, when Chilton took me to see the claimant repeating the responses to the litany. The house itself is of oblong shape, with rows of benches on either side cushioned in green leather and raised a little above each other. There are four of these rows on either side, with a broad passage between covered with neat matting. Chilton says the floor is an open framework of iron, and that beneath is a labyrinth of chambers into which fresh air is pumped, and forced into a gentle stream into the house—the vitiated atmosphere escaping by the roof. But then, the same authority, when I asked him what the narrow band of red colour that ran along the matting, about a pace in front of the benches on either side, meant, gravely told me that if any member, when addressing the house, stepped out beyond that line, Lord Charles Russell would instantly draw his sword, shout his battle cry, who goes home, and rushing upon the offender, bear him off into custody. So you see, it is difficult to know what to believe, and it is a pity people will not always say what they mean in plain English. Midway down each row of benches is a narrow passage that turned out to be the gangway of which you read and hear so much. I had always associated the gangway with a plank along which you walk to somewhere, perhaps onto the treasury bench, but it is only a small passage like a narrow aisle in a church. There is a good deal of significance about this gangway, for anybody who sits below it is supposed to be of an independent turn of mind, and not to be capable of purchase by ministers present or prospective. Thus all the Irish members sit below the gangway, and so do Mr MacDonald and Mr Charles Lewis. It is an odd thing, Chilton observes, that notwithstanding this peculiarity, ministries are invariably recruited from below the gangway. Sir Henry James sat there for many sessions before he was made solicitor general, and there was no more prominent figure in recent years than that of the gentleman who used to be known as Mr Vernon Harcourt. On the conservative side this peculiarity is less marked than on the liberal, though it was below the gangway on the conservative side that on a memorable night, more than a quarter of a century ago, a certain dandified young man, with well-oiled blocks and theatrically folded arms, stood and glaring upon a mocking-house, told them that the time would come when they should hear him. As a rule the conservatives make ministers of men who have borne the heat and burden of the day on the back ministerial benches. With the liberals the pathway of promotion, Chilton says, opens from below the gangway. Mr Lowe came from there. So did Mr Goshen, Mr Stunfeld, Mr Childers, Mr Foster, and even Mr Gladstone himself. The worst thing a liberal member who wants to become a cabinet minister or a judge can do, is to sit on the back ministerial benches, vote as he is bitten, and hold his tongue when he is told. He should go and sit below the gangway, near Mr Goldschmidt or Mr Trevelyan, and in a candid, ingenuous and truly patriotic manner, make himself on every possible occasion as disagreeable to the leaders of his party as he can. I do not attempt to disguise the expectation I cherish, of being some day wife of the First Lord of the Admiralty, or at least of the President of the Board of Trade, for there are few men who can, upon occasion, make themselves more disagreeable than Chilton. Who, through these awkward bars, I see sitting below the gangway on the left hand side, and calling out, here, here, to Sir Stafford Northcott, who is saying something unpleasant about somebody on the front opposition benches. The front seat by the table on the right hand side is the Treasury Bench, and the smiling and obliging attendant tells me the names of the occupants there, and in other parts of the house. The gentleman at the end of the seat, with the black patch over his eye, is Lord Barrington, who, oddly enough, sits for the borough of Eye, and fills the useful office of Vice Chamberlain. Next to him is Sir H. Selwyn Ibbotson, Under Secretary of State for the Home Department, and whom I have heard genially described as one of the prosiest speakers in the house. Next to him, with a paper in his hand and a smirk of supreme self-satisfaction on his face, is Mr. Cross, the Home Secretary. He sits beside a figure you would notice wherever you saw it. The legs are crossed, the arms folded, and the head bent down, showing from here one of the most remarkable styles of doing the human hair that ever I beheld. The hair is combed forward from the crown of the head, and from partings on either side, and brought on to the forehead, where it is apparently pasted together in a looped curl. This is Mr. Disraeli, as I know without being told, though I see him now for the first time. He is wonderfully old-looking, with sunken cheeks and furrowed lines about the mouth and eyes. But his lofty brow does not seem to have a wrinkle on it, and his hands, when he draws them from under his arms and folds them before him, twiddling his thumbs the while, are as smooth and white as conning-spits. He is marvellously emotionless, sitting almost in the same position these two hours, but he is as watchful as he is quiet. I can see his eyes taking in all that goes on, on the bench at the other side of the table, where right-honourable gentlemen, full of restless energy, are constantly talking to each other, or passing notes across each other, or even pulling each other's coat-tails and loudly whispering promptings, as in turn they rise and address the house. I observe that Mr. Disraeli does not wear his hat in the house, and Chilton, to whom I mention this when he comes up again, tells me that he and some half-dozen others never do. Since Mr. Gladstone has retired from the cares of office, he is sometimes, but very rarely, able to endure the weight of his hat on his head while sitting in the house. But formerly he never wore it in the presence of the speaker. The rule is to wear your hat in the house, and a very odd effect it has to see men sitting about in a well-lighted and warm chamber with their hats on their heads. Chilton tells me this peculiarity of wearing hats was very nearly the means of depriving Great Britain and Ireland of the presence in Parliament of Mr. John Martin. That distinguished politician, it appears, had never, before County Meath sent him to Parliament, worn a hat of the hideous shape which fashion entails upon our suffering male kindred. It is well known that when he was returned he declared that he would never sit at Westminster. The reason assigned for this eccentricity being that he recognized no Parliament in which the Member for County Meath might sit other than one meeting on the classic ground of College Green. But Chilton says that was only a poetical flight, the truth lying at the bottom of the hat. Never, Mr. Martin is reported to have said to a deputation of his constituents, will I stoop to wear a top hat. I never had one on my head and the Saxon shall never make me put it there. He was as good as his word when he first came to town, and was wont to appear in a low-crowned beaver hat of uncertain architecture. But after he had for some weeks assisted the process of legislature under the shadow of this hat, the speaker privately and inconsiderate terms conveyed to him a hint that, in the matter of hats at least, it was desirable to have uniformity in the House of Commons. Mr. Martin, who in spite of his melodramatic speeches and his strong personal resemblance to Danny-man in the Colleen gnawn, is, Chilton says, really one of the gentlest and most docile of men. Straightway abandoned the nondescript hat, and sacrificed his inclinations and principles to the extent of buying what he calls a top hat. But he has not taken kindly to it, and never will. It is always getting in his way, under his feet or between his knees, and he is apparently driven to observe the precaution of constantly holding it in his hands when it is not safely disposed on his head. It is always thus held before him, a hand firmly grasping the rim on either side, when he is making those terrible speeches we read, in which he proves that John Mitchell is an unoffending martyr, and that the English to serve their private ends introduced the famine in Ireland. Mr. Cowan, a member for Newcastle, shares Mr. Martin's prejudices about hats, and up to the present time has not abandoned them. As we passed through the lobby on our way to the gallery, Chilton pointed him out to me. He was distinguished in the strong by wearing a round hat of soft felt, and he has never been seen at Westminster in any other. But at least he does not put it on his head in the house. And it is much better to sit upon than the tall hats, on the top of which excited orators not unfrequently find themselves, when, hotly concluding their perorations and unconscious of having left their hats just behind them, they throw themselves back on the bench, from which they had air-while risen to say a few words. The gentleman on the left of the Premier is said to be Sir Stafford Northcott, but there is so little of his face to be seen through the abundance of whisker and moustache, that I do not think anyone has a right to speak positively on the matter. The smooth-faced man next to him is Mr. Gaythorne Hardy. The tall, useful-looking man on his left is Sir Michael Hicks Beach, who, I suppose, by instructions of the Cabinet, generally sits, as he does tonight, next to Mr. Ward Hunt's. The Chief Secretary for Ireland is slim. Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Ward Hunt is not, and the two manage to seek themselves with some approach to comfort. The First Lord of the Admiralty further eases the pressure on his colleagues by throwing his left arm over the back of the bench, where it hangs like a limb of some monumental tree. The carefully devised scheme for the disposition of Mr. Ward Hunt on the Treasury bench is completed by assigning the place on the other side of him to Sir Charles Adderley. The President of the Board of Trade, Chilton says, is understood to have long passed the mental stage at which old John Willett had arrived when he was discovered sitting in his chair in the dismantled bar of the Maple after the rioters had visited his hostelry. He is apparently unconscious of discomfort when crushed up or partially sat upon by his elephantine colleague, which is a fortunate circumstance. The stolid man, with the straight back, directly facing Mr. Disraeli on the front bench opposite, is the Marquis of Hardington. The gentleman with uncombed hair and squarely cut garments on the left of the leader of the opposition is Mr. Forster. The big man further to the left, who sits with folded arms, and wears a smile expressive of his satisfaction with all mankind, particularly with Sir William Harcourt, is the Ex-Solicitor General. The duck of a man, with black hair, nicely oiled and sweetly waved, is Sir Henry James. Where have I seen him before? His face and figure and attitude seem strangely familiar to me. I have been shopping this morning, but I do not think I could have seen behind any milliners or linen drapers counter a person like the honourable and learned gentleman, the member for Taunton. Beyond this doubty night and last at this end of the bench is a little man in spectacles, and with a preternatural look of wisdom on his face. He is the right honourable lion playfair, and is said to have, next to Mr. Fawcett, the most remarkably retentive memory of any man in the house. Chilton says he always writes his lectures before he delivers them to the house, sending the manuscript to the Times, and so accurate is his recitation that the editor has only to sprinkle the lecture with here-here's and cheers to make the thing complete. On the right-hand side of the Marquis of Hardington is Mr. Goshen. In fact, at the moment I happen to have reached him in my survey, he is on his feet, asking a question of his right honourable friend opposite. What a curious attitude the man stands in. Apparently the backs of his legs are glued to the bench from which he has risen, a device which enables him as he speaks to lean forward, like a human tower of Pisa. He is putting the simplest question in the world to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, but if he were a junior clerk asking his employer for the hand of his eldest daughter, he could not look more sheepish. His hat is held in his left hand behind his back, possibly with a view to assist in balancing him, and to avoid too much strain on the adhesive powers that keep the back of his legs firmly attached to the bench. With his right hand he is, when not pulling up his collar, feeling himself nervously round the waist, as if to make sure that he is there. Next to him are Mr. Dodson and Mr. Campbell Bannerman, and with these planted between him and actual or aspirant leaders of the Liberal Party sits Mr. Low. I cannot see much of his face from here, for he wears his hat and at the moment hangs his head. A little later on I both saw and heard him speak, and a splendid speech he made, going right to the heart of the matter, laying it bare. His success as a debater is a marvellous triumph of mind over material influences. It would be hard to conceive a man having fewer of the outward graces of oratory than Mr. Low. His utterance is hesitating, sometimes even to stuttering. He speaks hurriedly and without emphasis. His manner is nervous and restless, and he is so short-sighted that the literary quotations with which his speeches abound are marred by painful efforts to read his notes. Yet how he browses the house, moving it to cheers and laughter, and to the rapid interchange of volleys of here-here from opposite sides of the house, which Chilton says is the most exhilarating sound that can reach the ear of a speaker in the House of Commons. Mr. Low sits down with the same abruptness that marked his rising, and rather gets into his hat than puts it on, pushing his head so far into its depths that there is nothing of him left on view save what extends below the line of his white eyebrows. To the right of Mr. Low I see a figure which, foreshortened from my point of view, is chiefly distinguishable by a hat and a pair of boots. Without absolute Quaker fashion about the cut of the hat or garments, there is a breadth about the former and a looseness about the latter suggestive of Quaker associations. Perhaps if my idea were mercilessly analysed it would appear that it has its growth in the knowledge that I am looking down on Mr. Bright, and that I know Mr. Bright is of Quaker parentage, but I am jotting down my impressions as I receive them. Mr. Bright does not address the house to-night, but he has made one or two short speeches this session, and Chilton, who has heard them, speaks quite sorrowfully of the evidence they give of failing physical power. The orator who once used to hold the House of Commons under his command, with as much ease as Apollo held in hand, the fiery courses of the chariot of the sun, now stands before it on rare occasions, with a manor more nervous than that in which some new members make their maiden speech. The bell-like tones of his voice are heard no more. He hesitates in choosing words, is not sure of the sequence of his phrases, and resumes his seat with evident gratefulness for the renewed rest. Chilton adds that much of this nervousness is probably owing to a sensibility of the expectation which his rising arouses in the House, and a knowledge that he is not about to make the great speech looked for ever since he returned to his old plays. But at best the matchless oratory of John Bright is already a tradition in the House of Commons, and it is but the ghost of the famous Tribune who now nightly haunts the scene of his former glories. Mr. Gladstone was sitting next to Mr. Bright, in what the always smiling and obliging attendant tells me is a favourite attitude with him. His legs were stretched out, his hands loosely clasped before him, and his head thrown back, resting on the cushion at the back of the seat, so that the soft light from the illuminated roof shone full on his upturned face. It is a beautiful face, soft as a woman's, very pale and worn, with furrowed lines that tell of labour done, and sorrow lived through. Here again I am conscious of the possibility of my impressions being moulded by my knowledge of facts, but I fancy I see a great alteration, since last I looked on Mr. Gladstone's face, now two years ago. It was far away from here, in a big wooden building in a North Wales town. He was on a platform surrounded by grotesque men in blue gowns and caps, which marked high rank in Celtic Bardship. At that time he was the nominal leader of a great majority that would not follow him, and president of a ministry that sworted all his steps. His face looked much harder then, and his eye glanced restlessly round, taking in every movement of the crowd in the pavilion. He seemed to exist in a hectic flush of life, and was utterly incapable of taking rest. Now his face, though still thin, has filled up. The lines on his brow and under his eyes, though too deeply furrowed to be eradicable, have been smoothed down. And there is about his face a sense of peace, and a pleasant look of rest. Chilton says that sometimes, when Mr. Gladstone has been in the house this session, he has, during the progress of a debate, momentarily sprung into his old attitude of earnest, eager attention. And there have been critical moments when his interposition in debate has appeared imminent. But he has conquered the impulse, lain back again on the bench, and let the house go its own way. It is very odd, Chilton says, to have him sitting there silent in the midst of so much talking. This was specially felt during the debate about those Irish acts with which he had so much to do. Chilton tells me that whilst the debate on the Irish bill was going on, there came, from no one knows where, passed from hand to hand along the benches, a scrap of paper, on which was written this verse from in Memoriam. At our old pastimes in the hall we gambled, making vain pretence of gladness, with an awful sense of one mute shadow, watching all. Although the gangway has a distinct and important significance in marking off nuances of political parties, it appears that it does not follow as an inevitable sequence, that because a man sits behind the ministerial bench he is therefore a taper or a tadpole, or that because he takes up his quarters below the gangway he is a John Hamden. The distinction is more strongly marked on the liberal side, but even there there are some honest men who usually obey the crack of the whip. On the conservative side the gangway has scarcely any significance, and though the Louisian party, which consists solely of Charles, sits there, and from time to time reminds the world of its existence by loudly shouting in its ear, it may always be depended upon in a real party division to swell the ministerial majority by one vote. The Scotch members, who sit chiefly on the liberal side, spread themselves impartially over seats above and below the gangway. The home rule members, who also favour the liberal side, sit together in a cluster below the gangway in defiant proximity to the sergeant at arms. They are rather noisy at times, and whenever Chilton comes in late to dinner, or after going back stays till all hours in the morning, it is sure to be those Irish fellows. But I think the House of Commons ought to be much obliged to Ireland for its contribution of members, and to resist to the last the principle of home rule, for it is not, as at present constituted, an assembly that can afford to lose any element that has about it a tinge of originality, a flash of humour, or an echo of eloquence. That, of course, is Chilton's remark. I only know, for my part, that the ladies' gallery is a murky den, in which you can hear very little, not see much, and are yourself not seen at all. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Faces and Places by Henry W. Lucy Chapter 16 Some Preaches 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 a 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 everyone would be perfectly still whilst Mr. Sankey sang. There was another pause. Mr. Sankey waiting with mocked punctiliousness till the last coffer had got over his difficulty. Presently the profound stillness was broken by the harmonium. Melodian 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 doom. 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 marshal in spiriting sound, and as the verse rolled forth, filling the great hall with a mighty musical noise, one could see the eyes of strong men filled with tears. Ho, my comrades, see the signal waving in the sky. Reinforcements now appearing, victory as nigh. Hold the fort, for I am coming, Jesus' signal 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 Dannel. 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 Dannel. One peculiarity about Dannel 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 Dannel 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 Dannel. 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 today 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 respectively 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 L.L.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 dramatist Personi were a young convert, a skeptic, and the skeptic's mother. The convert, who has been bitten by the serpent, and having followed Moses in junction, is cured, comes along, and finds the skeptic lying down, badly bitten. He entreats him to look upon the brazen serpent, which Moses has lifted up. But the skeptic has no faith in the alleged cure, and refuses. Do you think, he says, I'm going to be saved by looking at a brazen serpent away off on a pole? No, no. Well, I don't know, says the young convert, but I was saved that way myself. Don't you think you'd better try it? The skeptic 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 philosophy 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 skeptic and the young convert wore tailcoats, and that the mother had come along in a stuffed dress. But when the preacher turned aside, and in a few words spoke of sons who would not hear the council 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 recognized the incidence. 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 retelling of the story of Daniel. But whilst Nebuchadnezzar, Daniel, Shadrach, Misha, Cabernigo, Darius and even the 120 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 going to be good Christians and God's people, let us be so, out and out. Bendigo Bendigo, the air-wild famous champion of England, I one evening found in the pulpit at the London Cabernon'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 Doopie, 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, Mr. Doopie proceeded to say a few words about our dear and saved brother Bendigo. With a frankness that in no wise disconcerted the veteran prize-fighter, Mr. Doopie 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. Doopie, 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 hand-bill that had advertised the meeting, Mr. Doopie 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. Doopie 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. Doopie believed he would keep straight. Before introducing Bendigo to the meeting, Mr. Doopie 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. Doopie 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 do you 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 is 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. Those then chaps on the platform said Bendigo to Jim. Infidels said Jim. What's that? queried Bendigo. Why, fellows, us 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. Dupy again appeared at the desk and said that 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 three-score 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 learned 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 no, 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. Doopie 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 draw attention 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 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 stationary 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 tonight, he said, smiting the rail of the pulpit. We must have souls not by ones and twos and we must have them tonight in this place. There is a drunkard in this place. Give us his soul, oh 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 tonight 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. The hymns, 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 top most pitch of the chapel 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 keynote was struck by an anecdote which Joss introduced at the outset of his discourse. There was, he said, a clergyman walking down Cheepside one day when he heard a man calling out by a pie. The clergyman looked at the man and recognized in him a member of his church. What, John? he said. Is this what you do in the weekdays? Yes, said the man iron and honest living by selling pies. The fellow said the parson how I pity you. Bother your pity by 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 by 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 section. End of the first part of Chapter 16 Chapter 16 Part 2 of Faces and Places This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Ruth Golding Faces and Places by Henry W. Lucy Chapter 16 Part 2 Some Preachers I Have Known 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 non-conformist 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 Saddam was fought. As being the first time a non-conformist 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. Forster on our colonies the Dean observed that the right honourable gentleman asked 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 to 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 faster 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 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 non-conformists. Church people rejoiced and non-conformists 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 the 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 extreme non-conformists desirous of wrapping themselves in the mantle once worn by churchmen and possessed by a love for uniformity 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 new discoveries or ancient institutions. Dean Stanley preached his sermon within the Chancellor and it formed part of the customary afternoon service of the Church of England Dr Moffitt 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 published on 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 residents in South Africa had not robbed of a note filled every corner of the long isle 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 Livingston lies Dean Stanley was one of many clergymen present and occupied a seat just in front of the lectern Dr Moffitt 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 betuanna 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 betuanas with whom Dr Moffitt 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 anyone worshipping a thing made with his own hands Dr Moffitt 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 Moffitt 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 Moffitt on the threshold of their mission was their ignorance of the native language there were no interpreters and there was nothing for it to grab 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 pupil's expense once Dr Moffitt 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 an aged 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 Moffitt added with a seriousness that appeared to indicate a sense of the awkwardness of the position still present in his mind he 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 Betshuana 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 civilization is closely following in the footsteps of the missionary Dr. Moffitt 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 world which lies over this neglected and mysterious continent would soon be lighted and before many years are past 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 Adelston is a massive oak which if the gossips of the neighbourhood be trustworthy has seen some notable sights 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 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 bays and fastening before it a wooden railing also with its decent covering of bays 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 assistants and scrambled onto 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 as 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 vites 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 compassionate 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 levy 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 the old year died and the new was born at eleven o'clock when Mr. Spurgeon gownless and guiltless of white necktie 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 breath 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 tonight and keep up in proper time there is no organ not 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 skillful 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 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 laboring 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 oragery to which his congregation are accustomed and that at the close when with uplifted hands and louder voice the apostrophe is departing here 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 here that thou mayst carry with the 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 a lack 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, surplus or candles the ragged church avoids these stumbling blocks by the simple expedient of doing without candles, surpluses 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 where on 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 considerably 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 elsewhere wither 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 they're filed into the church three score little girls all dressed in wincy dresses with brown furry jackets and little brown hats a monotony of color 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 wondering about the street crying for the mother or the father who had cast them off this class of schoolgirl 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 hay market by frequenting the public houses and with dramatic gestures singing the more popular concert hall songs one of the most determined and headstrong 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 willfully 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 they're entered by the opposite side of the church some sixty boys in corduroy's 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're 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 coal-scuttle observed projecting from an iron monger'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 lacklustre 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 hail old man who diffused around him an air of respectability and comfort was a lodger at Clarkinwell 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 soul of his foot there were not many of the laboring class among the couple of hundred men who made up this miserable company they were chiefly broken down people who were 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 five hundred pounds 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 today 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 opinions shake the white down in the air after the opening hymns Sanki'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 story 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 End of Chapter 16 and End of Faces and Places by Henry W. Lucy