Chiltern 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 gambol'd 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 Hampden. 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 Lewisian "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 Chiltern 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 Chiltern'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.



CHAPTER XVI.

SOME PREACHERS I HAVE KNOWN.

MR. MOODY.

I heard Mr. Moody preach twice when he paid his first visit to this country. Borrowing an idea from another profession, he had a series of rehearsals before he came to London. It was in the Free Trade Hall, Manchester, and service opened at eight o'clock on a frosty morning in December. I had to stand during the whole of the service, one of a crowd wedged in the passages between the closely-packed benches. Every available seat had been occupied shortly after seven, when the doors were thrown open. The galleries were thronged, and even the balconies at the rear of the hall were full to overflowing. The audience were, I should say, pretty equally divided in the matter of sex, and were apparently of the class of small tradesmen, clerks, and well-to do mechanics; that was the general class of the morning congregation. But it must not therefore be understood that the upper class in Manchester stood aloof from the special services of the American gentlemen. At the afternoon meeting, elegantly attired ladies and gentlemen, wearing spotless kid gloves and coats of irreproachable cut, struggled for a place in the mighty throng that streamed into the hall.

Punctually at eight o'clock the meeting was opened by one of the local clergymen, who prayed for a blessing on the day and the work, declaring, amid subdued but triumphant cries from portions of the congregation, that "the Lord has risen indeed! Now is the stone rolled away from the sepulchre, and the Kingdom of God is at hand." Mr. Moody, who sat at a small desk in front of the platform, advanced and gave out the hymn, "Guide us, O Thou Great Jehovah," the singing of which Mr. Sankey, sitting before a small harmonium, led and accompanied, the vast congregation joining with great heartiness.

"Mr. Sankey will now sing a hymn by himself," said Mr. Moody; whereupon there was a movement in the hall, a rustling of dresses, and a general settling down to hear something special.

The movement was so prolonged that Mr. Moody again stood up, and begged that every one would be "perfectly still whilst Mr. Sankey sang." There was another pause, Mr. Sankey waiting with marked punctiliousness till the last cougher had got over his difficulty. Presently the profound stillness was broken by the harmonium—"melodeon" is, I believe, the precise name of the instrument—softly sounding a bar of music. Then Mr. Sankey suddenly and loudly broke in with the first line of the hymn, "What are you going to do, brother?"

Mr Sankey has a fairly good voice, which he used in what is called "an effective" manner, singing certain lines of the hymn pianissimo, and giving the recurrent line, "What are you going to do, brother?" forte, with a long dwelling on the monosyllable "do." When he reached the last verse, he, after a short pause, began to play a tune well known at these meetings, into which the congregation struck with a mighty voice that served to bring into stronger prominence the artificial character of the preceding performance. The words had a martial, inspiriting sound, and as the verse rolled forth, filling the great hall with a mighty musical noise, one could see the eyes of strong men fill with tears.

"Ho, my comrades! see the signal Waving in the sky; Reinforcements now appearing, Victory is nigh! 'Hold the fort, for I am coming,' Jesus signals still; Wave the answer back to Heaven, 'By Thy grace we Will.'"

The subject of Mr. Moody's address was "Daniel"—whom he once, referring to the prophet's position under King Darius, dubbed "the Bismarck of those times," and always called "Dan'l." One might converse for an hour with Mr. Moody without discovering from his accent that he comes from the United States. But it is unmistakable when he preaches, and especially in the colloquies supposed to have taken place between characters in the Bible and elsewhere.

He began his discourse without other preface than a half apology for selecting a subject which, it might be supposed, everybody knew everything about. But, for his part, he liked to take out and look upon the photographs of old friends when they were far away, and he hoped his hearers would not think it waste of time to take another look at the picture of Dan'l. One peculiarity about Dan'l was that there was nothing against his character to be found all through the Bible. Nowadays, when men write biographies, they throw what they call the veil of charity over the dark spots in a career. But when God writes a man's life he puts it all in. So it happened that there are found very few, even of the best men in the Bible, without their times of sin. But Dan'l came out spotless, and the preacher attributed his exceptionally bright life to the power of saying "No."

After this exordium, Mr. Moody proceeded to tell in his own words the story of the life of Daniel. Listening to him, it was not difficult to comprehend the secret of his power over the masses. Like Bunyan, he possesses the great gift of being able to realise things unseen, and to describe his vision in familiar language to those whom he addresses. His notion of "Babylon, that great city," would barely stand the test of historic research. But that there really was in far-off days a great city called Babylon, in which men bustled about, ate and drank, schemed and plotted, and were finally overruled by the visible hand of God, he made as clear to the listening congregation as if he were talking about Chicago.

He filled the lay figures with life, clothed them with garments, and then made them talk to each other in the English language as it is to-day accented in some of the American States.

On the previous night I had heard him deliver an address in one of the densely populated districts of Salford. Admission to the chapel in which the service was held was exclusively confined to women, and, notwithstanding it was Saturday night, there were at least a thousand sober-looking and respectably dressed women present. The subject of the discussion was Christ's conversation with Nicodemus—whose social position Mr. Moody incidentally made familiar to the congregation by observing, "if he had lived in these days, he would have been a doctor of divinity, Nicodemus, D. D, or perhaps LL D." His purpose was to make it clear that men are saved, not by any action of their own, but simply by faith. This he illustrated, among other ways, by introducing a domestic scene from the life of the children of Israel in the Wilderness at the time the brazen serpent was lifted up. The dramatis personae were a Young Convert, a Sceptic, and the Sceptic's Mother. The convert, who has been bitten by the serpent, and, having followed Moses' injunction, is cured, "comes along" and finds the sceptic lying down "badly bitten." He entreats him to look upon the brazen serpent which Moses has lifted up. But the sceptic has no faith in the alleged cure, and refuses.

"Do you think," he says, "I'm going to be saved by looking at a brass serpent away off on a pole? No, no."

"Wall, I dunno," says the young convert, "but I was saved that way myself. Don't you think you'd better try it?"

The sceptic refuses, and his mother "comes along," and observes, —"Hadn't you better look at it, my boy?"

"Well, mother, the fact is, if I could understand the f'losophy of it I would look up right off; but I don't see how a brass serpent away off on a pole can cure me."

And so he dies in his unbelief.

It seemed odd to hear this conversation from the Wilderness recited, word for word, in the American vernacular, and with a local colouring that suggested that both the sceptic and the young convert wore tail-coats, and that the mother had "come along" in a stuff dress. But when the preacher turned aside, and in a few words spoke of sons who would not hear the counsel of Christian mothers and refused to "look up and live," the silent tears that coursed down many a face in the congregation showed that his homely picture had been clear as the brazen serpent in the Wilderness to the eyes of faith before which it was held up.

The story of Daniel is one peculiarly susceptible of Mr. Moody's usual method of treatment, and for three-quarters of an hour he kept the congregation at the morning meeting enthralled whilst he told how Daniel's simple faith triumphed over the machinations of the unbeliever. Mr. Moody's style is unlike that of most religious revivalists. He neither shouts nor gesticulates, and mentioned "hell" only once, and that in connection with the life the drunkard makes for himself. His manner is reflected by the congregation in respect of abstention from working themselves up into "a state." This makes all the more impressive the signs of genuine emotion which follow and accompany the preacher's utterance. When he was picturing the scene of Daniel translating the king's dream, rapidly reciting Daniel's account of the dream, and Nebuchadnezzar's quick and delighted ejaculation, "That's so!" "That's it!" as he recognised the incidents, I fancied it was not without difficulty some of the people, bending forward, listening with glistening eye and heightened colour, refrained from clapping their hands for glee that the faithful Daniel, the unyielding servant of God, had triumphed over tribulation, and had walked out of prison to take his place on the right hand of the king.

There was not much exhortation throughout the discourse, not the slightest reference to any disputed point of doctrine. It was nothing more than a re-telling of the story of Daniel. But whilst Nebuchadnezzar, Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego, Darius, and even the hundred and twenty princes, became for the congregation living and moving beings, all the ends of the narrative were, with probably unconscious, certainly unbetrayed, art, gathered together to lead up to the one lesson—that compromise, where truth and religion are concerned, is never worthy of those who profess to believe God's word.

"I am sick of the shams of the present day," said Mr. Moody, bringing his discourse to a sudden close. "I am tired of the way men parley with the world whilst they are holding out their hands to be lifted into heaven. If we're gwine to be good Christians and God's people let us be so out-and-out."

"BENDIGO."

Bendigo, the erewhile famous champion of England, I one evening found in the pulpit at the London Cabman's Mission Hall. After quitting the ring, Bendigo took to politics; that is to say, he, for a consideration, directed at Parliamentary elections the proceedings of the "lambs" in his native town of Nottingham. Now he had given up even that worldliness, and had taken to preaching. His fame had brought together a large congregation. The Hall was crowded to overflowing, and the proceedings were, as one of the speakers described it, conducted "by shifts," the leaders, including Bendigo, going downstairs to address the crowd collected in the lower room after having spoken to the congregation in the regular meeting hall.

The service was opened with prayer by Mr. John Dupee, superintendent of the Mission, after which the congregation vigorously joined in the singing of a hymn. A second hymn followed upon the reading of a psalm; and Mr. Dupee proceeded to say a few words about "our dear and saved brother, Bendigo." With a frankness that in no wise disconcerted the veteran prizefighter, Mr. Dupee discussed and described the condition in which he had lived up to about two years ago. The speaker was, it appeared, a fellow-townsman of Bendigo's, and his recollection of him went back for nearly forty years, at which time his state was so bad that Mr. Dupee, then a lad, used to walk behind him through the streets of Nottingham praying that he might be forgiven. Now he was saved, and, quoting the handbill that had advertised the meeting, Mr. Dupee hailed him as "a miracle of mercy, the greatest miracle of the nineteenth century," which view the congregation approved by fervent cries of "Praise the Lord!" "Hallelujah!"

Whether Bendigo would stand steadfast in the new course he had begun to tread was a matter which—Mr. Dupee did not hide it—was freely discussed in the circles where the ex-champion was best known. But he had now gone straight for two years, and Mr. Dupee believed he would keep straight.

Before introducing Bendigo to the meeting, Mr. Dupee said his own "brother Jim" would say a few words, his claim upon the attention of the congregation being enforced by the asseveration that he was "the next great miracle of the nineteenth century." From particulars which Mr. Dupee proceeded to give in relation to the early history of his brother, it would be difficult to decide whether he or Bendigo had the fuller claim to the title of the "wickedest man in Nottingham." A single anecdote told to the discredit of his early life must suffice in indication of its general character. He was, it appeared, always getting tipsy and arriving home at untimely hours.

"One night," said the preacher, "he came home very late, and was kicking up an awful row in the street just before he came in. I opened the window, and, looking out, said to him very gently, 'Now Jim, do come in without waking mother.' And what d'ye think he said? Why, he said nothing, but just up with a brick and heaved it at me. That was Jim in the old days," he continued, turning to his brother with an admiring glance. "He always was lively as a sinner, and he's just the same now he's on his way to join the saints."

"Jim" even at the outset fully justified this exordium by suddenly approaching the pulpit desk with his hands stretched out, singing the "Hallelujah band." In the course of an address delivered with much animation and filled with startling phrases, it became clear that "Jim" had been the immediate instrument of the conversion of Bendigo. He added considerably to the stock of information respecting the early life of that personage, and told in detail how better things began to dawn upon him.

At the outset of his new career Bendigo's enthusiasm was somewhat misdirected, as was manifested at an infidel meeting he attended in company with his sponsor.

"Who's them chaps on the platform?" said Bendigo to Jim.

"Infidels," said Jim.

"What's that?" queried Bendigo.

"Why, fellows as don't believe in God or the devil."

"Then come along, and we'll soon clear the platform," said Bendigo, beginning to strip.

Jim's address lasted for nearly half an hour, and when at last brought to a conclusion he went below to "begin again" with the crowd in the lower room.

Mr. Dupee again appeared at the desk and said they would sing a verse of a hymn, after which Bendigo would address them, and the plate would be handed round for a collection to cover the cost of the bills and of Bendigo's travelling expenses. The hymn was a well-known one, with, as given out by the preacher, an alteration in the second line thus:

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him for brother Bendigo."

This sung with mighty volume of sound, Bendigo, who had all this time been quietly seated on the platform, advanced, and began to speak in a simple, unaffected, but wholly unintelligent manner. He was decently dressed in a frock-coat, with black velveteen waistcoat buttoned over his broad chest. He was still, despite his threescore years, straight as a pole; and had a fine healthy looking face, that belied the fearful stories told by his friends of his dissipation. Except a certain flattening of the bridge of the nose, a slight indentation on the forehead between the eyebrows, and the crooked finger on his left hand, he bore no traces of many pitched fights of which he is the hero, and might in such an assembly have been taken for a mild-mannered family coachman.

His address, though occasionally marked by the grotesque touches which characterised the remarks of the two preceding speakers, was not without touches of pathos.

"I've been a fighting character," he said, and this was a periphrastic way of referring to his old occupation in which he evidently took great pleasure; "but now I'm a Miracle. What could I do? I was the youngest-born of twenty-one children, and the first thing done with me was to put me in a workhouse. There I got among fellows who brought me out, and I became a fighting character. Thirty years ago I came up to London to fight Ben Caunt, and I licked him. I'm sixty-three now, and I didn't think I should ever come up to London to fight for King Jesus. But here I am, and I wish I could read out of the blessed Book for then I could talk to you better. But I never learnt to read, though I'm hoping by listening to the conversation around me to pick up a good deal of the Bible, and then I'll talk to you better. I'm only two years old at present, and know no more than a baby. It's two years ago since Jesus came to me and had a bout with me, and I can tell you He licked me in the first round. He got me down on my knees the first go, and there I found grace. I've got a good many cups and belts which I won when I was a fighting character. Them cups and belts will fade, but there's a crown being prepared for old Bendigo that'll never fade."

This and much more to the same purport the veteran said, and then Mr. Dupee interposed with more "few words," the plate was sent round, and the superintendent and Bendigo went downstairs to relieve "brother Jim," the echo of whose stentorian voice had occasionally been wafted in at the open door whilst Bendigo was relating his experiences.

"FIDDLER JOSS."

It was at another Mission Chapel in Little Wild Street, Drury Lane, that I "sat under" Fiddler Joss. His "dictionary name," as in the course of the evening I learned from one of his friends, is Mr. Joseph Poole. The small bills which invited all into whose hands they might fall to "come and hear Fiddler Joss" added the injunction "Come early to secure a seat." The doors were opened at half-past six, and those who obeyed the injunction found themselves in a somewhat depressing minority. At half-past six there were not more than a score of people present, and these looked few indeed within the walls of the spacious chapel. It is a surprise to find so well-built, commodious, it may almost be added handsome, a building in such a poor neighbourhood, and bearing so humble a designation. It provides comfortable sitting room for twelve hundred persons. There is a neat, substantial gallery running round the hall, and forming at one end a circular pulpit, evidently designed after the fashion of Mr. Spurgeon's at the Tabernacle—a building of which the Mission Chapel is in many respects a miniature.

The congregation began to drop in by degrees, and proved to be of a character altogether different from what might have been expected in such a place on such an occasion. Out of ten people perhaps one belonged to the class among which London missionaries are accustomed to labour. But while men and women of the "casual" order were almost entirely absent, and men of what is called in this connection "the working class" were few and far between, there entered by hundreds people who looked as if they were the responsible owners of snug little businesses in the provision, stationery, or "general" line. An air of profound respectability, combined with the enjoyment of creature comforts, prevailed.

Whilst waiting for seven o'clock, the hour for the service to commence, a voluntary choir sang hymns, and the rapidly growing congregation joined in fitful snatches of harmony. Little hymn-books with green paper backs were liberally distributed, and there was no excuse for silence on the score of unfamiliarity with the hymns selected. At seven o'clock the preacher of the evening appeared on the rostrum, accompanied by two gentlemen accustomed, it appeared, to take a leading part in conducting the service in the chapel. One gave out a hymn, reading it verse by verse, and starting the tune with stentorian voice. This concluded, his colleague prayed, in a loud voice, and with energetic action. "We must have souls to-night," he said, smiting the rail of the pulpit; "we must have souls—not by ones and twos—and we must have them to-night in this place. There is a drunkard in this place. Give us his soul, O God! There is a thief in this place; I do not know where he sits, but God knows. We want to benefit God, and we must have souls to-night, not by twos and threes, but in hundreds."

After this there was another hymn, sung even with increased volume of sound. Energy was the predominant characteristic of the whole service, and it reached its height in the singing of hymns, when the congregation found the opportunity of joining their leaders in the devotional utterance. There were half a dozen women in the congregation who had solved the home difficulty about the baby by bringing it with them to chapel. The little ones, catching the enthusiasm of the place, joined audibly in all the acts of worship save in the singing. They crowed during the prayers, chattered during the reading of the lesson, and loudly wept at intervals throughout the sermon. But there was no room for their shrill voices in the mighty shout which threatened to rend the roof when hymns were sung.

Fiddler Joss, being impressively introduced by one of the gentlemen in the pulpit, began without preface to read rapidly from the fifth chapter of Romans, a task he accomplished with the assistance of a pair of double eyeglasses. He formally appropriated no text, and it would be difficult to furnish any connected account of his sermon. Evidently accustomed to address open-air audiences, he spoke at the topmost pitch of a powerful voice. Without desire to misapply rules of criticism, and in furtherance of an honest intention to describe impressions in as simple a form as may be, it must be added that the sermon was as far above the heads of a mission-chapel congregation as was the pitch of the preacher's voice. Its key-note was struck by an anecdote which Joss introduced at the outset of his discourse. There was, he said, a clergyman walking down Cheapside one day, when he heard a man calling out, "Buy a pie." The clergyman looked at the man, and recognised in him a member of his church.

"What, John," he said, "is this what you do in the weekdays?"

"Yes," said the man, "I earn an honest living by selling pies."

"Poor fellow," said the parson, "how I pity you."

"Bother your pity; buy a pie," retorted the man.

That, according to Fiddler Joss, is the way in which constituted authorities in church and chapel matters deal with the poor man in London and elsewhere. Mr. Methodist would not speak to Mr. Baptist, Mr. Wesleyan would have nothing to do with Mr. Congregationalist, Mr. High Church scoffed at Mr. Low Church, Mr. Low Church did not care what became of any of the rest, and among them all the poor man was utterly neglected.

"How we pity you," these people said to the poor man.

"Bother your pity," the poor man answered; "buy a pie."

Beyond this central argument, affirmation, or illustration, Fiddler Joss did not get far in the course of the thirty-five minutes during which he addressed the congregation. At this period he suddenly stopped, and asked for the sympathy of his friends, explaining that he was subject to attacks of sickness, one of the legacies of the days of sin, when he was "five years drunk and never sober." After a pause he recommenced, and continued for some five minutes longer, when he abruptly wound up, apparently having got through only one half of his discourse.

It is only fair to regard the sermon as an incomplete one, and to believe that the message which "Fiddler Joss" had entered St. Giles's to speak to the poor and suffering lay in the second and undelivered portion.

DEAN STANLEY.

On St. Andrew's Day, 1875, I was present at two memorable services in Westminster Abbey. For many years during Dean Stanley's reign this particular day had been set apart for the holding of special services on behalf of foreign missions. What made this occasion memorable in the annals of the Church was the fact that the evening lecture was delivered by Dr. Moffat, a Nonconformist minister who, in the year after the Battle of Waterloo, began his career as a missionary to South Africa, and finally closed his foreign labours in the year when Sedan was fought. As being the first time a Nonconformist minister had officiated in Westminster Abbey, the event created wide interest, and lost none of its importance by the remarkable sermon preached in the afternoon by Dean Stanley.

The Dean took for his text two verses, one from the Old Testament, the other from the New. The first was from the 45th Psalm, and ran thus: "Instead of thy fathers shall be thy children, whom thou mayest make princes in all the earth." The second was the 16th verse of the 10th chapter of the Gospel of St. John: "And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice; and there shall be one fold and one shepherd." Thus the verse runs in the ordinary translation, but the Dean preferred the word "flock" in place of fold, and used it throughout his discourse. Referring to an address recently delivered by Mr. W. E. Forster on "Our Colonies," the Dean observed that the right hon. gentleman had set himself the task of considering the question, "What were to be the future relations of the Mother Country to the Colonies?" The Dean proposed to follow the same course, with this difference: that the empire of which he had to speak was a spiritual empire, and the question he would consider was what ought to be the policy of the Church of England towards fellow-Christians separated from it on matters of form.

There were, he said, three courses open to the Church. There was the policy of abstention and isolation; there was the policy of extermination or absorption; and there was a middle course, avoiding abstention and not aiming at absorption, which consisted of holding friendly and constant intercourse with Christians of other Churches, earnestly and lovingly endeavouring to create as many points of contact as were compatible with holding fast the truth. The errors of all religions run into each other, just as their truths do. There was, no doubt, some exaggeration in the statement of the Roman Catholic authority who declared that "there is but one bad religion, and that is the religion of the man who professes what he does not believe." But there was no reason why, because the Church of England had done in times past and was still doing grand work, there should be no place for the Nonconformists. Church people rejoiced, and Nonconformists might rejoice, that the prayers of the Church of England were enshrined in a Liturgy radiant with the traditions of a glorious past. But that was no reason why there should be no room where good work was being done for men who preferred the chances of extemporaneous prayer—a custom of Apostolic origin, and perhaps (very daintily this was put) fittest for the exigencies of special occasions.

If some of the extremer Nonconformists, desirous of wrapping themselves in the mantle once worn by Churchmen, and possessed by a love for uniformity so exaggerated that they would tear down ancient institutions and reduce all Churches to the same level, there was no reason why Churchmen should return evil for evil and repay contumely with scorn. There was a nobler mission for Christians than that of seeking to exterminate each other, a higher object than that of endeavouring to sow the seeds of vulgar prejudice either against new discoveries or ancient institutions.

DR. MOFFAT.

Dean Stanley preached his sermon within the chancel, and it formed part of the customary afternoon service of the Church of England. Dr. Moffat delivered his lecture in the nave, its simple preface being the singing of the missionary hymn, "From Greenland's icy mountains."

The pioneer of missionary labour in South Africa was at this time close upon his eightieth year, but he seemed to have thriven upon hard work, and showed no signs of physical weakness. His full, rich voice, musical with a northern accent, which long residence in South Africa had not robbed of a note, filled every corner of the long aisle, and no section of the vast congregation was disappointed by reason of not hearing. Wearing a plain Geneva robe with the purple hood of his academic degree, he stood at the lectern, situated not many paces from the grave where his friend and son-in-law, Dr. Livingstone, lies.

Dean Stanley was one of many clergymen present, and occupied a seat just in front of the lectern.

Dr. Moffat began by protesting that he was very nervous, because, having been accustomed for fifty years or more to speak and teach and preach in a language altogether different from European, he had contracted a habit of thinking in that language, and sometimes found it momentarily difficult to find the exact expression of his thoughts in English.

"If I might," he said, with a touch of dry humour that frequently lighted up his discourse, "speak to you in the Betchuana tongue I could get along with ease. However, I will do what I can."

The lecture resolved itself into a quiet, homely, and exceedingly interesting chat, chiefly about the Betchuanas, with whom Dr. Moffat longest laboured. When he arrived in the country, early in the present century, he found the people sunk in the densest ignorance. Unlike most heathen tribes, they had no idea of a God, no notion of a hereafter. There was not an idol to be found in all their province, and one the lecturer's daughter showed to an intelligent leader of the people excited his liveliest astonishment. He was, indeed, so hopelessly removed from a state of civilisation that he ridiculed the notion of any one worshipping a thing made with his own hands.

Dr. Moffat seems to have been, on the whole, kindly received by the natives, though they could not make out what he wanted there. A special stumbling-block to them was, how it came to pass that when, as sometimes happened, he and Mrs Moffat were disrespectfully treated, they did not retaliate. This was satisfactorily explained to the popular mind by the assertion of a distinguished member of the community that the foreigners had run away from their country, and were content to bear any treatment rather than return to their own people, who would infallibly kill them.

The great difficulty met by Dr. and Mrs. Moffat on the threshold of their mission was their ignorance of the native language. There were no interpreters, and there was nothing for it but to grub along, patiently picking up words as they went. The Betchuanas were willing to teach them as far as they could, occasionally relieving the monotony of the lesson by a little joke at the pupils' expense. Once, Dr. Moffat told his hearers, a sentence was written down on a piece of paper, and he was instructed to take it to an aged lady, who was to give him something he was in need of. He found the old lady, who was scarcely handsome, and was decidedly wrinkled, and upon presenting the paper "she blushed very much." It turned out that the missionary had been the unconscious bearer of a message asking the old lady to kiss him, "which," Dr. Moffat added, with a seriousness that appeared to indicate a sense of the awkwardness of the position still present in his mind, "I did not want to do at all."

But he mastered the language at last, and then his moral mastery over the strange people amongst whom he had been thrown commenced. He found a firm ally in the Queen, who, first attracted by the flavour of the pills and other delicacies he was accustomed to administer to her in his capacity of physician, became his constant and powerful friend. Under her auspices Christianity flourished, and in Betchuana at the present time, where once a printed book was regarded as the white man's charm, thousands now are able to read and treasure the Bible as formerly they treasured the marks which testified to the number of enemies they had slain in battle. Peace reigns where once blood ran, and over a vast tract of country civilisation is closely following in the footsteps of the missionary.

Dr. Moffat concluded a simple address, followed with intense interest by the congregation, by an earnest plea for help for foreign missions. "If every child of God in Europe and America," he said, "would give something to this mission, the dark cloud which lies over this neglected and mysterious continent would soon be lighted, and before many years are passed we might behold the blessed sight of all Africa stretching forth her hands to God."

MR. SPURGEON.

In a lane leading from the station at Addlestone is a massive oak, which, if the gossips of the neighbourhood be trustworthy, has seen some notable sights. It is said that under its far-reaching branches "Wycliffe has preached and Queen Elizabeth dined."

Here one summer evening I first heard Mr. Spurgeon preach. The occasion was in connection with the building of a new Baptist Chapel, and when I arrived the foundation stone was being utilised as a receptacle for offerings, over which Mr. Spurgeon, sitting on the wall, and shaded from the sun by an umbrella reverently held over his head by a disciple, jovially presided.

After tea a pulpit was extemporised, upon the model of the one at the Tabernacle, by covering an empty provision box with red baize, and fastening before it a wooden railing, also with its decent covering of baize. A pair of steps, constructed with a considerable amount of trouble, were placed in position before the rostrum; but when, a few minutes after seven o'clock, the preacher appeared, he scorned their assistance, and scrambled on to the box from the level of the field, grasping the rail as soon as he was in a position to face the congregation, as if he recognised in it a familiar friend, whose presence made him feel at home under the novel circumstances that surrounded him. There might, when Mr. Spurgeon stood up, have been some doubt whether his voice could be heard throughout the vast throng gathered in front of the tree. But the first tones of the speaker's voice dispelled uncertainty, and the congregation settled quietly down, whilst Mr. Spurgeon, with uplifted hands, besought "the Spirit of God to be with them, even as in their accustomed places of worship." A hymn was sung, a portion of the 55th chapter of Isaiah read, another prayer offered up, and the preacher commenced his Sermon.

He took for his text a portion of the 36th verse of the 9th chapter of Matthew—"He was moved with compassion." At the outset he sketched, with rapid eloquence, the history of Jesus Christ. The first declaration that might have startled one not accustomed to the preacher's style of oratory was his expression of a preference for people who absolutely hated religion over those who simply regarded it with indifference. These former were people who showed they did think, and, like Saul of Tarsus, there was hope of their conversion.

"It is," he said, "a great time when the Lord goes into the devil's army, and, looking around him, sees some lieutenant, and says to him, 'Come along; you have served the black master long enough, I have need of you now.' It is astonishing how quietly he comes along, and what a valiant fight he fights on the side of his new master."

Mr. Spurgeon had a protest to make against the practice of refusing to help the poor except through the machinery of the Poor Law. Referring to Christ's having compassionated the hungry crowd and fed them, he said: "If Jesus Christ were alive now and presumed to feed a crowd of people, He would be had up by some society or other, and prosecuted for encouraging mendicancy. If He were alive in these days He would, I much fear, have occasion to say, 'I was hungry, and ye fed Me not; thirsty, and ye gave Me no drink; destitute, and you told Me to go on the parish.'"

He thought tracts were very good things in their way, but should not be relied upon solely as a means of bringing poor people to the Lord. "I believe a loaf of bread often contains the very essence of theology, and the Church of God ought to look to it that there are at her gates no, poor unfed, no sick untended." He was rather hard on "the clergy of all denominations," regretting to say that "as fish always stunk first at the head, so a Church when it goes wrong goes bad first among its ministers." He concluded by an eloquent appeal to his hearers to lose no time in seeking salvation, calling "heaven and earth, and this old tree, under which the Gospel was preached five hundred years ago, to bear witness that I have preached to you the word of God, in which alone salvation is to be found."

The sermon occupied exactly an hour in the delivery, and was listened to throughout with profound attention. When it was over, Mr. Spurgeon held a sort of levee from the pulpit, the people pressing round to shake his hand, and it was nearly nine o'clock before the last of the congregation had passed away, leaving Wycliffe's Tree to its accustomed solitude.

The next time I heard Mr. Spurgeon preach was in his famous church. The Tabernacle will hold six thousand people when full, and on this night it was thronged from door to door, and from floor to ceiling, with a congregation gathered together to "watch" whilst the Old Year died and the New was born. At eleven o'clock when Mr. Spurgeon, gownless and guiltless of white neck-tie, or other clerical insignia, unceremoniously walked on to the platform which serves him for pulpit, there was not a foot of vacant space in the vast area looked down upon from the galleries, for even the aisles were thronged. The capacious galleries that rise tier over tier to the roof were crowded in like manner, and the preacher stood, faced and surrounded by a congregation, the sight of which might well move to the utterance of words that burn a man who had within him a fount of thoughts that breathe.

There was no other prelude to the service than the simply spoken invitation, "Let us pray," and the six thousand, declaring themselves "creatures of time," bent the knee with one accord to ask the "Lord of Eternity" to bless them in the coming year. After this a hymn was sung, Mr. Spurgeon reading out verse by verse, with occasional commentary, and not unfrequent directions to the congregation as to the manner of their singing.

"Dear friends, the devil sometimes makes you lag half a note behind the leader. Just try if you can't prevail over him to-night, and keep up in proper time."

There is no organ, nor even a tuning-fork, in use at the Tabernacle. But the difficulties, apparently insuperable under these circumstances, of leading so vast a congregation in the singing of unpractised tunes is almost overcome by the skilful generalship of the gentleman who steps forward to the rails beside the preacher's table, pitches the note, and leads the singing. The hymn brought to a conclusion, Mr. Spurgeon read and commented upon a passage of Scripture from the 25th of Matthew. Then another hymn. "Sing this verse very softly and solemnly," says the pastor; and the congregation in hushed tones, that seem to thrill all through the aisles and up through the crowded galleries, sing:

"Who of us death's awful road In the coming year shall tread, With Thy rod and staff, O God, Comfort Thou his dying bed."

After another prayer from the pastor, and one from one of the deacons who accompanied him on the platform and sat behind in the crimson velvet arm-chairs, a third hymn was sung, and Mr. Spurgeon began his short address.

He took for text the 42nd verse of the 12th chapter of Exodus: "It is a night to be much observed unto the Lord for bringing them out from the land of Egypt: this is that night of the Lord to be observed of all the children of Israel in their generations." The night referred to in the text was that of the Passover—"a night of salvation, decision, emigration, and exultation," said the preacher, "and I pray God that this night, the last of a memorable year, may be the same for you, my friends. Oh for a grand emigration among you like that of the departure of the people of Israel—an emptying out of old Egypt, a robbing of Pharaoh of his slaves, and the devil of his dupes!"

It was understood that Mr. Spurgeon was labouring under severe indisposition, and probably this fact gave to his brief address a tone comparatively quiet and unimpassioned. Only once did he rise to the fervent height of oratory to which his congregation are accustomed, and that at the close, when, with uplifted hands and louder voice, he apostrophised the parting year: "Thou art almost gone, and if thou goest now the tidings to the throne of God will be that such and such a soul is yet unsaved. Oh, stay yet a while, Year, that thou mayest carry with thee glad tidings that the soul is saved! Thy life is measured now by seconds, but all things are possible with God, and there is still time for the salvation of many souls."

At five minutes to twelve the preacher paused, and bade his hearers "get away to the Throne of Grace, and in silent prayer beseech the Almighty to bless you with a rich and special blessing in the new year He is sending you."

The congregation bent forward and a great silence was upon it, broken only by half-stifled coughing here and there, and once by the wailing of an infant in the gallery. The minutes passed slowly and solemnly as the Old Year's "face grew sharp and thin" under the ticking of the clock over the kneeling preacher and his deacons. The minutes dwindled down to seconds, and then—

"Alack, our friend is gone! Close up his eyes, tie up his chin Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth at the door."

"Now, as we have passed into the New Year," said Mr. Spurgeon, advancing to the rails as the last stroke of midnight died away, "I do not think we can do better than join in singing 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow.'"

No need now of instructions how to sing. The congregation were almost before the leader in raising the familiar strain, with which six thousand voices filled the spacious Tabernacle.

Then came the benediction, and a cheery "I wish you all a happy New Year, my friends," from Mr. Spurgeon.

A great shout of "The same to you!" arose in response from basement and galleries, and the congregation passed out into a morning so soft, and light, and mild, that it seemed as if the seasons were out of joint, and that the New Year had been born in the springtime.

IN THE RAGGED CHURCH.

The Ragged Church is one of the numerous by-paths through which the managers of the Field Lane Institution strive to approach and benefit the poor of London. It is situate in Little Saffron Hill, Farringdon Road, the service being held in a barn-like room, which on weekdays serves for school, and is capable of accommodating a thousand children. No money has been expended in architectural embellishment, and no question of a controversial character is likely to arise in connection with accessories in the shape of altar, surplice, or candles. The Ragged Church avoids these stumbling-blocks by the simple expedient of doing without candles, surplices, or altar. It does not even boast a pulpit, but draws the line so as to take in a harmonium, indispensable for leading the tunes. At one end of the room is a platform, on which the harmonium stands, and whereon the service is conducted.

It is the congregation rather than the preacher that I remember best in connection with the Ragged Church. Half-past eleven is the hour for the commencement of service, and was fixed upon chiefly to suit the convenience of a portion of the congregation, who, having slept overnight in the casual wards, are considerately detained in them till eleven o'clock, by which time society is supposed to be comfortably seated in its own churches, and is thus saved the shock of suddenly coming upon Rags and Tatters going to church or elsewhither—Rags and Tatters, it being well understood, not always showing themselves proof against the temptation of improving the occasion by begging. At a quarter to eleven there filed into the church threescore little girls, all dressed in wincey dresses, with brown, furry jackets and little brown hats, a monotony of colour that served to bring into fuller contrast the red and black wool scarf each wore tightly tied round her neck. They all looked bright, clean, and happy, and one noted a considerable proportion of pretty-faced and delicately-limbed children.

How they were born, or with what parentage, is in many cases a question to which the records of the institution supply no answer. They were simply "found" on a doorstep, or arrested when wandering about the street crying for the mother or the father who had cast them off. This class of school-girl is generally distinguished by the fineness of her Christian name, Blanche, and Lily, and Constance, being among the waifs and strays who have found a refuge with the kindly matron of the Field Lane Institution. There are others whose history is written plainly enough in the records of the police-courts.

There is one, a prematurely aged little woman in her eleventh year, who, previous to being sent here, passed of her own free will night after night in the streets, living through the day on her wits, which are very sharp. Another, about the same age, when taken into custody on something more than suspicion of picking pockets, was found the possessor of no fewer than seven purses. A third, who is understood to be now in her ninth year, earned a handsome livelihood in the Haymarket by frequenting the public houses, and with dramatic gestures singing the more popular concert-hall songs. One of the most determined and head-strong young ladies of the establishment was not privileged to be present at the morning service, being, in fact, in bed, where she was detained with the hope that amid the silence and solitude of the empty chamber she might be brought to see in its true light the heinousness of the offence of wilfully depositing her boots in a pail of water.

Conviction for offences against the law is by no means a general characteristic of the girls. For the most part, destitution has been the simple ground on which they have obtained admission to the institution.

The girls being seated on the front benches to the right of the harmonium, the tramp of many feet was heard, and there entered by the opposite side of the church some sixty boys in corduroys, short jackets, and clean collars. They took up a position on the left of the harmonium, and, with one consent, gravely folded their arms. Their private history is, in its general features, much the same as that of the girls. All are sent hither by order of the police-court magistrate, but many have not committed any crime save the unpardonable one of being absolutely and hopelessly homeless. It is not difficult, stating the broad rule, to pick out from the boys those who have been convicted of crime. As compared with the rest they are generally brighter looking, and gifted with a stronger physique.

The distinction was strongly marked by the conjunction of two boys who sat together on the front form. One who had stolen nothing less than a coalscuttle, observed projecting from an ironmonger's shop in Drury Lane, was a sturdy, ruddy-cheeked little man, who folded his arms in a composed manner, and listened with an inquiring interest to the words poured forth over his head from the platform. The boy next to him, a pale-faced, inert lad, who stared straight before him with lack-lustre eyes, had the saddest of all boys' histories. He was born in a casual ward, his father died in a casual ward, and his mother nightly haunts the streets of London in pursuance of an elaborately devised plan, by which she is able so to time her visits to the various casual wards as never to be turned away from any on the ground that she had slept there too recently.

The foreground of the Ragged Church was bright enough, for whilst there is youth there is hope, and in the present case there is also the knowledge that these children are under guardianship at once kind and wise. Presently the back benches began to fill with a congregation such as no other church in London might show. Crushed-looking women in limp bonnets, scanty shawls, and much-patched dresses crept quietly in. With them, though not in their company, came men of all ages, and of a general level of ragged destitution—a gaunt, haggard, hungry, and hopeless congregation as ever went to church on a Sunday morning. Some had passed the night in the Refuge attached to the institution; many had come straight from the casual wards; others had spent the long hours since sundown in the streets; and one, a hale old man who diffused around him an air of respectability and comfort, was a lodger at Clerkenwell Workhouse. His snuff-coloured coat with two brass buttons at the back was the solitary whole garment visible in this section of the congregation.

It was his "Sunday out" and having had his breakfast at the workhouse, he had, by way of distraction, come to spend the morning and eat his lunch at the Field Lane Institution.

One man might be forgiven if he slept all through the sermon, for, as he explained, he had "passed a very bad night." He had settled himself to sleep on various doorsteps, with the fog for a blanket and the railings for pillow. But there appeared what in his experience was a quite uncommon activity on the part of the police, and he had been "moved on" from place to place till morning broke, and he had not slept a wink or had half an hour's rest for the sole of his foot.

There were not many of the labouring class among the couple of hundred men who made up this miserable company. They were chiefly broken-down people, who, as tradesmen, clerks, or even professional men, had gradually sunk till they came to regard admission to the casual ward at night as the cherished hope that kept them up as they shuffled their way through the day. One man, who over a marvellous costume of rags carried the mark of respectability comprehended in a thin black silk necktie tied around a collarless neck, is the son of a late colonel of artillery, and has a brother at the present time a lieutenant in one of her Majesty's ships. After leading a reckless life, he turned his musical acquirements to account by joining the band of a marching regiment. Unfortunately, the death of his grandfather, two years ago, made him uncontrolled possessor of 500 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 to-day With a patient hand removing All the briars from the way.

Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown, Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake the white down in the air.

After the opening hymns Sankey's Sacred Song-Book, in which this rhymed nonsense appears, was abandoned, and the congregation took to the admirable little selection of hymns compiled for the use of the institution, containing much less sentiment, and perhaps on the whole more suitable. After prayer and a short address, the boys and girls filed out as they had come in. Then the rest of the congregation rose, and as they passed out received a large piece of bread, supplemented by the distribution from a room on a lower storey of a cup of hot cocoa. Stretching all down the long flight of stone steps, they drank their cocoa and greedily munched the bread, and when it was done passed out into the sabbath noon, to slouch about the great city till the doors of the casual wards were open.

They had "gathered up all the sunbeams lying around their path" as far as the day had advanced, and there was no more for them till, at eight o'clock in the evening, the bread and tea should be set out before them under the workhouse roof.

THE END