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Title: Ten years in a Portsmouth slum
Author: Robert William Radclyffe Dolling
Release date: November 27, 2025 [eBook #77351]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co., Lim, 1897
Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Karin Spence and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEN YEARS IN A PORTSMOUTH SLUM ***
[Illustration: R Radcliffe Dolling]
TEN YEARS
IN
A PORTSMOUTH SLUM
BY
ROBERT R. DOLLING
LATE PRIEST-IN-CHARGE OF S. AGATHA’S, LANDPORT
(_Winchester College Mission_)
WITH EIGHTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
_LONDON_
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO., LIM.
PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1897
FIRST EDITION: May, 1896.
SECOND EDITION: September, 1896.
THIRD EDITION: January, 1897.
FOURTH EDITION: July, 1897.
TO
MY SISTERS, ELISE AND GERALDINE
TO
LINA BLAIR, FLORENCE WELLS
AND
MATILDA ROWAN
WHO FOR THE SAKE OF GOD BORE WITH ME
FOR TEN YEARS
IN ALL GRATITUDE I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE BOOK
WHICH IS VIRTUALLY
AN ACCOUNT OF THEIR WORK
PREFACE
To those who know the work of the Winchester College Mission I need
offer no explanation why this little book is written, and no apology
for the scrappy and imperfect manner of the writing. But if it falls
into the hands of those who do not know us, I would plead as an excuse
for its many imperfections, that it was written in the odd moments
seized out of a very busy Lent, in which I was preaching ten courses
of sermons a week, striving to collect money to pay off the debt of
£3090, incurred on the Mission, for which I am responsible. I pray that
these readers will discover that Mission work like ours, for which so
many great cities in England are crying out, is not only the easiest
of all religious work to do, but is far the most satisfying in the
doing; and I desire to create a great sympathy for the poor folk at S.
Agatha’s who were compelled, as they were crossing the stream from an
old church into a new one--the most critical moment of their parochial
existence--to swop horses, because a new commander discovered that the
methods of their old one were not quite orthodox.
R. R. DOLLING.
48, WETHERBY MANSIONS,
EARL’S COURT, S.W.
_Easter Day, 1896._
NOTE
People have been so very kind in buying my books since I came to
America that I have been tempted to publish the fourth edition, as I
have sold out all the copies I brought with me. The selling of these,
and the great hospitality I have met, have made it quite easy for me
to see a considerable part of this side of the States, and I have
preached in many places between Philadelphia and Boston. I hope to be
asked to preach at some of the summer resorts, returning to New York in
September, and spending the winter in giving missions and preaching, if
I get invitations. In the fifteen months after I left St. Agatha I was
without any regular work, and as nothing seems likely to be offered to
me I thought it a very good opportunity of seeing the States, and I can
hardly say how glad I am that I made the experiment. In every town that
I have visited I have met many old friends, the majority of them the
fruit of St. Agatha’s work, as they were emigrated from the mission.
Almost the first day I arrived in Philadelphia a great big man came
running into the room, and was quite offended because I did not
remember him. I had emigrated him from the North of Ireland twenty-six
years ago. I was delighted to spend an afternoon in his house, which he
had paid over $8,000 for. He said: “I had not a boot to my foot, except
the one you gave me when I left home.” In Philadelphia alone I found
twenty people whom I had emigrated, and I hope to see them all when I
go there in the “fall.”
I hope, by means of preaching, to collect money for the Infants’ School
of St. Agatha, for if it is not rebuilt now it will very likely cause
the government grant to be withdrawn, and bring great injury upon the
boys’ and girls’ school. These were built up at the cost of so much
prayer and labor that it would be a blow that I could hardly bear if
they had to be closed. There are also individual cases of boys and
girls, sent from gaol and the streets, who have not quite yet reached
the point of keeping themselves, and for whom I am still laboring; and
so, while I am enjoying the great pleasure and experience of this most
delightful tour, I hope to be able to do something for my own work.
There seems to be a little misunderstanding about my leaving England,
and therefore I print three letters which will show that I left on the
best terms with the authorities both at Winchester and in the Church.
It is not always easy for bishops or patrons, however desirous, to find
a living suited for such an irregular person as myself, and therefore I
don’t feel the least hurt that I was not offered permanent work before
I left. And yet I can hardly say how glad I am that I have had this
opportunity of enjoying an almost perfect holiday, which, of course,
would have been impossible if work had been offered me at once, after
leaving Portsmouth.
Yours very faithfully,
R. RADCLIFFE DOLLING.
231 EAST 17TH STREET, NEW YORK.
FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY.
The Rev. R. R. Dolling is a Priest of irreproachable moral
character and of remarkable earnestness, devotion and capacity.
As a preacher he has succeeded in awakening, among many who
are usually indifferent, an interest in the Church’s work for
the poor and the forlorn. I gladly testify to my profound
respect for the devoted work he has done in this Diocese, and I
entertain for Mr. Dolling personally a very sincere regard.
(Signed) RANDALL WINTON,
_Bishop of Winchester_.
_May 29, 1897._
BISHOP’S HOUSE, KENNINGTON PARK, S. E.
I have great pleasure in writing a few words of recommendation
for the Rev. R. Radcliffe Dolling. Mr. Dolling’s work is well
known in the Church; it has been an example in her midst of what
profound desire to witness and convey God’s love to the poorest
of His people may accomplish, when expressed by a life of entire
self-sacrifice in the spirit of brotherly fellowship with every
sort and condition of man, and in the full use of the means of
Grace.
Mr. Dolling would naturally bring a letter from his Diocesan,
the Bishop of Winchester, but the Bishop, who is now in Egypt,
will not return till some days after Mr. Dolling’s departure.
And I write with the more boldness in his place, because when
I recently had in view the offer of work in my own Diocese to
Mr. Dolling, the Bishop (who was my predecessor in this See)
offered to write me a line expressive of his hearty good-will
to Mr. Dolling, and of the pleasure with which he should hear
of his finding work amongst us, in spite of the rather grave
differences (since become public) which had occurred between
Mr. Dolling and himself, and which had, to the Bishop’s great
regret, led to the separation of Mr. Dolling from the great work
which he was then doing.
I venture to bespeak a most friendly and Fatherly reception for
Mr. Dolling from any of my brethren of the American Episcopate
to whom he may tender this letter.
(Signed) EDW. ROFFEN,
_Bishop of Rochester_.
_May 15, 1897._
THE COLLEGE, WINCHESTER.
MY DEAR DOLLING:--I cannot let you leave England
without expressing to you once more the deep gratitude of the
College for the great work you did for us during more than ten
years among the poor at Portsmouth. I wish very much that we
were keeping you in England. Our experience of your remarkable
success in winning the hearts not only of the Portsmouth poor,
but also of the Winchester boys, makes us deeply regret that
your services should be lost to the English Church. I hardly
dare speak of the affection and respect you have inspired in
those here who have known you and your work. I can only say that
your effectiveness in the pulpit and on the platform, and your
versatility of resource, combined as they are with large-hearted
sympathy, and absolute devotion to the cause of Christ, must
enable you to do exceptional service wherever you may be called
to render it. I trust you may find some sphere worthy of your
powers and that you may have large blessings in your work.
Most gratefully and sincerely,
(Signed) L. A. FEARON,
_Headmaster of Winchester College_.
_May 17, 1897._
P.S.--I fear you may think two dollars a very extravagant sum to
ask for this little book. But as I have now no income, selling
it is of great importance to me. Please therefore get your
friends to order from me at 231 East 17th Street, New York.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. MY APPOINTMENT 9
II. MY DISTRICT 17
III. OUR GYMNASIUM 24
IV. OUR WOMANKIND 38
V. OUR CHILDREN 49
VI. OUR PENITENTIARY WORK 62
VII. OUR HOUSE 71
VIII. OUR SAILORS 99
IX. OUR SAINTS 114
X. OUR BATTLES CIVIL 129
XI. OUR BATTLES ECCLESIASTICAL 141
XII. OUR MONEY-GRUBBING 175
XIII. WINCHESTER 186
XIV. OUR METHOD OF SERVICES 198
XV. OUR METHOD OF RELIGION 216
XVI. A PLEA FOR TOLERATION 232
APPENDIX 241
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
[1]PORTRAIT OF THE REV. R. R. DOLLING _Frontispiece_
[1]OLD S. AGATHA’S _to face page_ 16
[1]SOME OF OUR WORKERS „ „ 22
[1]OUR GYMNASTS „ „ 30
[1]VISIT TO WINCHESTER, 1893 „ „ 36
[1]VISIT TO WINCHESTER, 1894 „ „ 36
[1]OUR BAND „ „ 54
[1]OUR ORPHANS „ „ 66
[1]LIPTON’S BOYS „ „ 78
[1]CHRISTMAS PARTY, 1893 „ „ 94
[1]SOME OF OUR VISITORS „ „ 98
[1]OUR SAILORS „ „ 112
[1]OUR TENANTS „ „ 128
[2]THE THIRD ALTAR „ „ 174
[2]NEW S. AGATHA’S „ „ 180
OUR CHOIR AND ACOLYTES „ „ 198
COMMUNICANTS’ LEAGUE „ „ 214
NEW S. AGATHA’S „ „ 230
[1] _Photograph by Mr. W. Austen Attree._
[2] _Reproduced by kind permission of Messrs. W. & A. H. Fry,
Brighton._
TEN YEARS
IN
A PORTSMOUTH SLUM
I.
=My Appointment.=
I fear the title of this little book is almost a libel; but, as the
parent often looks upon the grown-up son as if he were still a child,
so do my thoughts ever go back to the infancy of our work, and S.
Agatha’s is a slum district in my mind. Though we have largely lost
the outward visible signs of slumdom, poverty, of course, remains--it
always will--but utter hopelessness and callous depravity have, in a
large measure, passed away, not merely from our people, but from our
very streets.
We are a curious little island in this great town of Portsmouth. The
Unicorn Road, leading to the Dockyard, the Edinburgh Road, leading to
Portsea, and the Commercial Road--the main artery of all the traffic
of the town--form a kind of irregular square, with the Dockyard wall
as a base; and if it were not that Charlotte Street, which in happier
days used to be called “Bloody Row,” from the number of butchers’ shops
in it, and slaughter-houses behind it, is the thoroughfare which the
Dockyard men mostly use in reaching their homes, we should be almost an
unknown spot. This kind of isolation is one of the difficulties which
the municipal authorities have had to face in making Portsmouth the
great city they desire to see it.
Portsmouth is composed of four separate towns. When Portsmouth
and Portsea--the former thronged with soldiers, the latter with
sailors--High Street, Portsmouth, being a kind of parade ground; the
Hard, Portsea, a kind of inland quarter-deck--burst their bonds,
and the moats were removed, they developed, on the one hand, into
Southsea, inhabited mostly by half-pay officers, with many hotels
and lodging-houses, and, in the other direction, into Landport and
Kingston, inhabited mostly by artisans in the Dockyard. This quadruple
town, with its different, and often conflicting, interests, with
an extraordinarily rapid increase of population, with its absence
of wealthy people, and with hardly any manufactories, has been a
very difficult mass out of which to create a really united city;
and yet the progress which has been made even in my ten years has
been very wonderful. Southsea has become a beautiful and fashionable
watering-place; we have a splendid Town Hall and People’s Park; the
electric light has been most efficiently installed; the School Board
has created through the town many magnificent schools; and when an
attempt, which has been begun, is completed, of removing some of the
slums which disgraced Portsmouth and Portsea, the town will become in
some true sense worthy of its great historic interest.
All these changes have hardly affected our little district. The streets
are, most of them, very narrow and quaint, named after great admirals
and sea-battles, with old-world, red-tiled roofs, and interiors almost
like the cabins of ships--many times I have stuck in a staircase,
and could not go up or down till pulled from below--with the far-off
scent of the sea coming over the mud of the harbour, and every now and
then the boom of a cannon, or the shrill shriek of the siren; sailors
everywhere, sometimes fighting, sometimes courting, nearly always
laughing and good-humoured, except when afraid that they have broken
their leave--our chief joy, alas! oftentimes our greatest danger. I
remember well how, the first night I made acquaintance with it, their
uniforms and rolling gait redeemed from its squalor and commonplace
this poor little district, with its eleven hundred little houses and
its fifty-two public-houses. Charlotte Street was, from end to end, an
open fair; cheap-jacks screaming; laughing crowds round them, never
seeming to buy; women, straggling under the weight of a baby, trying to
get the Sunday dinner a little cheaper because things had begun to get
stale; great louts of lads standing at the corners--you can guess from
their faces the kind of stories they are telling; then some piece of
horse-play, necessitating a sudden rush through the crowd, many a cuff
and many a blow, but hardly any ill-nature; slatternly women creeping
out of some little public-house. But why try and describe it to you?
You have seen many such spots in any of our large towns. In my mind
was but one single thought--“God has sent me to teach these people that
they are His children, and that, therefore, they are priceless in His
eyes.”
I think if I had paid this visit before I accepted the Mission, I never
should have accepted it. The shrill gaiety was a revelation to me of
utter hopelessness, such as I had never imagined before. I was very
seedy, too, at the time. I had left London soon after Bishop Jackson’s
death--the death of a bishop seems ever to be my note of warning. Dr.
Fearon had heard very kind things about me from Bishop Walsham How, and
I think some old Wykehamists at New College and Magdalen must have told
him about me too. But I certainly was never more surprised in my life
than when I got his letter asking me to go and see him. An interview
with a Headmaster, the very idea of his study, filled me with alarm.
Memories of Dr. Butler’s study at Harrow came back with no pleasant
suggestions. Yet I date from that interview with Dr. Fearon ten years
of the happiest life that I can imagine possible for anyone. How large
a part of that happiness Winchester has contributed, this little book
will tell. I felt from that moment that, if the Mission was to be
worthy of its name, it must achieve amongst Missions a place second to
none. Even in that first visit, three facts about Winchester struck
me--its simplicity, its unity, its solidity. These three notes we have
tried to translate into Landport. It was three months after this visit
that I first saw Winchester men at home. Yet looking back I seem to
have stepped at once from Dr. Fearon’s study into the great Hall of
College, so entirely in my mind was Dr. Fearon’s offer of the Mission
finally ratified by the men. Dr. Linklater, with great kindness, came
to introduce me to them. One of the dons said to me, as we went into
the Hall, “Linklater has taken all our hearts by storm,” and that was
no more than the truth--I saw it in their faces, I heard it in their
cheers. Is there any discordant note so full of harmony and music as
the cheers of schoolboys? And in some true sense those cheers are still
ringing in my ears; they have been my incentive in the hour of sloth,
my rest in the hour of weariness, ever since.
I do not think I dreaded the interview with the Bishop at Farnham
nearly so much as that with Dr. Fearon. I had known many Bishops, but
no Headmaster before. And, curiously, Dr. Harold Browne revealed to
me the very three notes I had discovered at Winchester--most simple,
most balanced, most solid. I felt he had heard strange stories about
me. Indeed, I think at first he was more nervous than I was. But when
I saw the overwhelming weight which Portsmouth seemed to be to him,
when he told me how it was always in his prayers and in his heart,
and when, though he hoped I would not do anything foolish, he left me
full liberty of operation, saying that his one hope, as far as we were
concerned, was that the splendid work, which Dr. Linklater had begun,
might be consolidated and perfected, I left Farnham Castle with a great
increase of courage and hopefulness, though I had to pawn my watch to
pay for a bed, as I could not get home that night. If for a moment
during the interview I had wondered why a heart so occupied with his
enormous diocese had such a large part of it sacred to Portsmouth,
the work and energy of Sister Emma, the head of the Deaconesses,
subsequently explained to me this interest. She has had more than any
other single person to do with the bettering of Portsmouth. Its sins
and sorrows had burned so deeply into her heart, that she could not
fail to create in anyone, who saw her constantly, a reflection of her
own feelings. The Bishop having placed her and her community there,
was in constant communication with her. A Commission, too, had just
reported to his Lordship on the state of the town. Its most prominent
members were Mr. John Pares and Admiral Hornby, the former still a most
earnest defender of all that makes for righteousness in Portsmouth;
the latter, alas! called from the midst of his many labours, but who,
as a sailor knowing every inch of Portsea, had influenced not only the
Admiralty, but all thinking men with the thought that something needed
doing in Portsmouth.
These two ordeals past, a worse one remained. I had to hear from
Dr. Linklater’s own lips the ideals he had created for the Landport
Mission. He had sent me some of his reports; they were enough to
frighten anyone from trying to follow in his footsteps. He had had
efficient helpers; these I had yet to discover. He was a _persona
grata_ with the Naval and Military authorities; this, I was sure, I
never would be. He had a tact in dealing with people almost unique, and
a personal influence which remains in the hearts of many S. Agatha’s
people still, though he has hardly been in Landport for ten years, and
a buoyancy and hopefulness which disappointment seemed to increase,
and even illness could not abate. When I tried to square my memory
of the Saturday night which I had seen in Charlotte Street with his
ideals, no problem in mathematics ever seemed so impossible.
I had never had the pleasure of seeing him, but directly I arrived at
the railway station I knew him. “I cannot talk to you here,” he said;
“let us get back into the train again, and go to Rowland’s Castle. I
don’t want you to see Landport as it is; I want you to see it as I
desire it to be.”
There is an avenue of trees--you can see it from the train, just before
you get into Rowland’s Castle. I suppose that once it led up to some
great mansion, but now it seems to stand alone, and it dominates the
whole country.
“I want you to promise,” he said, “that you will come here once a week;
better still, take a walk over these downs for four or five miles;
better still, sleep in the pure country air, if possible, once a week.”
I believe if I had made time to keep this as a rule of my life, our
work at Landport would have been far more successfully fulfilled. The
plan of campaign--the best manner of working it out in detail--is not
possible in the strife of the battle and the tumult of the conflict;
this is what he wanted me to learn. One by one, as he talked them over,
his ideals already seemed to have taken form--a great church with a
staff of clergy, dignified services, efficient preaching, a centre of
Catholic devotion, making its way through all the different strata of
Portsmouth society; a free school for the children of the parish, a
high school for those of a better class; social work of all kinds and
descriptions, with one single intention, the drawing together into one
Christian family all kinds and classes; real homes for soldiers and
sailors, in which they might be equipped with that armour which alone
could make them victorious in their hours of temptation; above all, to
make Winchester rejoice, share, and understand every part of the work.
And then, as we hurried back to Portsmouth, he said, “Now you will see
what we have already achieved.”
And so, from the ideal to the real, to S. Agatha’s with its chancel
screened off, its walls covered with religious pictures, all fresh
and new, loving hands having painted Christian emblems all over it,
good-nature and fun beaming from every face--for Dr. Linklater had
gathered those connected with the church to meet me--with a joke for
one, and a clout for another, we passed along, until we reached the
centre of the room, and then--“Here is your new clergyman. What do you
think of him?”
One of my chief causes of thankfulness to-day is that many of those in
S. Agatha’s that night are still Sunday School teachers, on the altar,
and earnest communicants.
As I celebrated the Holy Communion the next morning, with the
_debris_ of the party still round me, though some attempt had been
made to clear it away, I was lost in amazement at my own presumption in
daring to undertake a work which seemed at that moment so impossible.
[Illustration: OLD S. AGATHA’S.]
II.
=My District.=
I did not really begin my work till September 29th, 1885, but as Dr.
Linklater wanted to go away, I came down to help on Sundays, and,
therefore, I had the opportunity of learning something about the
district before my work really began. A very wise priest once said to
me, “Don’t make plans for your parish, let your parish make plans for
itself.” These six weeks were invaluable, letting me hear the parish
voices, and try to discover its plans. Two notes were always making
themselves heard; one was the poverty, the other was the sin. And
surely they explained each other; they were sinful as a rule, because
they were poor. A man who falls from a height is wounded to death,
every limb is shattered, every feature disfigured. He who slips on the
pavement by a casual chance, pulls himself up, and goes on unhurt.
Oh, most blessed truth! our falls in Portsmouth entailed no complete
destruction of character, hardly any disfigurement at all. Boys stole,
because stealing seemed to them the only method of living; men were
drunken because their stomachs were empty, and the public-house was the
only cheerful place of entertainment, the only home of good fellowship
and kindliness; girls sinned, because their mothers had sinned before
them, oftentimes their grandmothers too, unconscious of any shame in
it, regarding it as a necessary circumstance of life, if they were to
live at all. The soul unquickened, the body alone is depraved, and,
therefore, the highest part is still capable of the most beautiful
development. I wish I had any words in which I could put this thought
quite plainly before you. It lies at the keynote of all missionary
work, and it is what makes missionary work so full of hope.
My first Sunday afternoon, as I was walking in Chance Street, I saw,
for the first time, a Landport dance. Two girls, their only clothing
a pair of sailors’ trousers each, and two sailor lads, their only
clothing the girls’ petticoats, were dancing a kind of breakdown up and
down the street, all the neighbours looking on amused but unastonished,
until one couple, the worse for drink, toppled over. I stepped forward
to help them up, but my endeavour was evidently looked upon from a
hostile point of view, for the parish voice was translated into a
shower of stones, until the unfallen sailor cried out, “Don’t touch the
Holy Joe. He doesn’t look such a bad sort.” I could not stay to cement
our friendship, for the bell was ringing for children’s service, and,
to my horror, I found that some of the children in going to church had
witnessed the whole of this scene. They evidently looked upon it as
quite a legitimate Sunday afternoon’s entertainment. One little girl,
of about eight, volunteered the name of the two dancing girls; she was
a kind of little servant in the house, though she slept two or three
doors off, and her only dread was that the return of a sailor, who had
more rights in the house, might take place before the others had been
got rid of.
You can imagine my feeling of hopelessness in conducting a service
for children old in the knowledge, if not in the habits, of sin. Poor
children, they had not been long accustomed to a church of their
own; they had driven themselves away from the parish church by their
behaviour. A neighbouring vicar, who kindly took them in for a little
while, had left them in undivided enjoyment of his church, saying to
Dr. Linklater, “I leave my church to you and your savage crew.” My
first attempt reached a climax when two boys calmly lighted their
pipes and began to smoke. One remedy alone seemed possible--to seize
them by the back of the neck, and run them out of church, knocking
their heads together as hard as I could. Amazed at first into silence,
their tongues recovered themselves before they reached the door, and
the rest of the children listened, delighted, to vocabulary which I
have seldom heard excelled. We had no sooner restored order than the
mothers of the two lads put in an appearance. As wine is to water, so
was the conversation of the mothers to their sons’. I wish I could
have closed the children’s ears as quickly as I closed the service.
But they listened with extreme delight, even following me in a kind
of procession, headed by the two ladies, to my lodgings. The contrast
between this, my first procession, and the last, which took place when
my church was opened, is a true measure of the difference which ten
years have made.
These two little episodes, which stand out so plainly in my memory,
forced upon me the knowledge of our shameless sinfulness, and of
our utter lawlessness and disobedience. But was it any wonder that
it should be so? The wages of the majority of the people in regular
employment were so small that they lived in continuous poverty; the
larger part had no settled wages at all, many of them being hawkers,
greengrocers with a capital of five shillings, window cleaners in a
district where no one wanted their windows cleaned, old pensioners
past work with a shilling to eighteenpence a day, sailors’ wives with
three or four children living upon £2 a month, and soldiers’ wives
married off the strength with no pay at all. One week’s sickness of
the bread-winners meant a fortnight’s living upon the pawning of
clothes and furniture, with nothing before them but the workhouse,
and death sooner than that. Of course, there were many exceptions to
this generalisation, but I am speaking of the parish as a whole. Then,
temptation at almost every door, places where you were always welcome,
even if you had no money, for there is always somebody to treat you;
places where there are always the outward visible signs of rollicking
good-nature, of mirth and jest; places where the craving of the empty
stomach can be satisfied, where the crying wife and the hungry children
may be forgotten; places where, it is only just to add, extraordinary
kindness is often shown, and help given in the hour of direst need,
for there is a good and kindly side even to the public-house. Oh, that
the bishops had the energy of the brewers! Oh, that the clergy had
the persistency of the publicans! For what had the Church of England
done for this district? Literally nothing. The enormous mother-parish
of All Saints had its twenty-seven thousand parishioners, one church,
one vicar, one curate. What even had Nonconformity done in its more
recognised forms? One chapel, empty, minister and congregation having
migrated to more favoured climes. But though the priest and Levite
had passed by, the Good Samaritan had been represented by four little
centres of earnest religious work, which have flourished during my
whole ten years, and still are, thank God, working for Him in S.
Agatha’s district.
In one of these, the most ecclesiastical, a man, who worked six days
a week in the Dockyard, laboured every night amongst the poor, and
preached all day Sunday. The influence of this good Mr. Grigg will
never be forgotten; many souls bless him in Paradise to-day. I shall
never forget his funeral; it was the most touching sight I ever saw in
Portsmouth. His example of honest labour, and of a life which proved
the depth of his religious convictions, was beyond all price in the
Dockyard. When you hear people talk glibly of orthodoxy, of dissent,
of the exclusive rights and privileges of the Church, I pray you
realize how many places would be virtually heathen, if the Church of
England was the only representative of God in England. It is quite
true that Nonconformity, in its more dignified congregations, fails,
I think, largely in the slums; but there is a vast body of unattached
Christians, or of laymen with their hearts aflame with the love of
souls, with some kind of quasi-authority from more respectable
chapels, preaching the Gospel literally without money and without
price. Do not scoff at it, because it does not square with your own
ideas. It is possible that it may be very faulty in itself. But the
poor, tired, ignorant soul has no time to enter into questions like
this, and the name of Jesus, when spoken by a believer, always sounds
sweet in the ears of those who hear it. We cannot hope to build
churches in every new district, we cannot hope to endow parishes, we
cannot hope to pay adequate incomes to University-educated men. But
we are the Church of England: we are responsible for the souls of
every single man, woman, and child. Why cannot we create an enthusiasm
amongst working men, toiling six days in the week, to give the seventh
for the conversion of souls? The instrument may not be polished, may
not be fitted to speak soft words politely, to enunciate theological
truths exactly. What does it matter? What does it matter? We have as
good stuff in the Church of England as in any other religious body. We
have as much love for souls, as much self-denial, amongst our people.
What hinders it? What represses it? The freehold, and the jealousy of
the clergy, the fearfulness of the bishops to make any venture for
faith, to allow any work to be undertaken that is not safe, that is not
respectable.
Amid, then, all the sin, poverty, and squalor of S. Agatha’s
district--not a new district, remember, which increase of population
had created, but a district of which every house had been built a
hundred years ago--the only witness for God, until Dr. Linklater came,
except an endeavour which Mr. Shute, the vicar of S. Michael’s, had
made some few years before, had been the devotion and love of a few
poor Nonconformists.
[Illustration: SOME OF OUR WORKERS.]
I think the lesson, which I chiefly learned from the parish voice,
was that Jesus alone could change the characters of men, and that no
reformation can take place without this change of character. I realized
that our Lord, if He had been in my place, would have fed the hungry,
clothed the naked, healed the sick, visited those in prison; above
all, removed stumbling-blocks from the ways of little children. I knew
that we must try and do the same. I knew that their poverty, their
nakedness, their ignorance, their punishments, were their strongest
appeal; that He Himself was practically suffering in every one of them;
that He was lying at our door full of sores, that we might share the
wonderful privilege of healing Him. But I learned something more than
this, that even if I was able to ameliorate all these circumstances,
to make them all healthy, educated, able to earn a good day’s wages,
I might indeed have made it easier to do the one thing needful; but
that one thing would still be undone until they had discovered that
they, by His grace, must cure the ills of the soul, must clothe the
nakedness of the spirit, that no one could set them free from sin save
themselves, and that by His grace. In other words, strive as hard as
ever you might to improve environment, to conquer even heredity, unless
you have changed character, man is bound to remain helpless, though his
helplessness may consist in a new weakness.
III.
=Our Gymnasium.=
I have said that we came without plans. And yet at every step, as we
needed it, the Providence of God rendered possible the fulfilment
of the plan, which the voice of the parish suggested. Bishop Harold
Browne had evinced considerable nervousness, when I said I should
bring my sisters down to Landport. He suggested that their dress might
frighten the people. I said I hoped it would not. He intimated other
difficulties. But his face brightened up considerably, when I told him
that they were fleshly and not religious sisters, whom I hoped to bring
with me. The first voice of the parish said, “We want Christian women.”
God put it into the heart of three of my sisters, and of two dear
friends, who lived with them, to say, “We want to go into every house
in Landport, to know every woman, every girl, every child.”
Then another voice spoke, not always heard by the clergy, though it
cries out louder to-day than it ever did before, the voice of the
hard-headed artisan, the voice of the young man who is just beginning
to face intellectual struggle, a voice for which the Free Library
and the Press are largely responsible. That voice said, “We want an
intellectual thinker, who can put deep profound truths into simple
words, who can answer difficulties without suggesting others, who
knows something of that agony of doubt without which no soul reaches
the summit of faith, and has pity and compassion for it.” And God put
it into the heart of Charles Osborne to say, “I want to consecrate all
my intellect, all my knowledge, to the lessening of doubts, to the
building up of the faith, amongst the working-men in Landport.”
And yet there was a need of a link between the past and the present, of
someone to give me true advice about Sunday School Teachers, District
Visitors, Communicants, Choir, all those things which my predecessor
had created; and God put it into the heart of Gordon Wickham, who had
worked two years with Dr. Linklater, to say, “Though it will be very
difficult to stay on under a new _régime_, yet for the sake of the
past, for love of the people, for hope of the future, I stay.”
God had given us the workers; would He also give us the places to live
in? I was then in lodgings over a girls’ school in the Commercial
Road. It was not at all a desirable plan. The woman who did for me
was utterly inadequate. I remember discovering in one Saturday’s
dinner the remains of Friday’s, for our vegetables were garnished
with fish-bones. The lodging, too, was out of the district. Then I
took a house in Spring Street, where there was a heavy rent to pay,
a ginger-beer factory on one side, a public-house on the other. The
difficulty of housing ourselves was not the only house difficulty we
had to face. Dr. Linklater had started a Men’s Club, three Boys’ Clubs,
and a Girls’ Club. The rent of premises to contain these cost over
£120 a year, the buildings were very unsuited to the purpose, and there
was a tremendous waste of energy in the management of them. I believed
that no good daily example could be set until a clergy house could be
provided, which would be our people’s house as well as our own, and
no real disciplinary or recreative work could be done in clubs until
we had proper accommodation. S. Agatha’s church, with the chancel
screened off, had been used, as I knew from my own experience on my
first introduction to the people, for entertainments of all kinds,
teas, theatricals, even dances; but I made up my mind from the first
that this should never happen again. Reverence is a very difficult
virtue, and I am quite sure that the remembrance of the entertainments
oftentimes marred the devotion at religious service. I remember once
scolding a boy for laughing in church, and he said, “I could not help
it, I was thinking of Mr. D---- singing ‘Johnny Sands.’” The only
premises at my disposal besides the church were a row of houses, which
had been purchased as a site for the new church. Two standing in Conway
Street were less picturesque, but rather more commodious than the rest,
slate roofs, no red tiles. I thought these could be turned into a
Mission House. Pulling down the middle partitions, lowering the floors
of the downstairs rooms, so as to make two good sitting-rooms below,
and joining the houses by an outside balcony, we had our parsonage;
not just, perhaps, your idea of a parsonage, but the door open all
day, no mat to remind you that your boots were dirty, no carpets, and
the plainest furniture, plenty of space in the dining-room to feed all
comers, just room enough in the kitchen to cook the food; upstairs four
bedrooms to begin our home.
I hope I have never been jealous of any Christian work done in
my parish, but I must confess that there is something peculiarly
irritating in the music of the Salvation Army drum, though I am not
sure whether the shrill voice of the Salvation Army lass is not worse.
I remember one night they out-voiced me altogether, though I was inside
and they outside S. Agatha’s. By way of consolation someone said to me,
“We shall have them always with us now, for they are just going to buy
the Baptist Chapel in Clarence Street.” I registered a vow that they
never would. Why could I not buy the chapel in Clarence Street? In many
ways it was just suited for our purpose. It was a splendid property.
The chapel itself had a gallery all round, square pews, three-decker
pulpit, a font for immersions, and two dead ministers buried in the
middle. Next door was the caretaker’s house, which would just do for
Mr. Osborne, and in the street behind, Chance Street, an excellent
Sunday School-room, and two cottages. It cost me in all over £3000.
I had not a penny of money, but it was so obviously what the parish
needed, that I knew we were bound to buy it. I collected something like
£1200 in a very few months, and the bank kindly advanced me the balance
to pay off the trustees. I was fairly intoxicated at the purchase;
I even communicated my enthusiasm to others, so that at Winchester,
where I was lecturing, they realised my idea of a great social centre.
Alas, when with considerable pomp I ushered the four prefects, who were
staying with me that week, into the building, they, who very likely
had never seen a chapel before, said, “Now you have got it, what will
you do with it?” I suppose that at the best of times the chapel of a
hundred years ago never looked very picturesque, but this had been
closed for nearly two years, the grotesque pews were worm-eaten, the
ridiculous pulpit had an enormous Bible still upon the ledge, and,
with the stagnant water still in the font, I think we even realised
the bones of the ministers. I never felt so crestfallen. “At any rate,
we can kick down some of the pews.” How delightful is the pleasure of
destruction. One after another they were coming down, until prudence
reminded me that they could be sold for something better than firewood.
Of course, there was the little difficulty at first of placing the old
clubs in their new home. These little old clubs had many jealousies;
one had driven out a member, after nearly breaking his head, because
he would wear a collar, which they wanted to wrench off his neck, the
collar being the outward visible sign of respectability; one was so
ritualistic, that they would not allow anyone to join, who would not
make the sign of the Cross; one so depraved, that losing all patience
with the members who persisted in using the most disgusting language
in the presence of the lady who managed them, I was compelled to
chuck their leader downstairs, and almost broke his leg. Dear “Boss,”
how well I remember him, for so we called him, as he had a cast
in his eye, though none in his temper, for he forgave me that very
night. Two virtues were common to them all--utter lawlessness, supreme
exclusiveness.
[Illustration: OUR GYMNASTS.]
We furnished the chapel with all things necessary for a rough
gymnasium, the gallery being used for games and bagatelle. The rules
were the simplest--no gambling, no bad language, no losing of temper,
no annoying anybody else. All through the ten years of use, these four
rules have remained as the foundation of our management. All sorts
and kinds of men have tried to manage that gymnasium, with varying
success, the clergy, the lay-readers, Oxford men, officers in the Army
and Navy. They have suffered all sorts of contumely and wrong. I have
seen them skilfully lassoed, arms and legs bound, and lashed to the
gymnasium ladder, or a noose run under their armpits, and hauled up to
the ceiling. I have seen them spread-eagled upon the vaulting-horse,
with a dance of savage Indians whooping round them. I have seen all
the mattresses ripped up and picked to pieces, then strewn over the
floor. I have seen the bagatelle-tables used as points of vantage,
from which opposing forces sprang at each other. I have seen men
playing upon the piano with their feet, and I have known, when no other
mischief was possible, the fierce joy of tearing away the front of the
piano, and strewing the broken hammers artistically on the floor. And
yet there rises before me the vision of a use in that gymnasium, the
chief centre of reformation in the parish, of lads who amidst all this
disorder, for the disorder arose merely from episodes of high spirits
or weak management, gained their first lessons of self-restraint,
and bodily and even mental development; weak, sickly lads coming to
us, illness not always the cause of their weakness, now healthy and
strong; bad-tempered sullen brutes licked into shape, boys learning the
priceless benefit of wholesome play, mean unambitious people quivering
with the passion of desiring to achieve success. How often the lad,
just needing the inch to become a soldier, has won it by continuous
use of our ladders, how often the lad, needing an inch in chest
measurement, has won it by the use of our dumb-bells, many a regiment,
many a gallant ship, could testify to-day. How many it has won from the
awful fascination of the public-house, from the vulgarity and worse
of the sing-song room, from the delirium of gambling, from hideous
forms of sins, impossible for those who desire to achieve a wholesome
mind in a wholesome body! From all parts of the world, strong, healthy
self-respecting men, bless and praise God for the old gymnasium in
Clarence Street. Some years ago, when I was at Vienna, I was watching a
troupe of acrobats in one of the beer-gardens. They had reached their
final feat by forming themselves into a living ladder, when suddenly,
in a kind of ecstasy, I heard the topmost boy exclaim, “Don’t you see?
there is the Father”; and before I knew where I was, three out of the
five had precipitated themselves, and were clinging round me. There are
scattered throughout the world to-day my brave army of gymnasium boys,
but I believe they know that the Father’s eye is still on them, and I
know their love still compensates my heart for many of its sorrows.
You say, “Mr. Dolling, were you not very imprudent in spending so much
money on an object which was not religious? What fruit did it bring
forth in your church? Did it pay ecclesiastically?” I can reckon in
that sense no fruit. I do not believe that in that sense it paid. So
oftentimes, when we hear of the great waste of time and energy spent
on games at school and college, we are inclined to think it wasteful,
sometimes to condemn it as being of the Philistine character. But
anything that is graceful, and done with true skill and just precision,
in itself ministers to the highest beauty; anything that tends to
the perfecting of the body, to the sweating out of the evil humours
of discontent; anything that cures sloth and gives an incentive to
activity, ministers not only to the purifying of the body, but to the
strengthening and increase of the soul. I have heard a mother say,
“When my boy comes home, he can talk of nothing but games.” Dear lady,
if it is so, thank God; many boys talk of things evil and base and
enervating.
The best effort that had been made under the old régime, and, I think,
the manager who was most successful even in the gymnasium, was my old
friend Charlie Claxon; and though stress of work and other reasons
forced him to give up personal supervision, most of the old gymnasium
members will remember him as a true and real friend.
One class of lad baffled all our allurements. Standing at the street
corners all night, and most of the day, we got to know them by sight
sooner than anybody else in the parish. In East London they had
crowded into our club-rooms, and soon became amenable to order. I
suppose one never learns that one’s own plans always fail, and yet
that God always has His own plan. Late one night I was sent for to go
to the hospital. An old woman was slowly dying of burns; drink and a
paraffin lamp the cause. I only knew her by sight, and she did not seem
to listen when I prayed; but, as I stooped down, to try and catch any
word she might say, she whispered, “He didn’t do it,” and then nodded
with her head to a boy in the corner of the room. In five minutes she
was dead.
When I had got the son quieted down in my own house, I found that he
had come suddenly home, found her under the influence of drink, and in
some scuffle the lamp had been upset.
Dear Dan, there was not much difficulty afterwards in getting hold
of him, but I soon found it was impossible to help him so long as he
stayed at home. Not that Dan was to blame, for he would have worked if
he could; but no one would employ him. He stands as the representative
of many thousands, just like himself, full of good-nature and
recklessness, with no habits of obedience, discipline, or order. He had
never learned anything since he left school. It was some time before I
could venture to emigrate him, and I thank God for that, for it gave
us the opportunity of getting him confirmed; and, in the meantime, he
brought--one by one--lots of his mates to know us, the most influential
of whom, a lad we called “Nobby,” suggested that our own house was the
only fitting club-room for his mates. And that really was the solution
of the difficulty. Every Sunday night he brought, and kept in perfect
order, whomsoever he would, and I trace to Dan and Nobby the breaking
up of a gang, unkindly called “The Forty Thieves,” though very few of
them had ever really stolen, yet a real terror to the neighbourhood.
Dan is at this present moment a most prosperous person in Canada, with
a wife and family. Nobby is a stoker. I hear from both of them from
time to time.
The real difficulty of work like this is that it makes tremendous
demands on one’s own personality, and that the larger part of the
expenditure is in vain. And yet one has no right whatsoever to be
astonished at this, when we try for a moment to measure all the chances
that we have had in life, and then realise that these have never had
any chance at all. God has two infallible methods of education--He
hopes for everyone, He loves everyone; and yet many live in this world
for whom no one hopes and whom no one loves. As the Mission work became
heavier, I had to surrender much of this individual work, and then God
sent us one who could do it infinitely better than we had ever done
it; and, strangely, it was against all my own theories, for this time
it was a woman who was to do it. Night after night I have seen her
sitting in the midst of those whom decent society utterly refuse to
help. On our missing a face, she would answer, quite simply, “Oh, he
has gone to gaol for a little! Poor fellow, he cannot help fighting.”
Or, “The temptation was too great for him, and he took something which
did not belong to him.” She was the first to welcome him after his
trouble, to show him that she had forgotten it; never preaching,
never teaching, but with infinite tact dealing, in the truest sense,
with their souls. I have prepared many of them for confirmation; I
have heard the plain story of their whole lives simply and repentantly
told; I have known them get up at six o’clock in the morning, to go and
call each other for Communion; I have known them stand any amount of
ridicule and temptation; I have seen one stand up for his mate when the
rest thought he had brought disgrace on her whom they call “mother,”
because he knew that that would be “mother’s” wish. I see them come
home as soldiers and sailors, and from situations that we have got for
them at a distance, in the truest sense refined. I have given them
their Communions after days of earnest struggle against sin, or on the
mornings of their departures; I read as much of their letters as any
eye but hers may read. The world might call it almost miraculous, but
it is a miracle that could be reproduced in any single place, even the
worst, if we workers had but those methods of hope and love.
[Illustration: VISIT TO WINCHESTER, 1893.]
And God gave me later on another worker, with the same methods, perhaps
in an even more difficult sphere. All boys from fourteen to sixteen are
cruel and disagreeable. Passion, soon to find itself expressed in their
manhood, troubles them, irritates them, brings forth mischief. Where
there is the restraint of home or school, this is often mitigated,
and outwardly the boy looks delightful. Where there is no restraint,
“devilish” is the only adjective that represents him. Though the most
important class for a clergyman to touch, fearing, as they do, neither
God nor man, they remain as a rule untouched. You may cure them
individually, when they reach the age of twenty, but I always knew
that the only sound method of working would be to “_prevent_”
them. All of us at different times tried our hand on them. All of us
failed. I cannot speak of our last trial as successful, because it
only lasted two years, but I believe in my heart that it would have
been successful. It called itself a Brigade, but it was no more like a
Brigade than the Tower Hamlets Militia is like the Guards. There was a
semblance at first in the way of caps, and belts, and pouches, which I
paid for, but Dowglass found that all of that was more or less, as he
would call it, “tommy rot.” I remember bringing some ladies with great
pomp to see the drill, when the leader on the left flank suddenly beat
a hurried retreat, but not before we had seen that, in the exertion
of stooping, the braces which kept together an otherwise disunited
pair of trousers had given way. They were certainly the most ragged,
noisy, and disobedient crew that ever a clergyman gathered together.
The vision of one evening last August is vividly borne in upon my
memory. Dowglass had had to go up to town for the day, and Charlie
Davidson, our one-legged gymnast, who used to give them instruction,
was also away. But the Brigade were not to be thus put off. Some of
them effected an entrance into the gymnasium, and opened the doors
for the rest, who swarmed in and proceeded to turn it upside down.
Conibeere tried in vain to stem the torrent, and when I came in from
church utterly tired, Looey, who was rushing out to summon aid, nearly
fell into my arms, exclaiming, “Thank God, master, you are come. The
house is being wrecked.” My sudden appearance in their midst produced
no effect, except that the missiles, including a leg of the piano, were
now directed at me. I hurled them all out into Clarence Street, and
shut the doors, but three times did they burst them open.
And yet I am quite sure that, given two or three years’ more work,
there would have been tremendous results. If the loafer class is ever
to be exterminated, if that menace to society, the unemployed, is ever
to disappear from the face of the earth, it will only be done by men
with large enough hearts and sufficient faith _preventing_ the
loafer.
[Illustration: VISIT TO WINCHESTER, 1894.]
In 1886 Mrs. Richardson--I had rather say Mrs. Dick, and I am sure she
won’t mind--invited me to bring a party of mission men to Winchester to
spend the day in College. About sixty went, I having to pay all their
railway fares, in some cases even paying them their day’s work--false
pride on my part, because I did not like College to think we had no
men to go. They broke into the warden’s garden, and stole his fruit;
they climbed over the wall of the bathing-place, and laughed at the men
who were learning to swim; they tried to kiss the ladies who waited
on them; they most of them got drunk before we went home. Mrs. Dick’s
invitation is as elastic as her own heart. Year by year more and more
men have wanted to go. This year we limited it to a hundred and sixty;
we had to refuse an equal number. All of them paid their own journeys,
except a few old men out of work, and some of the better-off men
clubbed together, so that no expense should fall on the Mission.
I don’t suppose men ever had a more delightful day. I am quite sure
no lady ever entertained a more delightful company. We visited the
cathedral, St. Cross, and all the places of interest. We had two
splendid meals. One whole day’s perfect enjoyment, everyone sober, not
a rude or rough word, and yet some of us were the identical people who
had gone ten years before, and all of the same class, all the Mission’s
children.
IV.
=Our Womankind.=
“I utterly disapprove of any club that takes girls systematically away
from their own homes. It makes them for the present unmaidenly, and in
the future bad wives and mothers,” so a very excellent clergyman’s wife
said to me at the end of one of my lectures. I tried to suggest to her
that this was not quite the standard to which she had brought up her
own daughters; but she soon answered that by saying, “Oh, that’s quite
different! my girls are ladies.” Thank God I was able to answer her,
“My girls are ladies too.” For in the truest and most real sense that
is what my sisters, and those who have worked with them, have achieved
at Landport--ladies in appearance and manners, in mind and in heart. It
has been, of course, a slow and tedious process, some disappointments,
but surprisingly few as compared with the work among boys and men. “How
have you done it?” people have often said to me, when sitting at one of
our dances. My sister answers, “By having ideals for them; they soon
live up to them.”
The good seed had been sown before we came, more efficiently amongst
them, I think, than in any other parochial work. Dr. Linklater had
started a club for girls called “The Social.” Almost all the original
members, certainly all who are living in Portsmouth, belong to it
still. They alarmed me very much the first time I saw them. I had half
expected to be asked to give a short address, but I found them in the
middle of a game of dumb-crambo. They very kindly soon put me at my
ease by telling me that they did not think my sermons were as good as
Dr. Linklater’s, but they did it in such a genuine kind way that I
could not be offended. Most of them, I found out, worked at the Stay
Factory; some of them were in service, and they all either lived in the
parish, or had been prepared for confirmation by one of the clergy. My
first great quarrel with them was because I thought them too exclusive;
and herein is the chief difference between work amongst girls and
amongst boys. At first you must be exclusive; you have almost reached
a point of perfection when you can afford not to be so. Quite rightly
their parents would have objected, and they themselves would have lost
caste in the factory, besides running a real danger themselves. Ah! how
often one wishes there was the same public opinion amongst men that
there is amongst women, and that the shady man had as much difficulty
in getting into good society as the shady woman. And yet I felt how
utterly useless our woman’s work would be if it remained at the point
of respectability. The very stay factories from which these girls came
were, in those days, places of great temptation. Many of the workers
were positively bad, and even amongst those who were not leading bad
lives there was great vulgarity of speech and manner, a want of all
true refinement. All that is changed to-day, and our Portsmouth
factory girls are, as a rule, most respectable and well-conducted.
Then the Commercial Road and the Southsea Common were a perpetual
menace. Those places, in which the girls delighted to walk, were
full not only of rollicking, good-natured, thoughtless soldiers and
sailors, but of those most hateful of all living creatures, the older
profligate, the zest of whose pleasure is the innocence of his victim.
Many of these girls, too, see sin continually in the streets in which
they live. They see other girls who have no work to do--would to God
they knew more plainly the awfulness of the work they do do!--able
to dress well and go to places of amusement continually, while they
themselves too often are unable to earn enough to keep themselves in
the actual necessaries of life, with a hundred wretched old women ever
on the look-out to tell them how easily money can be made. Take a walk
any night you like down the Commercial Road, and, however prejudiced
you might be against clubs that keep girls away from their own homes,
you would be converted. And so our “Social” gradually added to its
numbers, became courageous enough to take in one and then another who
really wanted a helping hand, and thus led the way for opening two
other clubs for younger girls, so that now, I suppose, there are more
than a hundred girls attending every week. I can never tell what I owe
to my elder girls, many of them Sunday School teachers and temperance
workers, all of them communicants, every one helping a circle of
younger girls, the truest, purest, most loving friends I have in the
world.
Each club has its nominal lady manager. Miss Brown has governed the
“Social” now for twelve years. It would be impossible to even measure
the love which binds these girls together, love which proves itself in
the highest acts of self-denial. I have known, when there was little
doing at the factory, a girl lending another her good bonnet and jacket
to come to church in on Sunday, she coming in her workday one. I have
known, when another girl was sick, three of them arranging to surrender
their own night’s rest, that the sick girl might have someone with her
at night, though the illness lasted over six weeks. I have known a girl
going with Miss Dolling into the worst streets, into the worst houses,
looking for one whom we heard had gone astray. This spirit has spread
even amongst the younger girls, and with it a spirit of self-respect,
which has given them an absence of self-consciousness, and has very
largely removed that horrid giggling habit so common amongst them. My
sisters and I have taken them to spend the day with friends of our
own in the country, as well as with Mrs. Bramston at Winchester--I
like to call her Mrs. Trant--who does for the girls and women what
Mrs. Richardson does for the boys and men. Wherever we go, their hosts
always remark the same things--their naturalness and refinement.
And yet even with all this one felt that there was something wanting.
There is a perfect naturalness and fitness in humanity, the want of
recognition of which is oftentimes the overthrow of religious work.
It is natural and proper for boys and girls to court, for men and
women to marry. We had failed altogether with regard to this. We had
excellent clubs for boys, excellent clubs for girls, and then just
when you thought you had got hold of them your influence weakened.
Soon they disappeared, and the reason was perfectly natural; they had
begun to “walk out.” Then one discovered that the one great difficulty
in all this was, that it was literally walking out, they had no place
where courtship could be carried out. Two dangers in this will suggest
themselves to any thinking person. First, the whole thing, as a rule,
was done in secret; secondly, there was no outward moral restraint. To
people without deep moral sense of right these two dangers would be
very great, and they are the cause of most grievous consequences to
large numbers of young people. You would naturally say, “Why cannot
they use their own homes?” But if you lived with your father and
mother, and many brothers and sisters, in one common feeding room,
perhaps you would not be bold enough to present your _fiancée_. I
have often known a marriage take place, and the parents on both sides
have never been introduced to their new relative. I have more often
known marriages take place because of necessity, when the religious
ceremony was looked upon as a kind of whitewash. Naturally one talked a
great deal both to boys and girls on the subject of courtship, and they
soon showed what was one’s duty. We were bound to supply that which the
circumstances of their life prevented, an opportunity of meeting and
knowing each other. Then came the real difficulty. Where were they to
meet, and what were they to do? The gymnasium was the natural meeting
place, and so we tried a kind of social evening. But they proved
anything but social--the young men on one side of the room, the young
ladies on the other. If any male was bold enough to cross over, he
was received with giggling, and as conversation was not our strong
point--for we had never been taught, so to speak, to talk--he soon
subsided, red-faced, amongst his fellows. Then we tried games, but they
always ended in horrid romps. All games seemed to end in kissing, and
forfeits brought forth witticisms which were not always conducive to
propriety. At last my sister was bold enough to suggest, what had been
on the tip of my tongue for weeks, why should they not dance? The girls
had already learned in their own clubs. But excellent and good-natured
as our girls are, we feared it would be putting their kindness to a
hard test to ask them to become instructors, especially as all our men
could not bring dancing pumps; and though a hob-nailed boot is very
useful for most men’s daily work, it was not a pleasant reminder to a
partner that she was good-natured enough to be dancing for the purpose
of teaching someone else to dance. So I cleared out my dining-room
one or two nights a week, and we taught the men as my sisters had
taught the girls, and now for the last five years our dancing-class
has been one of the most valuable parish institutions. Mr. Whittick,
our blind organist, presides at the piano. Nearly all the members are
communicants. I had to make this rule, because I must be able to stand
over the character of every member. Everyone pays twopence, and we
dance from 8 till 10.30 p.m.
It is extraordinary, the difference which this has effected in the
manners of our people. The dancing is, perhaps, a little more serious
than at a ball in Belgravia, for squares are danced with a due
attention to the figures. It has given one the most happy opportunity
of enabling our boys and girls to meet naturally together, and I am
more and more convinced by experience that one of the greatest causes
of sin, in places like ours, is this want. Many of our boys and girls
have got engaged to be married through this chance, and if any of them
get engaged to a girl outside the parish, the dance gives then an
excellent excuse to introduce her to us. It would be very difficult to
say, “You must come and see my parson.” It is very easy to say, “You
must come and see my dancing-class.” In the last six years I do not
think we have had one marriage amongst our people for which we have
had cause to feel shame. In the last four years I do not think any of
our people have been married without receiving the Holy Communion on
the Sunday before, or on the morning of their marriage. Why cannot we
talk far more plainly on these subjects to our people? This hideous
demand for facilities for divorce, the extraordinary attitude of almost
the whole episcopate to it, could never have arisen if we had taught
plainly that marriage is a Sacrament, in which God gives grace enabling
people to live in holy love together, and therefore demanding from
people a preparation as rigid, I need not say more rigid, perhaps,
than the preparations needed for the reception of other Sacraments.
Think of the hideous vulgarity of modern marriages, the whole talk
about clothes and feasting. Think of the behaviour in church. Amongst
fashionable people the ceremony is as interesting as a Drawing-room.
Amongst my class of people the ceremony is disfigured by ribald jests,
oftentimes by the rudest horse-play. Our Lord not only consecrated by
His own presence, but brought His Blessed Mother to Cana of Galilee as
well. Oh, inestimable value of any saintly woman, who can show the girl
why there need not be any amazement in the commencement of a new life,
in which, unless she is prepared, there must be a strange and awful
awakening.
Then the influence we gained amongst the girls reacted very much on
their own homes. I had been very anxious about the elder women, for
though, when I came, I found three mothers’ meetings, they were badly
attended, and I was told that different streets would not amalgamate,
for, in our little parish, there is just as much difference between
one street and another as there is between Earl’s Court and West
Kensington. I felt that this unchristian state of things must, at all
hazards, be broken down, and that the best method was to try and make
the meeting as much like a party as possible. And so the first use we
made of the schoolroom attached to the gymnasium was to open it once a
week, and, as numbers increased, twice a week, for a kind of At Home.
At first it was difficult to make them understand that they need not
bring a piece of work if they did not like. They might talk to each
other, indeed gossip, and move about the room when there was no singing
or reading going on, and there always was a cup of tea and a piece of
bread and butter. I heard a lady once, when I was lecturing, saying
aside to a friend, as I spoke about this, “Fancy, encouraging them in
their gossiping habits. Of course they will come if he gives them tea.”
When the lecture was over I happened to stand behind her for a minute
or two in the crush, and I can vouch for two cups of tea, several
cakes, and a story to her neighbour, which I should call gossip. Do
you suppose that there would be any afternoon visiting if there was no
gossip and no afternoon tea? I should admire the courage of the lady
who cared to make the attempt.
Of course our influence over these women was slow. On our first summer
outing, seventy of us went to the Isle of Wight. It happened to be a
very wet day, perhaps that was the excuse, but I noticed in many of
their pockets, when coming home, the outline of a little bottle, the
contents of which one could easily guess at by the ardour with which
these old ladies skipped, for one had supplied a skipping rope, and
by the character of the songs they sang. Luckily for us this was an
impediment to quick disembarking, and so my sisters and I were glad to
get off the boat, before we could be recognised as the guardians of
the party. But soon all that passed away. Letting them talk gave us
an opportunity of showing them what conversation might be made, above
all showing them that vulgarity is seldom witty and never convenient.
In 1894 they willingly gave up their summer outing, their one yearly
enjoyment, to add to a fund which we were raising for the sufferers
from the _Victoria_ disaster. Women are far more stay-at-home, and
get far fewer treats than men, and therefore it was a great
self-denial.
The girls, as I have said, soon induced their mothers to come, and
thus we got an influence in the family. The vast majority of our
mothers are regular communicants now, influencing their husbands and
sons, giving me immediate warning when any spot in the parish is
getting bad, with their Coal Club, their Blanket Club, their Penny
Bank, carrying into every street in the parish the power of a homely
religious influence, and paying back to me and mine tenderness,
sympathy, and love, which people could only do who have become in the
truest sense religious and refined. Remember how almost impossible it
is to conquer old habits long indulged, how cursing, and swearing, and
drinking, and bad talk take even deeper root in women’s hearts than in
men’s, and just because their lives are far more commonplace, these are
the harder to eradicate. I wish I dare tell you of how bravely month
after month some have fought against some special besetting sin, coming
to me regularly before Communion Sunday to report progress, so humbly,
so trustfully. As I write these words, a letter comes from Portsmouth,
“I hope you will be able to save many poor souls, as you have saved
me. My husband says he hopes I will not break the pledge now you are
gone, as he has had four years of comfort. But I will pray for the help
of God to keep me up. I was at church this morning at eight, a very
few. We are going to have service on Wednesday at a quarter to six,
so that will give us all a chance to go. I remain your affectionate
child in Christ.” (She is more than sixty.) This is only one out of a
hundred miracles that the Blessed Sacrament has wrought among us. For
years that woman had fought against Confirmation. It was the Blessed
Sacrament that broke down the stubbornness of her heart.
I can hardly bear to think of them now, for I know how especially
desolate they are. And yet I know that their lessons have not been
learned in vain, and that as long as they have the Blessed Sacrament,
the supernatural graces which have refined them will still support
and strengthen them. Many of them are very old, all of them are very
ignorant, very poor. I wish you could see them at their day’s outing
at Winchester, enjoying the rest and the beauty, so grateful for every
attention, so careful not to appear greedy, and yet to do, as one said,
“graceful justice” to the splendid food provided; or, better still,
if you could see them at their own special service in church, in the
truest sense at home in their Father’s house, their house, too, because
it is His, and because some act of self-denial on their part has helped
to build it; their dear old cracked voices singing all out of tune,
their little sighing “Amens” and “Halleluias” in the middle of the
prayer, their rapt attention during the sermon, the tear or the smile
as the case might be, with sometimes a comment thrown in; a little
impatience on the part of the younger, when the clock is reaching four,
because the children will be home; a long lingering, sometimes for
hours, on the part of those who live alone.
V.
=Our Children.=
The real answer to the loafer and the prostitute is the environment of
the children. It is almost impossible to cure; it is, comparatively
speaking, easy to prevent. And so, if we are going to make any real
effort towards removing these two national disgraces and dangers, it
must be in the treatment of our children. Even then you have fatal
odds against you, for heredity marks down many for its own prey, and
it will take many generations before heredity will be conquered.
But environment may be improved, and I contend that every man and
woman, who tries to train their children properly, creates the needed
environment. If only we could reform the parents there would be very
little difficulty about the children, and I believe that the truest
measure of all work like ours is the care that parents take about their
children. While the mother is actually nursing her child she will make
for it every possible sacrifice, but, alas! as the well-springs of
nourishment dry up, the well-springs of love dry up too, and you will
oftentimes wonder why Almighty God gave such mothers so many children.
Poverty and uncertainty as to wages have a good deal to do with the
parents’ difficulty in disciplining their children. I wonder if
well-to-do people ever consider these mothers. They have no servants;
however ill they feel there is no one to do anything for the children
but themselves; headaches, lassitude, even the knowledge of impending
sickness, is for them no excuse. They have no strengthening diet, no
power to satisfy the common wants of their children in food or clothes;
no baize doors between the nursery and the bedroom. I speak advisedly
of the mother alone as the trainer of her children, because the father,
in work, has no time, out of work no heart. My wonder is, not that
they slave so little for their children, but rather that they slave so
much. Religion alone can mend all this--I have seen it work miracles
in homes--the belief that the child is God’s gift, that He is its
Father, that He will give her strength for her every need, and that the
prayer, “Give us this day our daily bread,” God will answer. My truest
joy at Landport were these converted homes, but even these homes, and
far more the homes of the careless, necessitate something more for the
children. Religion quickens within the mother the power of creating a
true environment round the child; but, alas! after ten years there are
many parents untouched by religion in our parish. Of course we have
done what we could with our Sunday School, though there is no greater
mistake than to suppose that the Sunday School can in any way take the
place of the home school. Our Sunday School has never attracted very
many children. My desire has been to train a few children well, and the
preserving of discipline, and insistence on outward reverence, in a
parish like ours made our Sunday School unpopular; a mother once said
to one of my sisters, “I shan’t let my boys go to your school any
longer, because kneeling wears out the knees of their trousers.”
A child, who had lately joined, said to another sister, “I am leaving
your school for the one round the corner, because you go to your treat
in the train, and the other school goes in brakes.”
I do not suppose that we have ever had more than five or six hundred
children in it, but thanks to a most excellent staff of teachers,
many of whom have been with us all the ten years, our children are
in perfect order, and answer extraordinarily well. We have always
thought, too, that it was far more important for a child to come
to the Children’s Celebration at ten o’clock than to the afternoon
instruction. Indeed we very soon discovered that this ten o’clock
celebration was the most important religious factor in the whole
parish. It has been maintained oftentimes with great personal
difficulty; I have often myself had to say four Masses on Sunday,
and, until the Rev. John Elwes came to help us, one of us had always
had to say two; but we felt that no amount of inconvenience could be
a possible excuse for depriving our children of this most necessary
factor in their religious education. Assuredly we have been well repaid.
I bless God for many things at S. Agatha’s, but for none more than the
dignity of the younger acolytes, dear Barratt’s earnest leading of the
children, the singing of the older girls who composed the choir, and
the reverent behaviour of all the children, even the infants taking
part in every word that was said or sung, thus enabling us to make
the children’s service their chief education in all religion. If this
service should ever be given up, I should indeed fear for the future
of S. Agatha’s. With us the Sunday School has the merit of being
perfectly voluntary, parents, as a rule, taking no trouble about making
their children come; as long as they get rid of them they do not care
whether they go to Sunday School or not, and, unless you have to punish
a child, the parent often remains to you an unknown quantity.
All this made us very anxious to acquire Day Schools, and, like
everything else, God sent them to us, when we were ready for them. One
little corner of our district had been cut off, because the mother
parish wished to preserve her schools, built in the year 1823. In 1889
they had fallen into such decay that they were practically unfit for
use, and were condemned by the Education Department. The then vicar
offered them to the Board. I saw at once that God meant me to take
them. I called all our people together, and told them that the real
difficulty was money, for I should have to lay out £1000 on the schools
immediately. I knew, of course, that they could subscribe no money,
but we have ever found at S. Agatha’s that praying people are more
potential than giving people. They decided that they would devote one
day a month to perpetual prayer, beginning at half-past five in the
morning and continuing till ten at night. We have kept that custom up
ever since. It is an extraordinary sight to see poor ignorant people
coming in for their half-hour’s prayer, each one responsible for their
own time, and, if they cannot attend, sending someone else, so that
the chain of intercession is never broken. Sometimes in the afternoon,
when the women have leisure, or in the evening, when work is all over,
there are fifty to a hundred people all praying silently for what we
need. The Blessed Sacrament is reserved all day, and the poorest bring
their flowers to deck the altar. No spot in the world will ever be so
beautiful to me as that little flower-covered altar. At any rate the
intercession worked the first miracle for us, for in just over two
months we had collected the £1000 we needed for the first outlay upon
the schools, and the getting of this money was all the more wonderful
because there was such a strong feeling in the diocese, and elsewhere,
against us. I insert a letter received from the Bishop of Guildford,
himself a most ardent supporter of Church Schools, which you will see
was not intended for publication, but which his Lordship has very
kindly allowed me to publish, as a proof of how really miraculous it
was that we got that sum.
“THE CLOSE, WINCHESTER,
“_October 30, 1889_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,--I have not answered your letter
hurriedly because I wanted to think over it before I did so. The
pleasantest plan for me personally would be simply to accede
to your request, but I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to
do so. It may perhaps already have struck you that I have not
responded to appeals for pecuniary help for your mission. This
has not arisen from inadvertence. I am always ready and glad to
do all I can as regards Episcopal or Archidiaconal ministrations
in your parish, and I can honestly say that the confirmation
which I held in your chapel was one of intense interest to me.
I can also perfectly honestly wish you heartily ‘God speed’ in
your work, and honour you for your work’s sake. But I do long
that the views which you hold were not of the very extreme
character which, judging from utterances which I occasionally
see in print, they are; and that the ritual which you think it
your duty to carry out were of a simpler character than it is,
and used in accordance with the wishes of our own Bishop, who
certainly does not make a man an offender for a word. I need not
enlarge upon this point, but, feeling it as I do very strongly,
I could not conscientiously _help forward_ a scheme which
would bring the children of the district referred to under your
direct church teaching. It seems to me a wholly different thing
for me in my position as Suffragan to come and minister in Holy
things as a Bishop to those who are, as a fact, under your
spiritual charge, and by my own free act and deed to endeavour
to bring your influence to bear upon children who are not as
yet, at any rate ecclesiastically, a portion of your flock. I
hope you will give me credit for thus acting from conscientious
motives, and believe that I can still quite truly and
unfeignedly pray that a blessing may rest upon your labours, and
that all our mistakes and errors may be pardoned and over-ruled
for good.
“I am, dear Mr. Dolling,
“Always yours very truly,
“GEORGE HENRY GUILDFORD.
“REV. R. DOLLING.”
In all, the schools have cost me over £3000; but they have a splendid
record, and I do not grudge one single penny. In 1889 the average
attendance was 350, the Government grant £276; in 1895 the average
attendance was 519, the grant £476. Let me say, at once, this was due
to our teachers. Never have any schools had such devoted teachers,
their one object in view not the gaining of the grant, but the moral
character of the child.
[Illustration: OUR BAND.]
The ease with which my sisters and others have been able to mould our
younger girls into their present excellent state, is very largely due
to the splendid foundation laid by Mrs. Berrow, the mistress of the
girls. Her indefatigable labours during many years in which she has
managed the girls’ school, are beyond all praise. Over and over again,
when in utter amazement I have said to a girl, “Who warned you of that
danger which you have been able to avoid? who put before you that path
of duty which you have had the grace to follow?” the answer was, “Oh,
Mrs. Berrow, of course!” The “of course” is so characteristic, because
it just shows how perfectly naturally the most difficult duty was
performed. I would that I had words to express the gratitude I feel to
this most Christian lady.
When our boys’ school had reached its lowest ebb, discipline and
teaching having been twice condemned by the Inspector, I asked my
dear friend Saunders, whose father was a very valued friend of mine,
to lead a forlorn hope in the boys’ school. The ardour with which he
commenced his work has never for a single moment slackened. He found
the school the worst in the town. I leave it under his management, one
of the very best. But I do not value his teaching powers so much as his
influence over the boys’ futures. He has created a school library and
a school band. He has managed for three years the best continuation
school in the whole district. The Bible-class, into which he gathers on
Sunday the lads who have left him, is one of the most valuable helps
to religion in the whole parish. It would vex them if I were to tell
you of the extraordinary sacrifices they have made for S. Agatha’s
schools; but, as I believe God gave me the schools, so I believe He
gave me my head teachers, and the rest of the school staff; and I am
confident, as long as the schools remain under their management, there
will ever be an influence amongst those of the flock most dear to our
Lord, such as He Himself desires His little ones should be affected by.
No one can measure what England owes to the Board Schools; it would
have been impossible for the Church to have kept pace with the increase
of population, and with the new thought, which has not yet been half
realised, that every child has a right to the best education. But there
is one truth that I am sure we shall all, sooner or later, hold--it is
not the business of the State to teach religion. If some means could
be devised by which each denomination might appoint teachers to give
the religious instruction, the education difficulty might be solved.
But we are told this is impossible--an impossibility, I fear, arising
largely from the laziness and jealousy of those who ought to be the
religious teachers. If religion is taught in a school it is the most
vital of all subjects; it needs the most skilful handling, the most
God-sought and God-given tact, and yet it is just the one subject upon
which no enquiry can be made as to the fitness of its teachers. In
fact, it is possible for a child to be taught by teachers of every, and
of no, religious opinions. Then there is no such thing as unsectarian
religion: the very words are contradictory. Every teacher has his own
bias, and he would be more than human if he did not convey this to the
children. People think that this does not matter, because children
are too young to understand, or because such teaching can do them no
harm. But it is far easier to teach a dogmatic truth than to make a
child understand, or gain any benefit from, a whole chapter of the
Bible. To hold up Christ as an example, and His words as precepts,
and not to teach the child the method by which Christ conveys to him
the power of copying the example, is a cruel wrong. I believe even in
many Church Schools there has been a great want of definite teaching.
We have taught far too much, yet far too little--far too much about
the Old Testament and the services of the Church; far too little about
those saving truths which even quite young children can apprehend,
and assimilate to themselves. Just before Christmas we were asked to
take in a little soldier from Aldershot, a lad of about sixteen. His
father and mother had died when he was four. An uncle, who played a
whistle outside public-houses in the southern parts of Scotland, had
adopted him. When he came to us he said that, until he had joined the
army, six months before, he had never slept three consecutive nights in
the same place; indeed, most nights a doorstep or a hayrick had been
his bed. It is almost impossible to conceive a worse bringing up. On
Sunday he went to church with our own boys; and Conibeere, who looks
after them, remarked, on coming out of church, “I think he must be a
Roman Catholic, because he was so reverent.” Alas! soldiers, sailors,
and tramps coming from all parts of England are seldom reverent. That
Sunday night he told me all about himself. It was almost impossible to
believe that so pure a soul should have matured under circumstances so
adverse, but he had a talisman that had never failed him; he had never
forgotten the few soul-saving truths he had learned as a little child.
Bishop Virtue, the Roman Catholic Bishop of Portsmouth, very kindly
confirmed him, and now the little man is on his way to India. But he
wrote us before he sailed that he would never forget S. Agatha’s, for
there he had first learned what a home was. He knew nothing about
the Bible, Old or New Testament; but he knew what repentance meant,
what prayer meant, what communion meant. He knew it so thoroughly
that neither the temptations of the street nor of the barrack-room
had robbed him of it. Surely that is what we ought to teach every
child. Let us recognise that some children are born religious--I mean
they love the Bible and the lives of the saints; they have a power
of expressing much fervour--I do not know that they are always the
best children--and they will certainly acquire all the unnecessary
part of religion. But every child has the capacity for acquiring the
necessary part, and surely it is the duty of the Church to see that
all her children have the chance of its acquirement. Every energy is
now being put forth by the Church to retain, or even to increase, her
schools. Thirty years ago she had almost the whole of the schools of
England in her hands. Was she true to her enormous chance? Did she turn
out Churchmen and Churchwomen? Are the Sacraments frequented to-day
by those whom she taught? In all honesty let us face this question,
Why this anxiety to-day? and let us earnestly pray Almighty God that
it means her united effort to teach her children as they ought to be
taught, refusing to accept diocesan schemes that insist on an amount
of teaching altogether unnecessary and superfluous; and, above all, the
getting rid of that hideous system of examinations which ruins not only
religious, but all secular, education.
Measure the increase in good education which has taken place since the
passing of the Education Act, and every true Englishman will surely
rejoice. Recognise that all that the State ought to do is to teach
secular education. If the Church, by possessing schools, can help
the State in this matter, and therefore get a better opportunity of
teaching her own children, let her rejoice, but let her recognise her
twofold responsibility, that the religious education must be ample
and complete, the secular education the best that can be given. If
she fails in either of these two duties she has no right to remain
a teacher, and it would be fatal to her duty if, for the sake of
gaining a little money, and thereby lessening the continual burden of
subscription, she either gives an inferior education, or has inferior
buildings, unsanitary or such like, which the State should not for
a moment permit, or else allows some outside control to interfere
with the religion which she is bound to teach, or with her method of
appointing teachers. It is easy to accept unfettered money from a
Conservative Government, but no party remains in power very long in
England, and the taking of money now may possibly be an excuse for
another Government to enforce its own terms. I had the honour to serve
on the School Board in Portsmouth for three years. I know the zeal
and energy with which its members manage the schools in the town. I
am grateful beyond expression for the benefits they have conferred
on education in Portsmouth. I confess that their energy has been
the incentive to all the Church Schools to progress, for they set a
standard of education which is extremely useful to the whole district.
But I, for one, would far rather have seen them merely imparting
secular knowledge. I believe that, if we knew that no religious
teaching was given, every Dissenting minister and every Church
clergyman would throw far greater energy into the work of teaching
religion to their own children. I believe that oftentimes the knowledge
that religion is taught is a salve to the conscience, an excuse not to
realise our duty towards our children far more than we do. It is an
awful thought, that of a Godless England. It is a thought that should
strike terror into the conscience of every single man, whether he be
cleric or laic; yet I believe that there are thousands of children
to-day who, if a year after they leave school were questioned about
their religion, would, as far as actual knowledge went, be discovered
to be Godless.
My service on the Board, I think, taught me another benefit in Church
Schools. The daily visit of the clergy and other Church workers is not
only an enormous encouragement to the teachers, but creates altogether
a more humane atmosphere. It tends, too, to more softened ways and
more refined manners on the part of the children, and it gives often
a greater opportunity for getting work for children and keeping a
hold over them when they have left school. I think that there were a
few members of the Board who tried to do something in this way, but
the most of us were far too busy. I am told that under the London
School Board this omission is corrected by a system of managers,
who are in touch both with the children and the teachers. I fear in
the Portsmouth Board we should have been jealous of delegating any
authority. I believe, too, that if there had been a more personal
touch between the members of the Board and the teachers, several
little difficulties, which have lately arisen, would have disappeared.
Indeed, I blame myself very much that during my three years’ service
I did not get more personally acquainted with the teachers, though I
threw open my gymnasium twice a week to the younger ones, and many
joined our debating society. The increase of population in Portsmouth
has been so abnormal, that the expenditure of the Board in creating
places and plant has necessarily been very great, and consideration
for the ratepayers’ pockets is the reason why our salaries do not
compare favourably with those in like-sized towns. And there were some
other little vexatious arrangements, which I believe more personal
intercourse between the Board and the teachers could easily have
re-arranged.
I say all this because I am conscious that the two difficulties which
Englishmen must face with regard to the Board School question are
these--first, that the State cannot, and therefore ought not to be
expected to, teach religion; and secondly, that a danger exists in all
elected bodies that they may become merely machines, and so create in
those they employ a merely mechanical habit of performing their duties.
VI.
=Our Penitentiary Work.=
When society is brave enough to say a “fallen man,” as well as a
“fallen woman,” the so-called fallen woman will soon disappear. Alas!
we talk so glibly of young men’s “wild oats,” oftentimes speaking of
sin as a necessity, as if to do wrong in this direction, being human,
is natural, that it has become almost recognised that the so-called
fallen woman is a necessity. This kind of thing was said over and
over again to me by clergymen and others, when I talked to them about
the state in which I found my parish, until I was forced to recognise
that I must look at this question from two points of view--first, the
reclaiming of the sinner; secondly, the removing from amongst my own
children the awful danger of infection. I want you to pray, before you
read this chapter, that no word of mine may hurt or wound you, as I am
praying God the Holy Ghost to give me grace to write it bravely and
wisely.
As far as the reformation of this sinner goes, it can only be effected
by the loving compassion of a good woman, and God sent me in the hour
of my need a woman who practically worked miracles. She is dead now, so
I may call her by her name, Mrs. Waldron, a sister of Prebendary Grier.
She lived in one of the little cottages which now form the site of the
new church, weak in body, yet of such an untiring courage and energy
that I have often known her for more than twelve hours at a stretch
without food or rest, labouring for some poor soul. I gave her _carte
blanche_ when she came, asking no questions, discussing no case
unless she desired to discuss it with me, but I know that in a short
time more than a hundred poor girls had made their determination for a
better life under her influence. And it was no wonder, for harder than
marble would have been the heart that resisted her love. In the lives
of the saints one reads of those who, nursing the lepers, rejoiced to
kiss their sores. That is a physical action, which I suppose anybody
could accustom themselves to do. But to touch with your soul a leprous
soul, to bear with the blasphemy, the vulgarity, of those who have lost
all shame, and perhaps never have had any, to bear with it continually
day by day, to have your kindness and hospitality repaid by having all
your things stolen, and yourself flouted to your face, mocked at and
derided; to find that poor one sick and tired just at the moment when
change is possible, to bring her home again without one word or even
look of reproach, to do it all without any excitement, any telling of
it to anyone else, loving the most hideous for the dear Lord’s sake,
treating them in the dear Lord’s own way, no wonder the success was
phenomenal. And joined to this an even harder work, to persuade parents
to allow their children, their girls of ten and eleven and twelve, to
go into preventive homes. For when we first went to Landport that was
the only solution of the difficulty possible. We discovered many, many
little children from whom no secret of sin was hidden; and we could
not remove in a moment their awful instructors, who, directly they
were old enough, and that age came sometimes as young as thirteen or
fourteen, would give them an easy opportunity of turning instruction
into practice. So, though I have never myself been in favour of taking
children from their own homes, there was nothing else that we could do.
I determined that by God’s help I would not only endeavour to get the
girls out of the bad houses, but the houses out of the parish. The
present law is so very difficult to put in force, that I felt that,
even if I was successful in invoking the law in a few instances, I
should create great prejudice against the work, and effect practically
very little reform. So by degrees, with the help of my sister and some
of our most earnest mothers, I got a complete list of all the bad
houses in the parish. I wrote to all the owners, taking for granted
that they did not know the bad purposes for which their houses were
being used. I have written these letters week after week, in the hope
of shaming them by my persistency or worrying them into taking some
steps. After a time, I generally wrote to the Superintendent of Police,
and he very kindly did all he could. If there were little children in
the house, Mr. Silk, the School Board officer, was also an efficient
helper. Then at last the owner, wearied or ashamed, as a rule gave
notice to his tenant, and thus in detail, and one by one, our plague
spots were removed, until just before I left the parish I bought for
£250 the only bad house remaining. The poor woman, now in a lunatic
asylum, was her own landlady, and that was why it was so difficult to
move it.
You will be quite sure that every effort was made by dealing personally
with all the inmates, for when Mrs. Waldron left us, one of my sisters
undertook this special work. It would be unbecoming of me to speak of
her tact and tenderness; nay, by reason of the salutary rule we had of
never talking over cases, I hardly know of them myself; all that I do
know is that no poor girl ever left my parish without having the truest
womanly love offered her--love which, after seeking her in the worst
streets of the town, often found her in the wards of the hospital or
poor-house; love which she had refused in the day of her strength, and
which now triumphed in the day of her weakness.
Of course, this cleansing of our parish produced a great deal of
ill-will from owners of property. Once, feeling myself bound to make
a statement in one of my sermons, which got into a newspaper, I was
threatened with a libel action for £10,000. I remember quite well, when
the lawyer came to see me about it, his utter astonishment not only
when he discovered that what I had said was true, but even more when
the thought was revealed to him that a clergyman need not necessarily
be a fool, and the readiness with which he and his client abated the
nuisance was beyond all praise.
The abatement of these nuisances soon did away with the necessity of
our sending children to preventive homes. Some words that I had spoken
during my first year’s work induced a lady, who has since become
one of the Mission’s dearest friends, to undertake an Orphanage for
S. Agatha’s children. She opened with a little home in North End,
which accommodated about eight children. This was soon overcrowded,
and a dear friend of mine, Mrs. Kane, offered us, free of rent, a
splendid house in Castle Road, Southsea, where for the last eight
years this lady has been mother to more than twenty children. Like
all other of God’s gifts to us, this house came at the very moment
when we wanted it. It is impossible for me to describe the love with
which these children have been mothered, and I doubt if anywhere
in England there is any like institution, which is so thoroughly a
home. Like all other institutions--and yet that word institution
itself is its own condemnation, indeed, I do not think it has ever
been an institution--it has had its ups and downs, and we have had to
accommodate the method of working it to the age of the children. The
younger children coming to our own day schools were kept a little in
touch with the outside world, though this had its difficulties, for I
have known a time when four or five of the choir boys fell violently
in love with the girls. But I welcomed even this danger, from the
knowledge that the mixing with other children made the girls more
humane, and Wally Kimber, aged nine, surreptitiously offering an apple,
had his necessary use. There were also the dangers of measles, whooping
cough, etc., but I looked upon these as a development of the child’s
physical character.
[Illustration: OUR ORPHANS.]
While recognising to its very full the need of our Orphanage, for most
of our children were orphans, or practically so, because their
fathers were sailors, I still hold that an indifferent natural home is
better for the child than the best artificial one. There is a give and
take, a certain amount of bullying, a having to put up with things as
they are, sometimes very needless things, a stinting in diet, above
all a development of ministry, that I believe to be almost impossible
except in the natural home. All this is a formation of character which
enables the girl, as soon as she goes out in the world, to know her
own value, to judge for herself, and not to be dependent on rules
concerning every point, which private judgment would far more healthily
direct. Above all, she learns from her father and brothers, and from
their companions and friends, natural intercourse with men, which
prevents the first man she sees, after she has gone into service, being
an overwhelming attraction.
I hope these words will not sound very ungracious towards the very many
kind ladies who have taken our children into their Preventive Homes--I
bless God continually for many a girl whom their kindness has saved
from utter ruin, both of body and soul--and I think they themselves
will agree with me generally in what I say. But, on the other hand,
many parents are very glad to be saved the expense and trouble of
bringing up children in the days when they cannot earn. They even go
further than this. I remember, years ago, a great triumph of Mrs.
Waldron, when she prevailed on a father to sign the paper allowing his
girl to go into a Home. A few months afterwards he came, as I thought,
to thank me for having made provision for his child--the mother we
knew was a thoroughly bad character--but, after a few preliminaries,
he calmly demanded that I should pay him something, or else he would
remove the girl. I very soon removed him; but he was continually
annoying the sister in charge of the Home, and, as soon as the girl was
fifteen, and able to earn, he brought her back again to Portsmouth. I
thank God that she was wise enough to insist upon going into service,
and has kept herself all right; but it might have been just the other
way. Of course, if a mother is depraved, or a girl is beginning to
make friends with really bad characters, there is, I suppose, no other
remedy; but I am glad to think that, as a rule, such needs have largely
passed away from our parish.
We owe a special debt of gratitude to the Portsmouth Ladies’
Committee for Fallen and Preventive work. Through their indefatigable
secretary, Mrs. Breton, they have taken out of our hands many of our
most difficult cases. I know how often a clergyman’s work is marred
by the kind of pompous officialism of many Penitentiary workers. I
wish they could have the happiness of working with either Sister
Margaret, of the Deaconesses Home, or with Miss Young, of the little
Penitentiary in Somers Road, Southsea. Naturally, we came most in
contact with her; for when, on Mrs. Waldron’s departure, I shut up our
own Penitentiary, hers was open to us night and day. She is, perhaps,
the most unassuming and gentle person that ever lived--very delicate,
for she was nearly killed in a railway accident, four years ago, and
yet exercising a most extraordinary influence over even the rudest and
most boisterous girls. The remembrance of her tact and utter absence
of hideous rules emboldens me to say what has often been upon my mind
about penitentiaries generally--Could there not be a great deal more
individualism? And, above all, could there not be fewer prayers and
hours of silence? I remember, in my parish in London, a poor girl, who,
after many weeks of persuasion, at length entered a temporary Home. On
her journey down to a two years’ Home in the country, she disappeared.
Two days after, a railway porter brought me a shawl that one of the
Penitentiary ladies had lent her, with the message, “Tell Mr. Dolling
I could not stick all the prayers.” Perhaps even you and I, who call
ourselves religious, would find three set times for prayers a day, with
one or two silent hours, more than we could “stick.” And, then, surely
a great deal more use might be made of digging. It is far easier to
sweat out your evil humours and your sloth in a garden under the sky,
than in a wash-house under a roof. I know the infinite tenderness of
Penitentiary workers; I know the devotion of their lives; but it has
struck me oftentimes, from talking with girls who had been in Homes,
that there is a great danger of their looking upon the girl as created
for the Home rather than the Home for the girl; and I am sure that
if accommodation and workers render this individualism impossible, a
smaller number, of whose cure there might be more reasonable assurance,
would serve the end far more than a larger number not so successfully
dealt with. Above all, a protest needs to be made against a novel
system of three months’ Homes. There are in all these girls’ lives
times when either weakness of body, utter poverty, reaction against
the hatefulness of their life, or a bitter heart-disappointment--for
these poor children still have hearts--prompt them to go to a Home. By
all means let there be temporary Homes, where they can be taken in, but
for God’s sake do not let a whitewashing certificate lightly get them
into a house as a servant unless the mistress knows all about them.
Of course, there are many ladies living alone who could do no more
Christ-like act than to give such a girl a chance; but I have known
them sometimes in nurseries--I wonder if people realise how soon little
children can be injured by bad habits--and I have known them in houses
where there are growing-up sons and daughters, worse for the latter
than the former.
I hope you will pardon me for these two digressions, but my work in
Portsmouth has brought me in contact with so many poor girls whom
a Home seems to have hardened, and my work in the confessional has
brought me in contact with so many penitents, whose first temptations
to sin arose in their earliest days, and were generally suggested by
servants.
VII.
=Our House.=
I have told you that Chance Street was the worst street in the parish,
and therefore was the place where I felt I ought to live. But I thank
God now that I did not go there at first, for, from the experience of
four different houses, I learned the kind of house to build. First
of all we lived in Spring Street, but we were soon squeezed out of
that. Three of my old London boys appeared almost as soon as we had
settled there. Then we had to provide room for Winchester men, and
for all sorts of stray guests. One great help we had already gained
there, Mary, who has been our housekeeper all through the ten years;
but even her fertile imagination could not create bedrooms, and when
I had been driven from the bath-room, where I had slept in the bath
for two or three nights, to the landing outside, I felt I must see
about moving. Naturally you will say, Why burden yourself with these
people? But, I thank God, that during the ten years I have been at the
Mission we have never sent away from the door anyone whom we thought
we could benefit. To-day I got a letter from India from the first boy
we ever sent into the Army--now a collar-maker in the Royal Artillery.
He worked in a biscuit factory. His father and mother were dead. He
kept himself, board and lodging, on 4s. a week. Sometimes we called
him “Dodger,” because he stuttered and stammered; sometimes “My Lord,”
because he was so consequential. I remember once finding him crying in
the corner, and I found it was from sheer starvation. There was only
one hope for him--three or four months’ food and exercise. It cost me,
perhaps, £5. Think of it--£5--and a man made by it. He wrote me to-day,
“I have lost my home, when you left Portsmouth, but, thank God, I have
not lost you.” And then another, one of those strange phenomena out of
the slums, in appearance and lack of energy a gentleman, so attractive,
yet so disheartening, needing three years of continued watchfulness and
unceasing prayer, to-day a prosperous steward on the Australian line.
And so the family began, not willingly, but of necessity, and when
Spring Street was outgrown, then the Mission House in Conway Street was
ready for us. There, too, we began another great expense, but blessed
beyond all cost--the daily dinner. What hundreds of little children
have grown to be men by it! How many working men have been coaxed by
it back to health and bread-winning for their family! What a test
it has been for tramps and for the unworthy! You can always measure
the loafer by the fashion of his eating. What a school for learning
truths about humanity--there where tongues were loosened under the
influence of hospitality. With knife and fork in hand all men are at
ease together, and so we learned to know them, and they to know us.
The best school for our fellow priests, for the gentlemen who came
down to learn something of this life, and for the Winchester men,
has always been our dining-room. Sometimes I know I have marred it
myself, for oftentimes when one is ill in body and ill in temper--who
shall tell where one begins and the other ends?--my own moroseness has
hindered the power of the lesson. But I have known, even in my worst
days, a charm that has soothed me back to geniality. If I had been
Saul, and David eating before me, it would have been more potential
than playing on the harp. Over and over again I have seen the look of
polite horror and disdain passing out of some cultured face, when the
owner discovered that the shoeblack next him was quite as intelligent
as himself. And then the splendid discipline of it all, that power
of banter so cleansing for the priggish, that power of laughter so
health-giving to the morose, chasing away the frown of set purpose
fixed on the face. Eight long years of that common dining-table cost
enormous sums of money, and entailed continuous outpouring of strength
and of tact; but I doubt if, in all England, money has been better
spent, and strength better expended.
Then, too, began the realisation of the danger of a sailor’s life.
No words of mine are too strong to express the admiration I feel for
Miss Weston’s magnificent social work. I doubt if there be one woman
in England to whom England owes so much. But, surely, we had some duty
towards them too, many of them on board the training-ship through our
instrumentality, many recommended to us by clergymen who knew them.
But all we could do then was one afternoon in the week, and Sunday
afternoon; we had no room for more. With that we were content until
we found that there were some boys who had no homes to go to for the
Christmas holiday, and some who, having ceased to be boys, and, coming
on shore, were led down, because they had no helping hand, to sin and
death. That convinced us that we must move into a larger house.
My sisters, too, living a little distance from the parish, had found
their work so increased that one felt it was a duty to relinquish the
Mission House to them, and to move into a wretched cottage that we
had bought in Clarence Street, next the Gymnasium, the walls damp,
the floors rotten. Here we lived until the doctor discovered that I
was getting very ill, and Mrs. Porter, who helped Mary, pushed her
leg through the floor of my bedroom into my sitting-room below. Then
we were forced to build. The house next door to that little cottage
was a bad house, a shocking scandal left in the midst of a district
otherwise nearly cleansed. We thought that there would be no difficulty
in buying it, but the owner put a premium on its shameful success,
and I felt that to buy it at the price demanded was only to abet and
encourage sin. Luckily my architect, Mr. Ball, was the most patient
and resourceful of men. Schools, parsonage, and church, all testify
to his extraordinary cleverness, and he devised a plan by which we
utilised the gallery of the Gymnasium for bedrooms, and were able to
make an excellent parsonage. In the place of chief honour, because she
ministered most to the comfort of our house, we placed the cook and
our kitchen, and magnificently she fulfilled her charge, cooking, with
the help of her friend, Looey, for an average of certainly not less
than eighteen every single day, dining and teaing more than forty upon
Sunday, a kind of miracle-worker, never requiring to know how many were
coming, yet always enough for all who came. And then such splendid
sleeping accommodation; four cubicles, one Winchester room, two other
rooms with three beds each, and soon, because we had overstepped that
accommodation, a long gallery built over one side of the Gymnasium,
where we could put up at a pinch twelve or fourteen more. Our guests
were received just as they came; we were tied and bound by no rules.
As long as there was room, we accepted anyone whom it seemed likely we
could benefit, always giving preference to those who seemed to need
help the most. We laid ourselves out especially for three classes, the
sick in body, the sick in soul, and those desirous of becoming healers.
No one but myself knew the names or circumstances of our inmates, so
that oftentimes a man has stayed with us for six months, and no one
knew who he was but myself. To most people I gave a nickname, and that
avoided all difficulty. The etiquette of the house--you cannot say
rules--was very simple, punctuality at meals, not to annoy any inmate
unless I gave permission, when the annoyance was for the other’s good,
and always to be in by a quarter past ten at night. Anyone might leave
when they liked even without telling me, and they might steal when
they liked, if they could find anything worth stealing. The latter
had its inconveniences. I remember once an invalided marine, a poor
weak fellow in every respect, whom we had at last to turn out of the
cubicles to sleep in the gallery, because he had so many companions
that remained in the bed-clothes. When I remonstrated with him for
this, and suggested that the public baths and carbolic soap were a
ready way of ridding oneself of such friends, he left in a huff, taking
with him the plain clothes of the sailor who, out of pity, had first
brought him to the house. I remember, too, Tom--we never knew his other
name--a North-country boy, who had slept in almost every workhouse in
England, and yet who had extraordinary reserves of good in him. When,
after staying with us four months, I had arranged to emigrate him, he
offered, out of kindness, to clean Mary’s kitchen in the morning, but
broke open her drawer and went off with £5 of house money; yet he had
the grace to write from Liverpool and tell us that he had taken it;
and, though we have never heard from him since, I believe some memory
of S. Agatha’s remaining in his mind keeps near him some idea of human,
if not of divine, love. Many, many tramps like him we have sheltered,
some for a few days, some for a few months. Some have turned out
splendidly abroad, in the army, or as stokers in the navy. Some have
gone back, for the road has a mysterious attraction that it is very
hard to break them of.
Then there were the sick in body. Ah! what miracles are wrought by a
little food. We who waste so much surely never realise it. They came
to us principally from London, sometimes out of the parish itself.
It was not altogether the best house for invalids. Perhaps there was
no more difficult task than to tell them so, and that they must go.
Eating, too, is such a matter of fancy, the mind far more often than
the stomach saying, “I cannot.” Our common table, eating all together
all the same things, was a wonderful cure for this squeamishness of
appetite. But illness from starvation, and starvation because of
illness, far commoner maladies than we comfortable people are willing
to confess--our own meat would often choke us if we did--renders it
sometimes impossible for men to eat any quantity of food, especially
meat. Can you realise that? There are thousands who could not eat meat
if they had it, by reason of want of use, whose digestions have become
destroyed by sheer starvation. And here was the great reward in this
part of our work. Whereas you could not measure the moral progress; you
always could the physical. Anæmic faces growing ruddy, gloomy faces
growing gay; first, perhaps, just the vegetables eaten, then a little
meat as well; then the whole plate cleared. How I have rejoiced to see
a little bit of bread cleaning up the plate. Then a brave attempt at a
second help, and we knew the man was cured. The dear old nursery story,
“Top off, half gone, all gone,” and then, as a rule, his time was come,
and he went.
Then the harder cases--the fellow who would really work if he could get
work to do. Sometimes a footman, sometimes a clerk, sometimes a man
who had been in one of the Services. Portsmouth was a bad place for
this kind of fellow. There are no manufactories; every billet is in the
hands of army or navy men, and I have never been able to get on with
the authorities of either service.
Once, indeed, we had a great stroke of luck, when Lipton opened a shop
in Portsmouth, and they allowed us to supply all the boys. That was, I
suppose, five years ago, and some are there still. There is, perhaps,
no sadder man in all the world than he who would and could work, and
yet cannot get it. How terribly his cause is injured by the man who
will never work under any circumstances! In London it was easy to deal
with this class. A room opened as soon as the papers were published, a
perusal of the advertisements, a hunch of bread and cheese, a cheery
word of encouragement, a little perseverance in tramping on the part of
the searcher, and work was generally found after a week or two. But in
Portsmouth I have known them linger with us week after week. In reality
the only chance was to get them away. This entailed large expenditure
in advertisements, in stamps, and correspondence, until at last I have
had to refuse to take in any more of these cases.
[Illustration: LIPTON’S BOYS.]
And then the most difficult cases of all--those just out of gaol, or
who ought to be in gaol--each one demanding special individual care,
and far more special prayer. There is no doubt that in many people
stealing and drunkenness--these were the two sins we mostly dealt
with--must really be looked upon as diseases. In that case the cause
of the disease is the first thing to be ascertained, and that requires
considerable time for true diagnosis; and here you have first to learn
that all drunkards are liars, generally very successful liars, and
many thieves as well. I have been taken in over and over again, and
yet the only way to cure this is to make them feel that you believe in
them. This in the long run shames most men into truth. I remember
a lad who had tramped to us from Southampton with a most plausible
story--concerning which I wrote--managing to intercept the letters,
and so gaining three or four days more grace; caught in the act of
stealing, so impressed with being forgiven that he told his true story,
which was that he had been in gaol twice for stealing. Living with us
for nine months, he became altogether changed, learning to pray, making
a first confession, being confirmed, and everything was arranged for
his going out to a friend of mine in America; he became so trusted that
he carried all my letters to the post, and even my money to the bank;
and then on the eve of one Derby Day, seeing the fatal odds quoted,
he stole a letter of mine, in which he knew there was a postal order
for £1. He had the grace, after he had stolen it, to telegraph to me
the fact (that sixpence the first-fruits of his robbery), for I had
just left home. Surely that is a disease; and yet one knows that every
resistance to temptation is a tremendous gain towards its cure. A year
ago he worked his way home from America in a cattle-boat just to stay
two days with me, to tell me his failures and his successes. When last
I heard from him he had been going on all right since his return. How
magnificent are these efforts to do right, in spite of overwhelming
temptation! How infinitely more heroic than our smug contentment at
our own honesty, who have never had cause to steal. And yet falling,
in a moment, discovery, gaol, despair. Has Christian society no better
method?
I shall never forget the look on the face of Dr. Thorold one morning
when I told him that the two companions he had chosen to sit with at
supper the night before were both experienced thieves. One had been in
gaol three times, the other twice; the former a clergyman’s son, the
latter one of those curious instances, in which the lowest surroundings
had not been able to obliterate outward signs of a better heredity.
We generally sat at meals according to the order of our coming, but I
thought he, being a Bishop, and unaccustomed to our ways, had better
choose his own companions. I had only seen the lads the day before,
and I watched the scene with amusement, qualified with terror for his
ring and watch. However, he found them very pleasant, and when I told
him what I knew about them, he could hardly believe it was possible. In
three or four days’ time I discovered that, as far as I was concerned,
the clergyman’s son was hopeless, but for the other there was every
chance, and the diagnosis was pretty correct, for the one facilitated
his departure by stealing some money, and, though I hear from him from
time to time, he is, I think, at this present moment in gaol. The other
emigrated, got into the hands of a good man, whose daughter he married,
though I am proud to think he was honourable enough, even at the hazard
of losing his love and his prospects, to tell his father-in-law the
history of his past life.
I don’t think that even when we failed altogether with a man we were
disappointed. How could we in a few months hope to set right what many
years had made wrong? But over and over again letters have come to
me, showing, at least, how our endeavours had not been altogether in
vain. Ashamed, perhaps, to come back to us, because of the way they
had treated us, they yet preserve in their minds a remembrance of us,
a little salt to prevent wholesale corruption. To believe that someone
loves me, is akin to believing God loves me, and I know that there are
many in all parts of the world to-day whose only sight of the love of
God was their sojourn with us. One longed to be able to devote many
years to such a one, to give up all one’s time. Of course, that was
impossible, we had a hundred other things to do, a hundred other people
to help. People often ask, How long did you keep a man? As long as we
saw that there was any hope. There is no such thing as time in dealing
with cases like these. One poor Irish landlord, a perfect gentleman by
birth, whom we put into a lodging, because it was not convenient to
have him in the house, was with us until we left. We had had tremendous
hopes of him. He began to go to church. His manhood seemed to be
restored. Then in a fatal moment I allowed him to earn a little money
in the town during the election. Quite old he was. And yet that pound
meant drink, gambling, loss of all he had gained, then fear of us,
until Conibeere discovered him almost naked and utterly broken down in
health.
Of course, many have turned out splendidly. I remember one, who had
been in gaol for eighteen months, coming to us as a very last resource.
I remember how, day by day, we could notice the giving up of the
slouch, the desire for a clean collar, for a bath, for rational talk,
for intellectual books to read. And now from America he writes me
letters full of the deepest interest on religious as well as secular
matters, and underlying them all a modesty and a gentleness which shows
him to be infinitely superior to what he was before he got into trouble.
Here is a very typical case, the last one we dealt with; perhaps
someone who reads this may like to help him. I had known him sixteen
years ago, for his two brothers, soldiers, were great friends of mine.
He is one of the cleverest men at figures I ever knew, but he got into
bad ways in London, and when the consciousness that he was a thief
pressed out of him all hope, he walked down to Landport, craving to
be saved. I felt at once that his repentance was only skin deep, that
if I could have set him free, he would merely have gone on his way
rejoicing till another temptation came. There was only one remedy, “You
must give yourself up.” He thought it was a hard judgment, but he was
wise enough to adopt it. Alas, how selfish personal distress makes one!
And so in all the agony of our last five weeks I forgot all about him.
I was taking supper with my sisters about ten days before we left. We
had just heard that Canon Gore was going to send a Mr. Bull to take
temporary charge, when a telegram arrived, “I will be with you at 7.30
p.m.” (Signed) “Bull.” Though we were very grateful that Mr. Bull could
conscientiously come, I think for a moment we thought the telegram a
little cool. While we were discussing it, a ring at the bell, and to my
delight it was my lad from gaol. I took him up to London with me when
I left, and kept him and his wife for a little time with me, and now
I have sent him out to his brother in America, who is going to help
him. The discipline of gaol gave him the grace of amendment. Our help
restored to him faith in himself, and there is no doubt that he will do
well; but he cost me over £15, and as I am utterly impecunious now, he
will have to pay it, which will prevent his wife rejoining him. If this
burden were removed from him by somebody paying it, I need not say it
would be the completion to what I believe to be his reformation.
Drink, of course, was a much more difficult thing to cure, because
the physical craving is an additional temptation. Perhaps this is the
reason why drink, though not more deadly in the eye of God, is more
deadly in its consequences than most sins, because it not only causes
that dementia, which forces men to do outrageous and monstrous things,
but it injures some brain tissue, which prevents a man using his
self-will, and finally destroys self-will altogether. People got to
know, I suppose, that we were willing to receive clergymen and others
who had gone wrong through this, and so in the last eight years there
have always been one or two inebriates resident in our house. If a man
really wanted to be cured, it was merely a matter of time, but many
came to us persuaded by their friends, having no real desire to amend.
When, too, you preach to others, it is very easy to become a castaway
yourself. When you have held the Sacrament in sacrilegious hands, you
have voluntarily deprived yourself of the chief power of amendment.
Some of the best workers and the noblest souls become slaves of this
most awful curse. It has always seemed so strange a thing to me that
there is no place for a clergyman who has gone wrong. If they are
condemned to seek reformation in the workhouse, it is almost impossible
to hope for their amendment. The very knowledge of the height from
which they have fallen, the grace that they have despised and trodden
under their feet, makes them, if there is any honesty in them, hopeless
of ever amending themselves, and they grow callous and hard-hearted.
They have often come to me from the workhouse, from the army shelter
home, from gaol. Our house was manifestly bad for this purpose. It was
impossible to have sufficient supervision. Then, too, the character
of the clergyman never can be wholly laid aside, and as a rule, in a
few days, even though in lay attire, they were recognised by the rest
of the inmates, which made it particularly difficult for them. In all
other religions I think there is a home for these poor lost sheep,
or a monastery, or some place; but in this country, alas! left to
themselves, they go from bad to worse. I remember well one, whom his
friends had promised to supply with lay clothes, arriving an hour and
a half late, dressed in clericals, so drunk that all the children in
the street were mobbing him, and when I suddenly opened the hall-door
to see what the row was, unable to stand, he fell prone at my feet.
Even when we got him to bed he declared he had had nothing to drink but
some milk. A doctor, who was with me at the time, tried to persuade him
he was drunk, but he utterly refused to acknowledge it. We bore with
him as long as we could, and at last I had to tell him that he would
have to leave by a certain date. My Low Church brethren were willing
to relieve me of anyone who could flatter them that it was our High
Church ways they objected to, and so with ease he borrowed eighteen
shillings from one of our brethren; but when he returned at night in an
hilarious mood and was refused more, he promptly smashed the windows.
I saw him in the workhouse afterwards. I promised that if he would
stay there for six months I would try and do something for him. He
thought me very hard-hearted and unkind, because I would not take him
back again. Indeed I received a very amusing comment from him on the
last sermon I preached at S. Agatha’s, which he had read in the paper.
I had been expressing to my dear people my consciousness of many hard
words I had said to them, and how often I felt a want of tenderness
and forgiveness on my part had marred my ministry. Commenting on this,
he said, “I am quite sure it was your treatment of me in the workhouse
which you had in mind when you spoke those words.”
I believe there is only one hope for the drunkard, and that is
teetotalism, but there are a thousand other things which he needs
besides. Many of them have become drunkards through the bitterness
of poverty, to have to live like gentlemen, when they had no enough
income to keep body and soul together; many through the snobbishness of
the vicar, who often treats the curate as if he were in no sense his
equal, and is jealous of his mixing with the well-to-do people of the
congregation. Few people can measure the loneness of many a curate’s
life, especially if he is a little on in years, so that the female
part of the congregation do not admire him. Many become so because
of an inward rebellion against their own work; they feel more or less
that their preaching and teaching is humbug. Many become so because at
certain moments, when they have no energy, no vital force, they are
compelled, either in private or public, to make a great mental effort.
Many become so because of the utter discomfort of their lodgings, want
of proper food, etc. A drop of drink is such a swift miracle-working
remedy. The higher clergy, who have never been tempted in these ways,
ought to have infinite compassion for these men. There ought to be, in
several centres, places managed by the most loving, hopeful people, so
that, at any rate, they might have a generous chance, and the awful
scandal they do to the Church might be removed. Our lay drunkards were
infinitely easier to deal with than our clerical ones, and I have in my
mind many, who lived with us for a little time, who are now quite free
from their former temptations. You may imagine something of the burden
that this kind of work entailed on me, a burden that no one could
share, for I alone knew their histories, and therefore their needs.
But I do not want you to think for a moment that our house only
contained inmates like this. There are many excellent men, now priests,
who came to us to discover vocations, some ’Varsity men, some National
schoolmasters, some shopmen. Mostly two or three like this were
living with us, helping me in a hundred different ways, and learning,
I think, a good deal. How hideous the question of examination, the
gross unfairness of the system. For instance, the ’Varsity man can
be ordained at once, if he pass the Bishop’s exam. A literate, who
is very likely a far more valuable man, has not a look in in most
dioceses. The Bishops seem to think that a B.A. Oxford, Cambridge, or
Dublin, is the very best of educations. They are always saying, “We
want University men.” Nobody values Oxford and Cambridge more than
I do, especially their meals; there is a royal prodigality about a
breakfast at Oxford that is truly magnificent. There is also in those
four years of ’Varsity life a very delightful environment, a little
work crammed in as an excuse for much enjoyment, much idleness. Of
course, there are two exceptions to this--the man who reads, and the
man who plays games, a physical and intellectual training, which, if
combined, produces a really matured man. But the vast majority of
men saunter their time away, excusing themselves, I suppose, because
Oxford and Cambridge are holy ground. They gain a certain facility of
expression, a certain ease of manner, the tone, if they are at a good
college, of good society. Few take to religion, about them the less
said the better; somebody whispers in my ear--I hardly like to write
it--the word “smug.” On the whole, it has splendid advantages, it is a
time of easy growth, a time of making friendship, a time of acquiring
charm. But that it is a time of acquiring character for the priesthood,
hardness, endurance, mental struggle, intellectual activity, no one but
a Bishop can imagine. Wonderfully did these men add to the charm of
Landport.
Once I was giving a parochial retreat in Holy Week. I noticed a man
with a hard, strong, strangely kindling face. When the day’s work was
over, painfully rubbing his knees, for he had never knelt so long
before, he told me he had come from Ireland, and wanted to stay with us
a little. He had been the master of an endowed school there, who had
saved enough money out of his pitiful salary to take a degree in Dublin
by examination. He intended to stay a week, but he stayed with me for
more than two years. He is one of the strongest, noblest characters I
have ever known. He would have been an invaluable priest, but, alas!
he could not afford to live up in Dublin, and so could not take the
Divinity Testimonial. He is now a priest in Canada, and very likely
will some day be a Bishop.
You know how hard it is for men to overcome shyness, especially in
speaking about religion to others, and very soon after we got to
Landport I noticed one young man who always brought two or three with
him. When I got to know him, I discovered that this missionary spirit
was very deep down in his heart, and his one hope was that some day he
might be a priest. He worked very hard, for his was a Landport shop,
and the hours were late, but I promised him if he would teach himself
Latin and Greek I would look upon it as a proof that he was fit for the
ministry. Some two years afterwards he came to me and said, “I think,
if Mr. Osborne would examine me, I could satisfy you that I have tried
to learn.” But even this courage and determination availed nothing with
the English Episcopate. He too is now doing an excellent work as a
priest in America.
Of course, there were many men who came to us with no vocations at
all. Concerning that the Bishops did not seem to make any inquiry.
They practically know nothing of their candidates, and yet surely this
might be a valid excuse for the monstrous possession of a palace, and
for an income which would enable them to keep S. Paul’s rule, “to
be given to hospitality.” I fear it is rather the influential laity
and dignified clergy on whom they exercise this virtue. I am, of
course, willing to allow that great discrimination would be needed in
discovering this vocation. Many young men came to us with no vocations;
a few were utterly vicious. One, I remember, moved with pity at my
ill-health and overwork, inaugurated a collection so that I might
have a holiday, kindly suggesting that the people asked to contribute
should not mention the matter to me, as I might refuse it. He went
for a nice holiday himself, and afterwards was aggrieved because I
would not recommend him to another clergyman. But men like this are
soon choked off, and the discipline of laughter in our house was
particularly wholesome. The discipline of labour, too. Once I remember
a man almost prostrating himself at my feet, and saying, “All I crave
is a habit.” It was before I sold my library, and I saw that the books
were very dusty, so getting a cloth I made him clean them, and then
begin a catalogue. Before a week was over, tired of the catalogue, he
had fled. Oh, most blessed catalogue, what a number of vocations it has
discovered as non-existent!
Many men would come because of the exaggerated account of our ritual.
Mattins, said plain, at 7.30 a.m., was a great stumbling-block to
them, and when they discovered that our own altar-boys knew nothing
about ritual, except the part that they themselves had to perform,
they thought that we were strangely behindhand. One having to serve
at my celebration, because the usual server was ill, screamed out in
an agony after the service was over, “Oh, Father, when your hands are
extended your fingers are unjoined. Could you not join them?” His ears
discovered whether I could or not. And with these ritualists came many
of the same character, men coquetting with Rome or with unbelief. They
were utterly dumbfounded to discover it all dealt with as a matter of
want of wholesome employment of body and intellect, to be recommended
to try a little real activity, to find that neither Rome nor unbelief
was regarded as a very terrible danger to them, but that their
credulity or doubts were only another spelling of self-importance. If
they were good fellows they soon fell into line again. Of course, there
were exceptions to these, those with whom one watched through agonies,
and in those agonies discovered prayer, and in prayer rediscovered
the sight of God, souls very heavy and sick to death, of tenderest
conscience, most noble, most suffering. It has been a privilege beyond
all words to be to these what the Blest Three refused to be to Christ,
and I for one am bold to say that, whether Romans or unbelievers
to-day, a compassionate Heart understands, knows, and blesses. Many
such, I think, went away comforted and strengthened, though perhaps
more by the cheeriness and good fellowship of our house than by
anything we were able to say.
Then, too, there were Romans desiring to become Anglicans, I fear
the worst lot of all. I suppose one ought to rid oneself of one’s
instinctive dread of these persons, but I have met such hideous frauds
amongst them. Almost my first day in Portsmouth I was persecuted by a
wretched priest, whom, as soon as he had opened his mouth, I discovered
to be a drunkard and a liar. He arrived one evening about five with a
little bag in his hand. When I told him I was too busy to talk to him,
he said, “I will leave my bag, and return at dinner-time.” Then when I
told him there was only dinner for two, and neither I nor my secretary
would share ours with him, he said, “Oh, it does not matter; but I will
return to sleep.” And when I told him that there were but two bedrooms,
and neither I nor my secretary would share these with him, the mask
fell off his face. He had been received into the Church of England, and
the Church of England was bound to support him; he would soon make it
too hot for me in Portsmouth. I never stood face to face with a more
hideous blackmailer, but it was not until I had opened the door and had
taken him by the back of the neck that he retired.
Then came a most innocent monk, demanding rest and peace to meditate
on the errors of his past religion, to discover the beauty of mine.
Correspondence with his former superiors proved he was utterly
unworthy; but then there are always two sides to every question, and
one felt bound to give him a patient hearing. Those who shared his
room said he not only went prayerless to bed, but in the same shirt
he had worn during the day. This latter habit they much objected to.
Alas! in him the habit did not make the monk. But when I discovered
that Ally Sloper was his favourite reading, my mind was more perplexed
about him, and I thought that this course of study could be as
advantageously pursued at his father’s, a respectable grocer in the
North of England, and so I made him the offer of either sending him
back to his monastery, or to his own home. That day came a wonderful
conversion in him, his face all radiant with delight. He had been
spirit-led, as he said, to the Presbyterian minister’s, and the
minister and his wife had so expounded religion, that he had discovered
that the Church of England was quite as false as the Church of Rome,
and now peace and happiness was reigning in his heart. Not long after
the town was covered with placards, “A monk will expose the enormities
of monasteries.” The lectures, however, fell rather flat. Gossip said
they were not spicy enough; I imagined invention had failed. We used
to see him as he lived in comfort at the minister’s, but he cast
pitying glances on us. Some time after the police called--they wanted
information concerning him; and a year’s retirement, free of charge,
was granted him for obtaining money under false pretences. Alas! this
did not suffice to really convert him, for some time ago he got a
further term for the same thing in Ireland.
The mention of this monk’s shirt reminds me of a difficulty we often
experienced, even amongst our nicest visitors. We discovered that not
merely pyjamas, but night-shirts, were the exclusive property of the
upper classes; and I remember once providing these garments for all who
were without them, on condition that they would wear them every night.
I had forgotten all about it until I heard one of the boys--I think it
was Tommy--say, with conscious pride, to another, “I always wear my
night-shirt.” This roused my curiosity, and, on making investigations,
I discovered that he did wear it, but over all his other clothes,
except coat, waistcoat, and trousers.
I suppose there were generally fourteen of us living in the house,
besides two curates who lodged outside, because I hardly considered it
fair to compel them always to live in public, while at almost every
meal there were what we call probationers. If, after watching these for
a day or two, we discovered that there was a chance to really reform
them, they would be taken from the lodging where they had been placed,
and brought into the house. Then there were countless sailors coming to
stay a day or a month, as the case might be, disappearing for two or
three years, and then turning up as if they had never been away. Then
the convalescent and those out of work, so that our dinner generally
doubled our regular number of inmates. Can you imagine a better school
for men who desired to learn their fellow men? Over it all there was a
spirit of good fellowship and kindliness that seldom failed.
[Illustration: CHRISTMAS PARTY, 1893.]
If a very disagreeable-looking or dirty person was intruded, and his
presence forced beside some rather swell Wykehamist, or a budding
cleric with conceited notions about himself, this difficulty never
lasted more than for a moment. A look was always sufficient to make the
objector understand the real good he would gain, even if he carried
away to his personal inconvenience something from the man beside him.
But sometimes the devil was let loose for a space amongst us, and
everything went wrong. Boys stole from one another, men came in drunk,
sometimes acts of gross insubordination occurred, when my heavy hand
had to fall on the whole family. I remember once for three long days
we lived on bread and cheese. We had had a very large Christmas party.
Two or three days after Boxing Day, as I came into the Sunday dinner,
I heard piercing shrieks from Blind Willie,--you will hear about him
again, I expect. Someone had smashed up his hat, and no one would tell
who had done it. As a rule boys were ready to confess, but there was a
spirit of obstinacy in the house to-day, and no one would tell. In a
rash moment I ordered the dinner to be carried away,--alas! being in
the octave, it was a kind of repetition of the Christmas dinner,--and
having pointed out the wickedness of tormenting Willie, I said there
would be no more meat eaten in the house until I knew who had hurt
his hat. I remember well there were two inoffensive clergymen, a
member of Parliament, and a guardsman staying with us, and I have
reason to believe that they secretly refreshed themselves elsewhere;
but the house stood to bread and cheese rations until the Tuesday
morning. It was a very sharp and bitter lesson, but it is a fairly
good illustration of our universal method. Over and over again, in
dealing with mean and horrid ways, we have found this one of the most
effectual methods. I think that to share the consequences of sin often
prevents sinners, and everyone in the house realising that the burden
of punishment would fall upon the guiltless, and in some sense most
heavily upon myself, was a great deterrent. Vulgarity, ill manners,
or horse-play would have made a home like ours insupportable, and,
I think, by degrees we all learned tenderness and forbearance one
with another. I suppose this is the best test of being what is called
“gentlemen.” In the daytime my sitting-room, in the night-time my
bedroom, dominated the whole house. At half-past five every morning I
got up and called the boys who were going to work, or the sailors who
had to be on board at 6.30. I had a gas stove in my bedroom, and so I
could go back to bed again, and read or make sermons till six. This was
a very quiet hour, too, for scolding anyone in the house who needed
some special talking to. Then at seven I was in church to celebrate the
Holy Communion; at 7.40 we said Morning Prayer; another Celebration at
eight, which the religious men staying in the house usually attended;
at 8.30 breakfast, at which everybody was supposed to be present. When
I had a shorthand clerk he could take down most of my correspondence
while breakfast was going on. At 9.45 convalescents in body and mind
went out walking till 1 p.m., unless there was any work for them to do.
Sometimes it is best to let men be idle, sometimes to force them to
work. All the morning I saw people, parish people, inquisitive people,
people with real troubles, people with imaginary ones; but the door
was always open, and everybody came upstairs as they liked. They knew
if my study door was open that they could come in; if not, they must
wait till it opened. Sometimes a man wanting to learn was allowed to
sit in my study to see the people who came in, unless it was something
private, and to hear the advice given. One learns to be a very quick
judge of character, alas! oftentimes too quick, as my conscience
taught me, when each night I answered before God for every one who had
visited me that day. Then at one o’clock dinner, at which everybody had
to be present. As far as possible everybody except myself took exercise
in the afternoon, coming in to tea at 5.30. Service in the church at
7.30; then clubs, gymnasium, &c., till 10 p.m.; supper and prayers and
everybody in their room at 10.15 p.m. At 10.30 the door was locked, and
anyone coming in had to ring my bell. Sometimes I could entrust one
of my helpers to go down and open the door, but, as a rule, I tried
to do it myself. I have known many men shamed out of drunkenness and
loose habits by the knowledge that I should have to open the door. I
do not suppose in all the world there ever was a place better adapted
for acquiring a knowledge of human nature. Of course, many men took
advantage of it; but even from them what an immense deal we learned,
and I doubt if there was such a merry home or such happy people in the
whole of England. Thank God, as a rule, there were always a good many
Irishmen amongst us, and so there was ever a humorous side, even to the
darkest circumstances. It was one of our rules to talk nonsense, as far
as possible, at meals, and we generally brought in to dinner and tea
one or two little children. There is no possibility of being dull in
the presence of a little child, and in my saddest moments, when I was
feeling sick to death with worry and trouble, wounded oftentimes by my
own brethren, the laughter and merriment of a little child brought us
back to ourselves and to God.
Men coming to stay with us had often such heroic ideas of what they
would like to do, were so anxious to do people good. Of course, this
is a splendid notion, but it generally prevents one doing anything at
all, and I am sure I and my curates and most of my workers felt that
the house and family did us much more good than we did it, and so one
generally said to the man, “We don’t want you to do good, we want to do
you good.” The woman worker amongst the poor is sometimes not a prig;
alas! the man worker nearly always is. I have known men choked off the
very first day of their stay by some such treatment. They want to give
lectures, or to teach in night school or in Sunday School, or to get
up debating societies, or cricket clubs, or to boss concerts; in fact,
to do anything that means the assertion of their own cleverness or
good disposition towards others. How hateful it is! I always kicked at
this, sometimes kicked it. I expect these workers do infinitely more
harm to themselves than they do good to others. For ten long years,
day and night, there were lessons for me to learn, if I only had the
grace and modesty to learn them. Even in that in which men might know
more, knowledge, they are but as babes and sucklings in the presence
of those whom they condescend to teach, that is, if knowledge means
the knowing of things likely to be useful to the knower and to the
community. In speech, too, how much we have to learn; how terse and in
what few words do our dear people express themselves, while the man who
wants to harangue them wraps round with innumerable words, which darken
all counsels and prevent all understanding, the thought that the slum
lad expresses in three or four words to the point. And as to manners,
every single man in my home was a gentleman, that is, if thinking for
others, and treating them with forbearance and tenderness and love, and
striving to make them feel at home and at ease, means being gentlemen.
The roughest, rudest, most ignorant lad, after a month’s residence,
had obtained these graces. I have seen deeds of the purest chivalry,
self-sacrifice which the love of God alone can measure; I have seen the
withstanding of temptation even to tears and blood; I have seen agonies
borne without a word, for fear I should be vexed. I take them out of my
heart, where some of them have lain for eight long years--I take them
out one by one, thieves, felons, tramps, loafers, outcasts, of whom the
world was not worthy, having no place for them, no home for them, no
work for them. I read in their eyes a tenderness, and in their hearts a
compassion for me, a bearing with all my ill temper, and paying me back
a hundredfold in the richest coin of truest love.
[Illustration: SOME OF OUR VISITORS.]
VIII.
=Our Sailors.=
I daresay, as you read this account of our house, it may have been hard
for you to imagine that there was a great danger of our life becoming
monotonous. If no new inmate arrived in the course of a month, it was
very hard to go on inventing new jokes; and yet, in an atmosphere of
discipline and of sorrow, merriment was of the first importance, and
God sent this element to us in our sailor lads. The first hour I was in
Portsmouth I recognized that the sailors would be our chief difficulty,
our chief source of danger; but I hardly realized that they would
be the cheery, breezy element, driving away cobwebs, and preventing
monotony.
Naturally one’s first thought was for the boys on the training-ship
_St. Vincent_. First, because a good number of our parish lads
had joined her; secondly, because many clergymen in different parts of
the country wrote to us about individual boys; and, thirdly, because
they seemed to need us most. In one sense there can be no life more
wholesome or more improving than a boy’s life on a training-ship; its
splendid punctuality and obedience, healthy hours, sufficient food,
no single idle moment, great attention as to bodily health, and, as a
rule, very interesting and diversified employment. And, over it all,
a rough-and-ready give and take, which, if in certain individuals it
degenerates into cruelty, is, on the whole, I think, as merciful as
possible, when you consider that a thousand lads, rough and smooth,
educated and ignorant, gentle and brutal, are herded together. We have
sometimes come across gentlemen’s sons; once, I think, a Blue-coat boy;
very often sons of well-to-do shopkeepers and superior artizans. Many
of these boys suffer agonies for the first month or two, some through
the whole of their course; but I remember at Harrow some boys suffered
agonies all through their school-life. But take it as a whole, and for
the majority of boys, I doubt if there is a better training anywhere.
Two great blots, however, there are on this system, and I cannot see
how they can be amended. First, the great difficulty about religion.
I have known the most excellent naval chaplains in training-ships
getting hold of the boys by storm, impressing them not only at the
moment of their confirmation, but, I believe, through all their future
life. I know one chaplain who keeps a record of every boy who has
passed through his ship, not only discovering all about him at home,
but following him on through his career. He has a kind of guild, to
which those who care to do so may belong, and they carry a letter of
commendation to the chaplain of their next ship, and so on. If his
system could only be a little extended, enormous good might be done.
But such chaplains are few and far between, not because they do not
desire to do all they can, but because all men have not the method of
dealing with lads of this description.
I remember one most excellent man, just appointed to the _St.
Vincent_, most anxious to do all he could. In the middle of our
conversation I said, “You had better come and have a cup of tea.” But
when, on entering the dining-room, he saw that it entailed sitting down
with eight or ten of his own boys, he was anything but comfortable.
An awful silence for a few moments, and then he jerked out, looking
round at them with a grin, “I think this is the first time you have had
the honour of taking tea with me.” Why should such a man be sent to a
training-ship?
The best chaplain we ever had at Portsmouth was taken away after six
months, because he was a naval instructor as well, and therefore had to
go to a ship where there were middies; but I am sure in the day when
every man’s work is tried, those six months will be the most fruitful
and abiding.
If only some system could be devised by which the most suitable
chaplains could be retained in the training-ships--indeed, one might
go further, if it were possible, and suggest that the captain, and
more especially the first-lieutenant, should be chosen for their
aptitude for this kind of work, understanding the needs of boys,
with a genius for discovering the methods of the instructors and the
warrant-officers, the gain would be enormous. We need in England
sailors perfectly trained for their work. This they will never be,
unless they love their work. The first eighteen months, as a rule,
either creates or mars this love. If in those eighteen months there
could be a little individualising, a little less treating everybody
like a machine--and this can only be done by those who have daily and
hourly intercourse with the boys, as instructors in the schoolroom
or in their different squads--if there could be a little sympathetic
compassion and understanding of them, they would turn out much more
valuable men. And this practically almost altogether depends upon the
first-lieutenant, and could depend, I think, a good deal upon the
chaplain.
The other difficulty is the utter loss of all idea of home. There are
some boys who never come ashore from week to week, and when they do go
home for their leave, so unaccustomed are they to all the gentle side
of what home means, all that part of it which springs from woman’s
influence, that they are very soon tired of it. You must realize
that these lads of fourteen are far older in experience than lads
of the same age in another class, and this eighteen months in their
life is just the time when they turn from boys into men, the real
turning-point; new passions, new powers, are developing every day.
Body and intellect, both wholesomely treated, are developing with
extraordinary rapidity, but the soul has hardly any opportunity of
growth. And, therefore, the sailor oftentimes remains a boy, or rather
a man who has never matured, if our manhood consist of soul as well as
body and intellect. I think this was the thought which struck us most
as the _St. Vincent_ boys began to use our house more and more.
And very glad we were that they should use our house, for Portsmouth is
not the best place for boys to be in. Whether they land at the Hard or
at the Point, there is generally temptation very near them, temptation
which has a special attraction for them, because they have a special
desire to play the man, and manliness in certain classes is only
another word for sin. Every Thursday and Saturday, their half-holidays,
and every Sunday afternoon, we opened our house freely to them. We
devised all kinds of amusements, and wearied ourselves with inventing
sports, which were never received with very much _verve_. Our
great gymnasium, of course, was always a source of joy. I remember one
time, when the _Saint_ possessed the best gymnastic, football, and
cricket team, I should think, in any boys’ institution in the world,
when Jimmy Caulfield was lieutenant, the best fellow I ever knew with
lads. We gave them a football in the gymnasium, and never realized,
till the house was nearly blown up with an explosion of gas, that a
football was likely to smash all the burners. Then we tried singing,
with somebody to play the piano, but when the accompanist had gone
away, the sailors discovered that feet produced better music than
hands. This emulation to play proved a great misfortune to us, for when
we locked up the piano, some of them tore away the silk which covered
the front of it, and broke a lot of the keys. On Sundays, too, this
music led to hymn singing. I think I objected to that more than to
anything else. It seems to me nothing can be more irreverent or likely
to destroy religion, than the bawling out of the most sacred words
and names, without one single thought as to what they mean. I myself
believe that comic songs would be far less harmful. But the fittest
always survives, and we discovered, what common sense might have taught
us at first, that being very much employed all the rest of their time,
what they really liked best was loafing, mixed with conversation,
pictures, reading, and writing home.
I have been wonderfully helped in my management of these afternoons
by two men, to whom the mission owes a good deal besides, William
Hays and Albert Conibeere. Urged by the former of these, we made a
new departure, and asked leave that boys whom we knew, or who were
recommended to us, might use our house as if it were their own home,
sleeping on Saturday nights. This gave us the opportunity of speaking
a word privately about religion, because any boy, whom we knew on the
ship, who wanted to go to Holy Communion, could do so with more hope of
preparation and of quiet than he could on board. So “Dolling’s party,”
as the master-at-arms would call them as they left the ship, became an
established fact. Once or twice this liberty has been abused. Once a
lad used it as an opportunity for running away. Five or six times boys
came home the worse for drink. But considering that for five years
eight or nine lads used our house every Saturday night, except when
away on leave, transgressors were extraordinarily few. Once I remember
having to threaten to stop this party altogether because two boys got
drunk, and we had the most piteous and abject apologies from a large
number of them. As a rule, every boy had to be in at a quarter-past
ten. Most of them spent all the evening in the gymnasium. If they
asked leave, however, they might go to the theatre, or if they had
any special friends in the town, whom I approved of, they might be a
little later. Latterly those coming have been chosen by Conibeere. He
kept a book in which all the boys’ antecedents were written down, the
number of visits each had paid us, whether he was a Communicant, etc.
The boys spending the afternoon could tell Conibeere who wanted to
come, and privately whether they wanted to go to the Holy Communion.
Thus I always got a chance of saying a word of advice and a word of
prayer with each one, but we were most careful never to press religion,
or show more hospitality to the religious; if anything we erred,
perhaps, on the other side. There can be no greater danger than making
religion pay, a danger, I think, into which those who manage Soldiers’
and Sailors’ Institutions are most prone to fall--a danger which often
leads sailors, at any rate, into a fear of making friends with the
chaplain, or of going to Communion, lest their mates should misjudge
them as being crawlers or hypocrites. It is wonderful, for instance,
how popular teetotalism becomes if some officer is specially interested
in it, or how well a Bible Class is attended if patronised by some one
in authority. This oftentimes is a great stumbling-block to the modest
man, who is really religious, and yet is afraid of his religion being
misunderstood by his mates.
And if you ask me about the after results of all this labour, I am
afraid I can say very little. Sailors seldom, or never, write. I
have known lads use our house continually for eighteen months, then
be ordered abroad, and walk in in three years’ time, saying, “Oh, I
lost your address,” or “I didn’t know what to say, so didn’t write.”
And then they would use the house again as if they had only left
it yesterday, very likely showing us that they had thought about
us by bringing us some impossible gifts--“curios” they would call
them--sometimes a monkey, sometimes a bird; oftentimes astonishing me
by coming into my study on Saturday night, and talking about their
Communion the next day, with a wonderful, simple story of their
difficulties, perhaps of their sins. And yet, in spite of all their
temptations, there was a remembrance of God, which I believe at any
rate they had partly learned from us. But, dear friend, surely all
statistics are abominable, and especially religious statistics, so I
prefer to give none.
Of course, amongst the older sailors we could hope to do very little,
unless they actually lived in the parish. They are very much a race by
themselves, and don’t mix well with civilians, and, as we had neither
men nor plant, we dared not in any way add to our responsibilities by
opening a Home for them, though I doubt if there is any disgrace for
which the Church of England deserves to suffer more than the fact that
there is no Church of England Sailors’ Home in Portsmouth. One would
think that shame, if no higher motive, would compel her to try and do
her duty towards her sailors. But if she fails, there is one name that
ought never to be mentioned without thanksgiving to Almighty God for
her unceasing labour, and her truest and tenderest devotion to Jack
ashore or afloat, the name of Agnes Weston. Her Home, close to my own
parish, is worked on the most admirable lines in all secular matters,
excellent food and sleeping accommodation, and, above all, personal
kindness and sympathy. She has, too, a very bold and broad view of
many measures by which the Service could be benefited, and a very able
and willing tongue to express them either in public or in private, at
drawing-room meetings or before a Committee of the House of Commons.
Perhaps there is no one in England to whom the nation owes a deeper
debt of gratitude, for a real elevation on the part of a most important
factor in the nation’s welfare and prosperity, than to Miss Weston.
And if there is any man who needs such a resting-place, and especially
in the good town of Portsmouth, it is the sailor. Quiet as it may seem
in the daytime, there are few worse streets at night in the whole
world than Queen Street, Portsea. I am sure there are no courts in
the world worse than those which crowd around it. I am sure there are
no characters worse than those which infest it. If the Admiralty will
only gather statistics from our Naval Hospitals as to the health of our
sailors, and put themselves in correspondence with the authorities of
Chatham, Plymouth, and Portsmouth, I am sure a tremendous reformation
could be effected. The Admiralty and the municipalities, working
together, could bring great influence to bear upon the licensing
magistrates as to the number of public-houses, and their character, and
upon the police authorities to vigorously put in motion the existing
law as regards common decency in the streets. Why, because you have
gathered into one place a large number of young, unmarried men,
specially prone to temptation by the very manner of their life, should
almost every house in a neighbourhood which they are bound to pass
through, offer temptation? If England has no nobler incentive for this
reformation, her own safety, depending upon the health of her sailors,
might, at any rate, move and compel her. I am conscious that these
words may wound many of my friends in Portsmouth, but I cannot refrain
from writing them.
I have said that the sailor often remains a boy. There is no greater
proof of this than the imprudent manner in which very often he marries;
often when he has known the girl only a very few weeks, and has no
knowledge of her antecedents, hardly of her disposition. Sometimes
I have even known sailors marry those whom they knew had been bad
characters. And if you ask him the reason, “Oh! the girl was unhappy;
I thought I would make a home for her”; or, “I was afraid she might
go wrong”; or even, “I wanted someone to leave my half-pay with.”
Marriages made like this, as you may guess, do not always turn out
happily, sometimes not well; especially as the man is often away
three years at a time. For, after all, the half-pay is too often very
little--seven and sixpence or ten shillings a week, paid monthly,
the first payment seldom being received before he has been away two
months, which means that the poor girl gets into frightful debt
before she receives anything. I believe that in the Mercantile Marine
a woman can always get an advance note cashed. I trace back many
grievous misunderstandings between husbands and wives, many children in
semi-starvation, the first downward step in pawning, borrowing money
at usurious rates, getting into such difficulties that only the most
hateful remedy, which I dare not mention here, was possible, all to
this difficulty of payment. Then, too, the sum, when received, is, if
the woman has children, utterly inadequate. Surely the nation is bound
to see that it is not so. It is for her sake that the sailor’s wife and
children are separated from the husband, that he has to keep a kind of
dual establishment. And believe me, the nation cannot get rid of the
responsibility by saying he ought not to have married. It is for your
sake he is separated from his wife and family. It is for your sake that
they are in poverty. I don’t write these words lightly or inadvisedly.
I have seen, over and over again, homes without food, children without
clothes, wives without hope. I have come in more than once just in time
to stop the wife earning money by the only method open to her.
And if the wife cries out and shames you, the widow of the sailor is,
without exception, the greatest of England’s disgraces. Even when
the nation’s pity becomes universal, and money flows in like water,
as in the case of the _Victoria_, the charity of the nation
is strangled by the red tape of an Official Commission. I myself
prevented starvation in more than one house which should have been
sacred to England, and I believe that if it had not been for Miss
Weston, many would actually have died of starvation. The cruelty of
the methods--they were actually contemplating using the police to make
investigations; the tardiness of the relief given--they made Miss
Weston’s generosity an excuse, and the niggardliness of the pittance
to be doled out, until public opinion forced them to increase it,
should create a national scandal. The Commission has over and over
again received money for a certain purpose, and not used it, but rather
hoarded it up. I thank God I have been summoned to give evidence
before a Parliamentary Commission, now enquiring into this soulless
corporation, bereft of all bowels of compassion. The enormous sum
of money given to its charge for providing for the wives and others
dependent on old Crimean warriors is so tied up, that although at
the death of every present pensioner there will be a surplus of over
£70,000, yet countless widows of Crimean soldiers, and Crimean soldiers
themselves, are living and dying in the workhouse; and though, some
years ago, a sum of over £7000 was released from its original trust,
and they were enabled to apply this in pensions for sailors and
soldiers who died in active service, or in consequence of wounds or
illness incurred in active service, they have never discovered one
pensioner yet, though I suppose the _Edgar_ disaster was known to
every man and woman in England except the Commissioners. What one hopes
to see is the creation of a new trust, which, by means of humane and
competent Christian persons, should discover anyone who is entitled,
by the death of a relative, to help from any special fund. When these
have been liberally dealt with, the surplus should be the nucleus of a
great pension fund for all sailors and soldiers. From the liberality
with which appeals for the _Victoria_ disaster were responded
to, I have no doubt that the heart of England is perfectly sound on
this question. Above all, let humane Christian hearts be the channels
through which England’s generosity pays back her debt to those who
suffer so gallantly for her sake.
And yet happy is the widow of the man who died in the _Victoria_,
in comparison with the widow of him who dies while freeing slaves in
Africa, or falls overboard when, in a storm, he is performing some
delicate work. There is literally no provision for her. His mates will
buy his poor kit for four times its worth, will put the same object up
for auction over and over again until it has reached a fabulous value,
will tax themselves beyond all justice in order to send home money
to the widow. But the nation will let his children be vagabonds, and
beg their bread. Yea, they may even seek it in desolate places, until
the extortioner consumes all that he hath, and the stranger spoil his
labours. And that because he gave himself for England’s peace and for
England’s glory. Only three months ago a young fellow died on one of
the ships in the Mediterranean. His mates knew that he was going to
marry a girl when he came home, and that he had already had a child by
her. They collected privately amongst themselves over £40, which they
sent me. I have said sailors are like boys. God bless them for their
youthfulness of heart, full of generosity, and full of the tenderest
sympathy and most delicate understanding for every sorrow and for every
pain.
At the present moment we are going to expend many millions on building
new ships. We may need them. But we certainly do need a great deal
more--a great increase in every branch of the Service, especially
amongst the stokers. I doubt if at this present moment we can man the
ships we have A very excellent attempt has been made in the direction
of such increase in the case of the _Northampton_. Many of my
own lads have been on her, and so I can speak with authority of a
most splendid experiment. It takes in the lad who did not quite come
up to the necessary chest measurement at the proper age, or who was
suffering from some superficial complaint now cured, or whose parents
were an invincible obstacle, and yet who always wanted to become a
sailor. I believe the shorter training they get on board, because of
their increased age, fits them for their work very nearly as well as
the longer training. Let us have two _Northamptons_, then three,
then four. You will easily find recruits. Then roll away the reproach
from our Dockyard towns; remove, as far as you can, temptation from
the younger sailor’s life; give him a reasonable chance of promotion,
and treat all branches equally. The time is coming when the stoker and
engineer will be the chief men on board. The sooner this is recognised
on the quarter-deck, as well as on the main deck, the better. Show him
he can give adequate support to his wife and family, and that, if he
dies, the nation will not forget her; and I do not think you need have
any fear at all about being able to man the biggest fleet the Jingoes
may desire to build. The smell of the sea is the atmosphere in which
Englishmen live. The enthusiasm of travel, the spirit of enterprise,
the unknown with its dangers, has a strange attraction for every
Englishman, and no life supplies this as well as the sailor’s life.
[Illustration: OUR SAILORS.]
Very difficult though it was for them, many officers have helped us
very considerably. One, now a lieutenant in China, and another,
a lieutenant of Marines, will always be held by me in grateful
remembrance for their help amongst our most difficult class of boys.
But, of course, in a house like ours, it was very difficult for
officers to feel exactly at home, for they would very likely have to
share meals with men on board their own ships, and though snobbishness
hardly exists among naval officers, there was a very great practical
difficulty created by necessary discipline.
IX.
=Our Saints.=
The sight of true heroism is the best incentive to learn to be heroic
oneself, a virtue, as you may guess, greatly needed in a house like
ours. The heroism of the soldier who dies on the battle-field is as
nothing compared with the true heroism of one who endures long agonies
of pain and suffering without murmur, who prays in the morning, “Oh,
that it were evening,” and in the evening, “Oh, that it were morning.”
Oftentimes it is this sight which is the only witness for God in the
lives of the poor. “It is expedient that one man die for the people.”
And God granted to us, during several years of our work, this sight
of a living death. His father had been a staff-sergeant in the army,
but his mother had married again into great poverty and distress. He
had struggled as a tram-conductor as long as there was breath in his
body, and then crawled into a wretched bed in a wretched room, shared
with other members of his family, to die without one single comfort,
one alleviation of all his intolerable pain. But even this loneness
in the midst of his own was forbidden him, and impatiently he was
told to go to the workhouse to die. I shall never forget his look of
thankfulness, when I said, “If you don’t mind the noise and racket
of our house, come and die with us.” And as he crossed our threshold
the spirit of peace came with him; and I think it has never altogether
passed away. The good food and wine, and better medical attendance,
above all, the loving unceasing attention of Mary, our housekeeper,
brought him back again from the grave. He lived altogether six years
with us, every summer strengthening into a little activity of body,
tending our little garden across the street, sometimes almost crawling
there on his hands and knees. The very flowers seemed to know him;
they have never grown so luxuriantly since. Surely flowers recognise
love more quickly than men, and respond to it more truly. But then the
whole house was his garden, and so gently, and wisely, and lovingly
did he treat the roughest and most degraded, that they all seemed to
respond to the magic of his touch. Oftentimes, when the whole house
was in bed, he would crawl down from his room to tell me of someone’s
trouble which his love had discovered. Through all the winter he was in
agonies of pain, dreading every breath, and yet welcoming each breath
lest he should suffocate; above all things utterly unconscious of his
own influence, until the day of his death bewailing the expense and
trouble that he was to others, never measuring that in a true and real
sense he was God’s angel of peace dwelling amongst us, for it often
seemed to us as if one single breath would have carried him to that
resting-place which he needed so grievously. No pleasure was so great
in those hours of agony, when he could not speak or move, as to know
that some poor obstinate, hopeless one, was learning the only lesson
his dull soul could learn by watching his pain. So trusted was he that
everyone in all the house gave their money into his care, not only the
boys, but myself as well, for he kept all the Parish Collections, until
they were large enough to go down to the bank. No one would have dared
to have stolen from him. And then when the end was very near, and the
last Sacrament had been received, he asked to be left alone. After a
quarter of an hour or so I opened, as silently as I could, the door,
and found him kneeling beside his bed praying as I thought his last
prayer; but he had learned that divinest of all secrets, that prayer
must perfect itself in service, and so his poor death-chilled hands had
gathered each one’s little money into its own heap, lest he should even
seem to have been unfaithful. As we carried him through the streets to
the church the night before his funeral, there was not a dry eye in all
the parish. All the next morning when the Masses for his repose were
being said, the church was crowded as on a Sunday, factory girls and
Dockyar-dmen giving up their day’s work. His memory was perpetuated in
the new church by the beautifying of the little altar, which in the old
church he had loved so well, for the people had collected over £14 for
that purpose. Ah! would that Bishop Thorold had lived only two months
longer, for his eyes filled with tears, and his heart, so long a parish
priest’s, could realise exactly the importance of such a memory.
Shall I tell you of another of our saints? If some ten years ago you
had passed down the Hard at Portsmouth, you would have seen William
Dore, a mudlark, searching for pennies in the filthy mud of the
harbour for the amusement of good-natured stupids, who throw them to
such-like boys. Thus he earned the pennies which were eagerly taken
from him when he gained his home. He was what our boys would call a
little “off,” else he would not have been so imposed on by a wretched
step-father. The mother, blind and paralysed, lying on a few rags in
a corner of the room, strove to put some thoughts of decency into two
wayward girls--one older and one younger than Willie--earning, as
girls do in that part of Portsmouth, sometimes a shilling or sixpence
a night, and yet with a curious pathos striving to keep from the blind
mother the knowledge of how it was earned. There is a court near called
White’s Row, the most disgraceful place in that most disgraceful part
of the town; but it is redeemed by a little chapel belonging to the
mother church of Holy Trinity, where Mr. Marriott, I think, first,
and afterwards Mr. Lloyd, attracted Willie. He was one of those
extraordinary natures in whom religion seems to come spontaneously; for
they had hardly taught him one fact when he seemed to have grasped the
whole of religion. The first consequence was that he must leave his
home. He had become too old to be a mudlark. The only other living open
to him was a kind of hanging about and picking up odd sixpences from
people whom he knew, money which was gained by sin. Then the mother
died, so he came to us altogether. Whether it was inherited from her,
or due to the awful exposure of his early years, the nerves of his
eyes weakened, and he too became blind. But I think the pathos of his
blindness was almost as great an influence for good as Ross’s more
apparent suffering. His one idea, to give amusement, was his method of
repaying the little we did for him, and so he would learn comic songs,
and sing them after dinner. Often when he knew I was troubled, I would
hear his tap at the door, for he could find his way everywhere about
the house, and he would say, “I think I could make you laugh if you
would let me sing”; and then he would put his hands upon your head,
just as a little child would do, and say, “Your head is better now.” It
is such faith that works miracles of healing to-day. Sometimes strange
boys in the house, who did not know him, would gibe at him, or, with
the horrid cruelty of boys, because he was blind, push or pinch him.
Then a burst of ungoverned temper, and then an equal terror of remorse.
I have found him oftentimes lying on the floor in front of the altar,
having groped his way into church in penitence for these sins. His one
desire, to do something for the Mission, was gratified by allowing him
to become organ-blower, though, indeed, it was an arrangement open to
objection, especially when there were strangers in the church. He sat
in a place in which everybody saw him, and his poor blind eyes staring
into the unknown, and his thick-lipped mouth forming all manner of
grimace as he sang, moved people almost to laughter. We never knew how
he learned psalms and hymns and chants. I have thought myself that some
angel must have taught him. During catechising, too, when all the rest
of the school had failed, Willie could nearly always give the correct
answer. God did not will that he should die with us, for at last the
doctor said that he must go to the imbecile ward in the union. The day
before he died, coming out of a trance of many hours, he said, “Give
my love to the Sunday School children; tell them I have answered every
question,” and then drawing my head quite close down to his mouth, “You
will wear the black cope at my funeral.”
“There is a little boy just come into Alfred Street,” the district
visitor said one day. “He is fourteen, but he looks like a child of
five, and lives and sleeps in a little perambulator. There is no one to
look after him, for his mother is in a lunatic asylum, and his father
goes out at six in the morning, and does not come back till night.” And
so exactly I found him, our dear little Harry, all alone in this dark
room in his perambulator, and on a little shelf, which his poor twisted
hands could reach, his cold and wretched meals apportioned for the day.
At first when we brought him to the house he was very timid and very
nervous, but he soon brightened up. He never really lived with us,
for his father loved him so dearly that he had to go home at night to
be with him, but he was with us all day, and his little tender thread
was soon woven into the woof of our common life, and on all our rough
people his influence was as the influence of a little child. Sometimes,
when all else fails, the roughest beasts are led by a little child.
His face would wince with pain, when any boy spoke harshly to another,
and I have come in and found him almost in an agony of fear, when some
rough horse-play was going on amongst them. I am sure Dr. Fearon will
never forget wheeling him in his little perambulator up to the altar,
to be confirmed by the Bishop. I do not think I have ever seen such
devotion to the Blessed Sacrament as in that little soul. In it he
saw not only Jesus, but our Father, and even heaven as well. Strange,
wonderful stories he told me of what he had seen there, for sometimes
he would doze all day by the fire in the dining-room, in my study, or
in Mary’s kitchen, and then only say, “I was dreaming of the Blessed
Sacrament. Do you think someone would wheel me to Mass to-morrow
morning?” I remember so well kissing away the last tears I saw in his
eyes, as he held up in his little shrunken hands some woollen slippers,
which he had made for me, a little secret for my birthday, and found
that there was not work enough done, and then fell back saying, “I
shall never live to finish them,” and died that night.
These were but a few of the saints who have influenced our home. But
out in the parish there were just as saintly lives lived, women’s
lives, so we could not bring them in to die with us. Moore’s Square is
the most unhealthy spot in our district. It has never been free from
typhoid fever since I went there, and it is no wonder, for there are
slaughter-houses all round it. All of the houses are poor and squalid,
and more or less out of repair. Martha lived in the Square. Her husband
was a rough sailor, who coasted about. Often away from home he would
get converted, and clergymen would write to me about him, but he
generally signalled his return with an outburst of drunkenness. More
than once I have known all the furniture broken up, and once her arm
badly burnt, because a lighted paraffin lamp had been knocked down.
She had never heard anything about religion, till she came into church
by chance one day and heard me preaching about the Blessed Sacrament.
Very often our sermons consisted of saying the same thing over and over
again, and this day I was speaking of the Sacrament as “the Blood of
God.” I must have said the words very often, for she came round to my
house that night to ask me if it was really true that God had shed His
very Blood for her. It was a revelation to her of a love so pure and so
true, a love that had forced the Eternal out of compassion for us to
take to Himself Blood that he might shed it for our sakes. She could
neither read nor write, and as she was suffering from cancer, she had
not much time to learn. Once she was operated on, and as she went off
under the chloroform she whispered to me, “God’s Blood.” But it soon
began to grow again, and day by day we could see her bodily strength
decaying; such horrid decay. When you read the lives of the Saints you
think that kissing the sores of the lepers is an exaggeration, but it
is being done continually by the poor for the poor. Their rough hands
are soothed to tenderest nursing, and their rude, vulgar, boisterous
ways taught true refinement by the compassion which they feel. Hers was
a very tedious case, and neighbours have children of their own, and
cannot watch all day, though oftentimes all night, and so the little
daughter of twelve, who would rather have been playing than tending
her mother, was tied to the table. One day a neighbour, hearing cries,
ran in, and the child explained, “Mother is silly: she is crying for
the Blood of God.” How grateful I was that the Blessed Sacrament was
reserved that day! It was in truth her “viaticum.”
We could never make out why, however ill she was, an old woman--Maria
I will call her--would never allow us to go up to her bedroom. She was
always huddled up in a little chair, covered with a thin old shawl;
sometimes one doubted whether there was anything beneath it. She was
quite a lady, with a beautiful pinched face, bright cheerful eyes, yet
so sunken that the light was as stars seen from a well. So gracious,
always doing the honours of her little home, and yet so reticent
about the room upstairs; till one day suddenly taken ill at night, a
neighbour discovered she had no bed--had not had one for many years.
She had kept a little school, and many of the women round had been her
pupils; she could not bear that they should know she needed, else they
would stint themselves for her. I shall never forget how she kissed my
hands the first time I saw her in the bed we got for her, and said, “I
pray God you may never be as thankful for a bed as I am for this.” And
then, after a little while, when we passed by, she would not let us
in, saying, “I can go to church and hear you, so I won’t trouble you
to-day. I know you are very busy.” And the same thing to the district
visitors, till my sister Geraldine, who, because she is the shortest,
is the bravest of us all, found the bed was pawned. The poor old lady
held down her head, and looked so ashamed, and would not talk about
it, till a man across the street cried out, “That d----d ruffian of a
grandson came out of gaol the other day, and has pawned it.” Not only
did he pawn the bed, but, by his badness, he drove her to such sorrow
that she lost all hope; her old body could bear no more, and, falling
downstairs, she was wounded past recovery. The neighbours called in the
police, but the old woman’s last words were--“He did not push me.” But
though the coroner and jury acquitted him, the neighbours look askance
at him to-day.
Many cases like this forced upon me the need of some kind of
alms-houses, where I could put old ladies whose only other home was
the workhouse. And so we turned the cottages standing on the intended
site of the new church into homes for five or six old ladies, and when
these had to be pulled down we bought other ones, so that the Mission
possesses to-day twelve houses, in which five old couples and nine
or ten old ladies live. It has been a part of our work most blessed;
and as I have never been able to get away, owing to stress of work,
for the last five years, and people have kindly given me money for my
holidays, this holiday money has bought most of the alms-houses. Dear
old ladies, I wonder if they miss me to-day as much as I miss them. I
believe the purest happiness I have ever had in all my whole life is
knowing and seeing their happiness. The houses are all freehold, and
the old souls pay sixpence or a shilling a week, so there is enough to
pay taxes and repairs, sometimes even a balance over. Granny is not
always honoured in England as she is in Germany; she does not always
get the warmest seat by the fire, or the first helping from the dish;
she is sometimes the drudge of the whole family; minding the baby and
the little children; even when her head is splitting, the children
with that shrill voice which discovers every aching nerve, cry, “It is
only granny, she does not matter.” Sometimes, when the house is full,
she is put in the corner, where, in the days far gone, she used to put
that strong, stalwart man, who now does not take the trouble to defend
her.
Thank God, the workhouse is far more humane to-day in England than
it was, but the remembrance of what it was, has left a feeling, a
sentiment, if you like to call it so, which renders it abhorrent
to every honest and earnest man and woman. I pray God the time is
coming when we shall recognise out-door relief a great deal more. The
Portsmouth Guardians were wonderfully good in this respect; they tried
to keep people out of the house by allowing out-door relief. And I
cannot speak in too high praise of the parish doctor, Mr. Colt, and
our two relieving officers, Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Vine. There is no
man more admirable than the conscientious poor-law doctor. Think of
attending people who never obey any of your directions, who take your
medicine three doses at a time, and then come for more, who send for
you continually. And though our Union was, I think, as good as most--I
was on the Board of Guardians for a considerable time--I wonder whether
any of us Guardians would desire to go into it ourselves. Thank God we
have now four or five lady Guardians in Portsmouth, who will do for
the women and children what we never could do. I remember discovering
after weeks of visiting in the schools, hideous and horrid things that
a woman’s eye would have seen at once. I had to see three girls who
were going out to service. I noticed they used their aprons instead
of their pocket-handkerchiefs, and when I made enquiries, thinking
this would be an obstacle to their becoming servants, they told me
that they were only allowed pocket-handkerchiefs one day in the year,
when they went out for their annual treat. One day at four o’clock I
found them all at tea, and floating on the top of the liquid so called
were lumps of grease and fat. I discovered that they had eaten their
dinner of soup at one o’clock, and that tea was being served in the
same porringer. A little lad broke his arm on a Saturday, and though
he was bathed and dressed by the attendants, it was not known till
the Tuesday. Indeed, the whole system of the schools was wrong. They
ought to have been in the country, miles away from the main house.
Better still, the children ought to have been boarded out. I doubt if
any institutions for children are right, but I have no doubt at all
that our present barrack-system is altogether inhuman and scandalous.
And the same thing might be said of the Infirmary, in which there were
several hundred patients, and only one trained nurse to look after
them. The very sick and dying were left to the tender mercies of any
old porter who had wit enough to gain a few extra pence by becoming a
wardsman or wardswoman. Difficult surgical cases were nursed by these
utterly inefficient persons; people were left to die alone, without
anyone to moisten their lips. I am very proud to think that this has
been mended now, and that there are certified nurses, though, perhaps,
not yet a sufficient number.
The real difficulty of the whole workhouse system consists in the
want of classification. There are numbers of people who spend their
lives in workhouses, going from one to another. In many cases the
Union is actually a premium on idleness. You and I cannot imagine a
man who could like this sort of life, but such people will remain with
us, until there is some system of registration, some method by which
those, who are just entering on the life, may be checked and stopped at
the critical moment, when a helping hand would prevent them becoming
casuals. Above all we must separate from these loafers those who are
forced in old age to go into the workhouse. A great deal, I know, is
being done, but it is all being done in an institutional way, without
any individualising, without any humanity. If there is one place in the
world where the miserable divisions amongst Christian people are most
manifest, it is in the workhouse. It is this, I am sure, that prevents
it being worked on a Christian method. The Church of England would be
jealous if it were done by Dissenters, the Dissenters equally jealous
if it were done by the Church of England. So long as this ministering
to the poor, which is the highest and most Christ-like of all Christian
duties, is done by officials, it cannot ever be done in a Christian way
to any extent, though I know, of course, there are many exceptions.
And however desirous the officials are under present circumstances,
there rises the question of the rates, rates managed by Guardians,
who are often recklessly extravagant in all the outward part of their
organisation, which is seen by the public, and shockingly mean as
regards the small expenditure which makes all the difference between
comfort and discomfort.
Honestly, one’s deepest disappointment about the working man, is his
utter want of interest and understanding at all times of municipal and
other elections. The new method of electing Guardians may alter this,
but I very much doubt it. I suppose it is wrong to be impatient with
people only recently enfranchised, and, perhaps, not yet understanding
their responsibilities; but surely it is the part of the clergy to
preach, in season and out of season, the grave duty of every man who
has a vote for an office in the town in which he lives, that every man
must recognise that God will hold him responsible for that vote, and
that, if he gives it wrongly, it will be no excuse that his political
club, or the kindly Primrose lady, advised him so to give it. I am
very grateful indeed for the experience I gained both on the Board of
Guardians and on the School Board. It brought me in contact with many
men of very different opinions to my own, who treated me with great
kindness and consideration, and for the majority of whom I entertain
a very deep and true respect. But sometimes I could not help feeling
that on the School Board we were not all educationalists, and on the
Board of Guardians some were rather the guardians of the rates than
the guardians of the poor. Above all, the expenses of management
and the creation of plant were altogether out of proportion to the
amount expended on the objects which we had in view. I venture to hope
that the day is not far distant when that fetish of red tape, which
strangles almost all English enthusiasm, will cease to dominate us,
and when simple Christian common sense will become the method by which,
at any rate, two of the most important of our duties, the educating of
our children and the caring for our poor, are carried out. But it will
not be done until electors choose the best man for either post--the
only consideration being to get the best man--and we rid ourselves
of that hateful thought that everyone desires some gain, either for
himself, or for the church or party to which he belongs, by taking
office.
And surely, if every citizen has his municipal duty, he has an imperial
duty as well. I know that many people were very displeased with me,
because I took what is called an active part in politics. Does a doctor
or a lawyer cease to be a politician because he has got clients? Why
then should a clergyman, because he has got parishioners? I quite
hold that it would be wrong for him to canvass or to influence his
people privately as to their votes; but I believe, on the other hand,
that if he is conscious that he has anything to say worth saying on
the question of politics, or that might help his neighbours to form a
truer, better, or nobler judgment on these questions, it is his bounden
duty to say it. This was a policy I always endeavoured to pursue.
I never once asked a single person to vote my way, but I did, when
opportunity occurred, go upon the platform and tell people what my
opinions were, and I am not the least ashamed of having done so.
[Illustration: OUR TENANTS.]
X.
=Our Battles Civil.=
If I have ventured, in the last chapter, to speak of the duty which
everyone owes to the town in which he lives, I fear that, for several
years of my work in Portsmouth, I was very oblivious of this duty.
The labour and watchfulness needed to try and cleanse our own little
district made one forget the larger, but less apparent, duty. Indeed,
many of my brethren felt that I had rendered their work more difficult,
by uprooting dangers from my own district which located themselves in
theirs. There is much, of course, to be said for this line of thought,
but self-preservation is one’s first instinct, and if, in preserving
myself and my own children, I have wronged others, I am sorry for it.
But I do not think that I had ever let one day pass, in Portsmouth,
without praying that I might realise the grave responsibility which
rested on every inhabitant, and I believed especially on the clergy.
I had tried, in preaching to men alone on Sunday afternoons, to speak
out quite plainly on these social subjects, and this had brought me
into contact with most of the labour leaders. For a long time all
labour reform, in Portsmouth, was a great difficulty, for the Dockyard
did not welcome its workers joining Trade Societies. However, thank
God, that reproach has all been rolled away, and I believe myself the
day is not far distant when employers will find that the men’s Unions
are really a great gain in the solution of the whole Labour Question.
Everything that tends to make the working man more intelligent and more
self-reliant, is a tremendous gain, and there is no doubt that the
better hours which men work, and the better wages, have this tendency.
Of course, there are two dangers--first, as the Unions grew stronger,
they had a tendency to look at all questions merely from the workman’s
point of view, and, secondly, there was a danger of the individual
wasting his increased wages and leisure in bad ways. In all acts of
emancipation the first enjoyment of liberty may turn to licence, but
such licence never lasts very long, and, I think, looking back over
the last thirty years’ history of the Labour Question in England, one
might say that this licence has almost never existed. At any rate, I
was continually struck with the enthusiasm for righteousness that I
discovered amongst the majority of the leading working men with whom I
was brought in contact. I saw how keenly they recognised that though
the creation of character was the chief thing to be aimed at, yet
the creation of character, amidst temptations touching one at every
single moment, added enormous difficulties to the education of every
right-minded young man and woman. A great deal of cant has been talked
about what is called the “Nonconformist Conscience,” and I am quite
willing to believe that many of those most _en evidence_ have, by
their want of tact, and, I would add, want of true understanding of
the working man, prejudiced the British public. But I can testify to
this fact, that every word I uttered in Portsmouth on these subjects,
was, in a large measure, but the echo of earnest words said to me, and
prayers prayed with me, by working men, who were almost always, I say
it with shame as a priest of the Church of England, Nonconformists.
Why are these men not in communion with our Church? Surely that is the
most important question for those in authority in the Church to ask
themselves. The answer is not a difficult one. For their fathers and
for themselves the Church of England has practically forbidden all
work. They are trained in their own denominations to be class-leaders,
itinerant preachers, to visit the sick, often to govern the chapel
as elders. They are on a perfect equality with their minister, they
tell him plainly what they think about him, and the needs of the men
amongst whom they live. In years gone by their forbears suffered for
what they held to be the truth; the remembrance of that suffering is
bred in the bone of the children. But for all those who are interested
in the Labour Question, there can be no thought so full of thankfulness
to God, and of hope for the future, as the knowledge that the vast
majority of labour leaders are deeply religious men.
For a long time I had been trying to organise the shop-assistants in
the town. Would you believe it that, even now, Portsmouth has no weekly
half-holiday, no early closing? The vast majority of the better shops,
in our part of the town, do not close till 7.30 the first four nights
in the week, on Fridays at 10, on Saturdays at midnight. The little
shops never seem to close at all, day or night. There is something
particularly pitiful in the class of shop-assistants. As a rule they
will not help themselves. There is very little _esprit_ amongst
them, and a great deal of snobbishness. If some went on strike, their
places would be filled within twenty-four hours, and one class will not
mix with another. If you will not help yourself, God cannot help you,
far less man. So, practically, one was fighting an impossible battle,
for one or two large shopkeepers stood in the way of all reform. In
the middle of the agitation, to my utter astonishment, I was told that
the new minister of the Lake Road Baptist Chapel, Mr. Joseph, would be
very glad to come and see me about it. I knew many of the Nonconformist
ministers in the town were in sympathy with me, for several of them
had written to me, when I resigned, in 1890, to say how sorry they
were, and how they earnestly prayed that I would not leave Portsmouth.
I felt that if Mr. Joseph was willing to stand by me, not only on the
platform of shop-assistants, but with regard to the drink question too,
I had indeed gained a most important ally. The congregation at Lake
Road has more men in it than any church in Portsmouth--surely that is
the best test of a Christian Church--and I knew that their minister was
a true representative of his congregation. After many talks with him
and some of his brethren, there was no doubt at all left in our minds
that the Drink Question lay at the root of every evil in Portsmouth.
With a population of 159,255 we had 1040 licences, or one licence to
153 people; or, deducting infants and total abstainers, 25 per cent. of
the population, one licence for every 115 people. This is enormously
above the average of almost all the large towns in England, the great
seaport towns, or even the other Dockyard towns. In several Bills for
the revision of the Licensing Question, submitted to Parliament, it has
been proposed that licences should be granted in towns in the ratio
of one per thousand; that would mean the reduction of licences, in
Portsmouth, from one thousand and forty to one hundred and sixty.
I have no quarrel with the publican. I have known many of them to
be the most respectable people, whose righteous souls were vexed,
day by day, by the circumstances under which they and their children
were forced to live; and yet, because they had invested their little
all in a public-house, they had no other chance of a livelihood. In
Portsmouth, too, the publican seems to suffer far more than in other
towns, for the transfers are much more frequent--that is, a man
invests his savings in a public-house, finds it does not pay, and has
oftentimes to leave it, realising very little of the money which he
put into it. Almost all the houses in Portsmouth are tied houses--that
is, the publican has to sell, exclusively, the beer of the brewer who
owns the house; and if he does not sell a sufficient quantity he is
soon reminded of it, for the brewer’s profit is far more largely made
out of the profits from the beer than from the rent of the house. There
is only a certain amount of legitimate drinking in any town--that is,
drinking because a man actually needs the drink. If the drinking were
limited to this, an enormous number of houses would close without any
interference of the magistrate. And so the publican has to do all
sorts and kinds of things to induce men to stay in his house and drink.
Everyone knows that there are innumerable ways of adulterating or
faking up drink; that, if gambling and betting are allowed, men will
congregate; that, if bad characters fill the bar, certain men will stay
there; that, if the singing of vulgar songs is allowed, it is a great
attraction, and makes men who roar the choruses all the more thirsty.
Many publicans, of course, are too high-minded to employ these methods;
but many who see starvation facing themselves and their children, do
use them. Needs must when the devil drives; and certainly, in this
case, the devil is the driver. Then it is very hard to refuse drink to
a man who has already had too much, not only because you lose the price
of the glass, but very likely his custom, as well as his friends’.
However diligent and efficient the police are, it is utterly impossible
for them to see that every public-house is conducted on legitimate
lines. A large public-house, with a big trade and hardly any seats,
where people take their drink and go out again, does, comparatively
speaking, little harm. In towns with slums like Portsmouth, nearly
all the harm is done by the little public-house. And these little
houses are not scattered over the whole town; they are gathered, as a
rule, into little districts. In Portsmouth proper, for instance, with
a population of 6933, there are 75 public-houses; in Portsea, with a
population of 15,260, there are 145. And these are really the diseased
spots which fester and corrupt, where germs of every kind of disease
collect--the places where our soldiers and sailors mostly spend their
time. And the public-house is never by itself. Close to it--perhaps on
either side of it--are houses of shame and evil. I would to God that
the doctors in the naval and military hospitals could let their opinion
of these places be known by the thinking people in England.
At any rate, I soon discovered that the Nonconformist ministers were
only too anxious to move with me, with a view to drawing attention to
these and other evils, which we considered to be a perpetual menace to
the true health of our town. And then, to my greater joy, I found that
Canon Jacob, and many of the Church clergy, too, were most anxious to
join in the matter, and in a short time a Vigilance Committee had been
appointed, which practically represented all that was best in every
church and chapel, trade and profession, in the town of Portsmouth.
Canon Jacob, who has since become Bishop of Newcastle, was elected
chairman of that Committee, and I have never known anyone discharge
duties--very difficult duties--with greater tact and earnestness.
On March 15th, 1894, the Town Council received a deputation from the
Vigilance Committee upon the state of the streets in the town, and the
Watch Committee, to whom the questions were referred, gave instructions
to the Chief Constable, and the effect in a very short time was very
manifest. The outward visible signs of the evil largely disappeared,
and it was quite possible for people to walk through the streets
without having their ears filled with the most disgusting language,
and their sense of shame continually wounded. The lighting too of many
streets, and especially of Southsea Common, by electricity, had a
most desirable effect. But the real gain of the whole question was a
deepening, in the minds of thoughtful men, of their duty in seeing that
the authorities of the town did all that lay in their power to prevent
temptation being forced on unwilling persons, and to make it possible
for any lad or girl to go through any of the streets without being
molested. When the town realises this duty, the authorities will soon
see that that which is necessary is done.
On 18th August, 1894, the Society presented to the Licensing Justices
an Open Letter, from which I have already quoted some statistics. This
letter, at any rate, convinced the people of two facts: first, that
the public-houses were altogether out of proportion to the population;
secondly, that practically the monopoly of the drink traffic was held
by a very few firms of brewers. When first I went to Portsmouth,
and discovered how very undesirable many of the public-houses in my
district were, I realised that it was utterly impossible that the
brewers could know the character of the places in which their money was
made, and I was particularly anxious that they should send their wives,
or a lady of their acquaintance, dressed simply, to stay in their
public-houses from 8.30 till the closing hour. I was told that this was
an utterly preposterous demand. I cannot for the life of me see why it
should be. The brewer makes his money, which his wife spends, out of
the public-house. It is of vital importance that he should see, through
the eyes of someone he can trust, how the money is made. If it is a
place where he will not allow his wife to go, surely it is not a place
where he wishes any other man’s wife to go, or indeed any woman’s
husband, or indeed any other man or woman. And that is just the point
I have never been able to understand about brewers. Many of them are
most religious, excellent men, many of them even philanthropists, and
doubtless these do see that all their public-houses are well-conducted.
Some brewers say to me, “So long as the police do not interfere, it is
no business of mine.” But surely that is not a true basis on which to
work. The publican is the servant of the brewer, very often the tied
and bound servant, and the brewer has no more right to make a penny out
of a house where there is any wrong going on, than he has to steal. I
am perfectly sure that, if every brewer, putting aside for a moment his
business manager and agent, would make either in his own person, or in
the person of someone whom he really trusts and whom the publican does
not know, an examination of his own houses, many of them would be shut
up.
In Lent, 1894, I was asked to preach in London on the subject of
sailors, and I expressed pretty freely my own views, saying that most
naval towns, Portsmouth among them, were sinks of iniquity. I had said
the same thing over and over again in Portsmouth, and so I was utterly
astonished when I arrived at the railway station, on my return, to
discover the extraordinary storm my words had created. Underlying all
this righteous indignation there was a certain amount of selfishness.
Southsea, the favoured infant of the Corporation, for whose sake
Kingston and Landport are sometimes starved, was endangered. If these
words preached in London, and reported throughout the kingdom in the
public press, were believed, it might hinder the influx of visitors,
and so injure hotels, boarding-houses, and shopkeepers. When a scare
from want of proper drainage or water has injured a health resort,
is it wiser to try and hush the matter up, and blame the man who has
dragged the nuisance to light, or to cure the nuisance, and render
the town really healthy? That was the question which the Mayor ought
to have answered, though, indeed, that part of it had never entered
into my head. I only wanted to make England at large realise the cruel
injury which was done to her noblest and best sons by the depravity
which reigns in those very spots where, for her sake, the truest and
noblest of her children are compelled to live. The Mayor’s defence of
the town was most splendid. I venture to copy a few words from one of
his speeches.
* * * * *
“After this stigma has been thrown upon us, I have considered it
my duty, within the last twenty-four hours, to visit that part
of the town which has been spoken of so much--for there is no
doubt what part was meant in this gentleman’s sermon. I started
last night at 9.40, in company with an inspector of police, and
I have in my hand a report which I shall be pleased to hand to
the rev. gentleman. I visited 50 public-houses and beerhouses
in the worst part of the borough, between the hours of 9.40 and
11 p.m. At each house I took the number of persons drinking, or
sitting down, or talking, and in the 50 houses there were 460
men and women. Where would you send these people to? Are you
going to let them walk about in the streets? The upper ten can
afford to belong to a club, and may not the working man go and
have his glass of beer and enjoy it? In the whole of these 50
houses I may tell you--and tell you honestly, because I have two
witnesses to corroborate what I say--there was not one drunken
man on the premises, and during the time we were out we saw in
the streets only one man who was “jolly,” and we cannot say he
was drunk. Surely with 10,000 sailors in port and nearly 6000
troops in garrison, I am not saying too much when I say we are
proud of our town. And I feel I must compliment the brewers
and the occupiers of public-houses and beerhouses of the town
for the admirable manner in which those houses are conducted.
Do not let it go forth that I just opened the doors and looked
in. We went into the bars, the taprooms, and the singing-rooms,
and there was nothing whatever that any man need be ashamed of
seeing. I maintain that if the rev. gentleman or anyone else
would only take the trouble, as I did last night, to go round
to these houses and see the way in which they are conducted, we
should have no trouble in removing in a moment the scandal and
stigma which has been thrown on this borough. You may leave the
matter in the hands of your representatives, and I feel sure
that they will uphold the dignity of the ancient borough of
Portsmouth and look after your interests, and that they will do
all they can, as they have done before, to answer those who talk
to draw money to raise churches and other buildings. We have
to determine in our own minds whether this sermon, to which I
have referred, was preached in order to raise money to build a
church; if so, I would say that I should be sorry to go and pray
in a church built from money raised by stigmatising a town as
this clergyman has done.”
I was threatened with a public indignation meeting in the Town Hall. I
only wish that Mr. Joseph and myself had had the chance of addressing
such a meeting. We wanted to ask the Mayor whether there was any
other town in England in which, between the hours of 9.40 p.m. and 11
p.m.--that is eighty minutes--fifty public-houses could be entered, let
alone thoroughly visited; whether he knew anything of the character
of the houses which he passed in going from public to public; whether
it could be desirable for the inhabitants to have so many licensed
premises so close together; and whether he believed that there were
fifty other publics anywhere in England which, at that hour in the
evening, were without people whom he would call “jolly.” Surely his
defence was the very best proof possible of my allegation. However, the
public meeting never came off; discretion was the better part of valour.
I believe myself that the row did the town a great deal of good, and
I am thankful to think that when I left it two years after I received
from all kinds and sorts of people the most appreciative letters, one
of the very kindest being from one of the largest brewers. There is one
splendid thing about English rows, that, though we hit as hard as ever
we can, we do not seem to bear any malice. I hope everyone will believe
that it was with the purest intention of trying to remedy evils, the
removal of which will only make Portsmouth more glorious, a better home
for our soldiers and sailors, a more attractive spot in which to make
all patriotic Englishmen learn to value the magnificence of their own
country, that I spoke every word that I ventured to say.
XI.
=Our Battles Ecclesiastical.=
It has been easy to write of our battles with the brewers and
brothel-keepers, for their attacks were in the open; but of our battles
with our Bishops it is much more difficult to write, there being a
dread in my own mind whether I have been able to judge perfectly fairly
concerning their attitude towards us. And therefore I think it right to
print in full the whole of the last correspondence between the Bishop
of Winchester and myself, as nothing would distress me more than to put
a wrong interpretation upon his action. Before I came there had been in
the public press, and even at meetings, very violent attacks made upon
Dr. Linklater. Portsmouth is a very Protestant town, and I had not been
in it a week before I discovered that one must expect many attacks.
Almost every week there were several very angry letters in the local
press, and from time to time a big indignation meeting. The Protestant
Hall had just been built, and it was evidently felt that it was a
pity not to use it. But the letters and the meetings were about on an
equality of common sense and charity, and I am quite sure we pursued
the right method in never answering such attacks upon us. Sometimes the
attack would be about ritual, sometimes about doctrine. I tried as
far as I could in instructions in church to explain everything we did,
but I do not suppose our opponents cared to come to our church, and
therefore they were not benefited. I have often since then thanked God
for this opposition, because it was the reason why we took such pains
with our own people.
I felt, however, that upon some subjects, like Confession, very plain
words must be spoken. Of course, amongst the boys and men in a parish
like ours, it was the most needed of all church discipline, and it
was just the one upon which the most horrid and untruthful things
were being said. So I took heart of grace, and advertised throughout
the town that on Sunday afternoon I would preach on the subject of
Confession to men alone. I think I felt a little nervous, when I got
into church and found it crammed from end to end, men even standing
in the aisles, but I found that the vast majority, at any rate, were
prepared to give me fair play, and they soon silenced those who had
come merely to create a disturbance. I think what astonished them most
was to hear that Confessions were heard in public, and that anybody who
pleased could be in church at the time. I showed them exactly where
the priest sat and where the penitent knelt, and I remember quite
well saying, “If any of you, while coming from your work on Friday
afternoon, look in, you will very likely see me hear a Confession.”
Accepting my advice, on the next Friday many people looked in at
the door. I know that when they talked it all over in the Dockyard
afterwards the verdict was arrived at, that, even if I was mistaken, I
was straight and honest.
After a time, it was in 1887, we heard of a petition to the Bishop,
signed at a large meeting, at which a gentleman from London had made a
very violent attack on me, ending up with the magnificent peroration,
“If we had a clergyman like Mr. Dolling in our neighbourhood, we would
soon take him by the back of the neck, and kick him out of the parish.”
Before the meeting had time to applaud this most Christian sentiment,
some lad, who had got into the gallery, shouted out, “He weighs fifteen
stone, and you might find it difficult.” The meeting collapsed in roars
of laughter, but the petition was forwarded. I never thought for a
moment that any reasonable person would have taken any notice of such
proceedings, but, to my amazement, a few days afterwards I received
a letter from Bishop Harold Browne, in which, beginning--“No doubt
you are aware that there have been paragraphs and letters in various
newspapers about your proceedings at S. Agatha’s, and that there was
an indignation meeting at the ‘Protestant Hall,’ with resolutions,
etc., all of which have been sent to me with strong appeals. I do not
think the persons appealing to me have any _locus standi_”--he
desired that I would restrain my services to “the confessedly legal
ritual of the Church of England,” and also offered me the following
considerations:
i. I am told that your own people generally, though attached to
you, would prefer a less pronounced ritual.
ii. I believe with good reason that those clergy in Portsea who
are doing great work in formerly neglected regions, feel that
the scare produced by advanced ritual is seriously detrimental
to them.
I wrote back that, if he ordered me, I was perfectly willing to obey
the Prayer Book, and to have no other services, but that I felt my
duty to my people made it incumbent upon me to impress the fact upon
him that such change of services would mean a great diminution in
the congregations, especially on the week-days, when the services
complained of were used, and that I should like to know who had been
his informant, as regards the wishes of my parish, and the opinion
of my brethren in Portsmouth. His answer was, “I know that many of
the clergy, by whom I certainly do not mean Mr. Young or Mr. Aldwell,
regret your action, as calculated to throw suspicion upon all Church
work. I do not wish to define legal ritual, but to suggest that you
should be satisfied with what is purely Anglican, as sufficient for all
purposes of devotion, and not liable to create suspicion, or to stir up
strife. Stations of the cross, acolytes in crimson cassocks, incensing
the Magnificat, and the like, certainly excite bitter animosity in an
eminently Protestant town like Portsmouth. I have had no appeal from
your own immediate district.”
I know many people think that ritual rows have generally been the
result of a clergyman endeavouring to intrude his own methods upon an
unwilling congregation, but I give these extracts from the Bishop’s
letters to show that at S. Agatha’s that has never been the case. No
complaint has ever come from one singleparishioner. The complaints
that have come have been made either by ignorant Protestants, or by my
brethren the clergy.
However, at the end of 1889, the Bishop again wrote to us on the
subject of ritual, and the following letter from the Bishop of
Guildford, which, though it was marked “private,” he has kindly allowed
me to print, will show the five points to which the Bishop took
exception.
“THE CLOSE, WINCHESTER,
“_December 9, 1889_.
“MY DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I am looking forward with much hopefulness to our interview
with the Bishop on Thursday next. I did not go into any
particulars in reply to your letter, in which you expressed your
readiness to obey the Bishop if you were told by him to obey
the P. Book, but that that would involve your reducing your
services to a most dreary type. I am sure that on reflection
you will have seen that the Bishop could never bring himself to
make any recommendation which would bring down your services to
such a low level as you suggest. But may there not be a _via
media_? My object in writing to you, however, now (without
the Bishop’s cognisance, and, therefore, without knowing whether
he would agree with me) is to ask you whether, at his request,
you would be willing to give up using
“i. Incense at Celebrations and at the Magnificat.
ii. Service of Compline, in which, as far as I can
gather, the choir practically absolve the priest.
iii. Extempore prayer.
iv. Vespers of the Blessed Sacrament in Cope.
v. Vespers for the Dead.
“If I could think that you would be ready to meet the Bishop
with these concessions, it seems to me that you would still
have your service with all its essential ritual and beauty, with
only certain excrescences, as it seems to me, lopped off; and I
am sure that you would find our Bishop most anxious to meet you
in any way he could, and only too glad to be able to show his
appreciation of your unwearied labours in our Master’s cause. It
seemed to me so sad that there should be any misunderstanding
keeping you apart from our Bishop, that I have ventured thus
to act as a sort of go-between, and earnestly to express my
hope--nay, my prayer--that God may bring good out of our meeting
on Thursday. I am sure you will be happier in your work, if even
some things have to be given up, if you gain, on the other hand,
your Bishop’s approval of your work.
“Always I am,
“Your very faithful friend,
“GEORGE HENRY GUILDFORD.
“REV. R. DOLLING.”
In a succeeding chapter you will read the reasons why I introduced
these services, and why I felt I could not possibly surrender them.
The objections to Compline and extempore prayer seemed to me most
extraordinary, but I am especially glad to insert the letter, because
it is a proof of the great kindness with which Bishop Harold Browne
and his Suffragan always treated us, and to show that even though we
differed, there was never anything but the most cordial good-will
between us.
I think I have said that I was in the habit of preaching to men alone
on Sunday afternoons. Osborne, my fellow-priest, and I thought that the
time had come now for striving to get the ear of at least some of the
thousands of Dockyard-men who passed our church on week-days, and so
we asked the Guild of S. Matthew to send us down a set of preachers
for the six Sundays in the Lent of 1890. Mr. Stewart Headlam was the
first of these preachers. Osborne and I listened to the sermon with
very great attention, and we did not discover in it anything different
from the lectures which he and I had been continually delivering in S.
Agatha’s. To our utter astonishment we received almost immediately the
letter from the Bishop which I print.
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_February 28, 1890_.
“MY DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“After what passed between us here some weeks ago, I was hardly
anticipating that I should have to remonstrate with you on a
farther and far more serious cause for difference between us.
“Without any intimation to me you invite a clergyman to teach
in your chapel, who has been inhibited by his own Bishop for
teaching on the very subject on which you advertise him as a
preacher. Anything more contrary to every law of the Church
Catholic or the Church of England it is difficult to imagine.
“If the report in the newspaper be correct, he, Mr. Stewart
Headlam, delivered a highly inflammatory political address,
calculated to set class against class, and drawing down from an
excited audience frequent expressions of applause, in a building
devoted to Christian worship and called by you S. Agatha’s
Church.
“The teaching, according to _The Evening News_, was of this
kind. Mr. Headlam represented our Lord’s mission, not as
intended to lead men to heaven, nor, apparently, to convert
them to greater holiness, nor to reveal to them great spiritual
truths, nor even to set up a great _spiritual_ kingdom upon
earth; but to establish a commonwealth in which there should be
social equality and community of wealth (or poverty), from the
good-will of all the members if possible, but, if not so, then
from compulsion exercised by the many on the few.
“I have tried hard to see if the words can mean anything but
this. I cannot possibly interpret them otherwise. The evil of
such teaching appears to me incalculable. It is the substituting
of a Political Christ for the loving Saviour of the world, a
carnal kingdom for the great spiritual kingdom of the Church,
earthly hopes and aspirations for divine and heavenly, and
instead of love of the brethren springing from love of their
Lord, a great probability, at least, of a system of plunder and
terrorising such as prevailed in the French Revolution, and
has been threatened of late by Nihilists and Communists. The
theory that our Blessed Lord was a Social Reformer with a tinge
of religious fanaticism is the favourite theory of political
unbelievers. I do not mean to charge Mr. Headlam with holding
this. But his teaching plays into the hands of such. I have
always thought it to be the only theory which unbelievers can
advance, with any appearance of plausibility, to account for
the teaching and the success of Christ. The danger, therefore,
of giving standing ground for such a theory is not easily
exaggerated.
“I am not indifferent to varieties of ritual and the like; but
tapers, and incense, and red-vested acolytes, nay! Romanism,
Methodism, and any other varieties of Christian worship may be
compatible with true faith in Christ and true love to Him and
His. This so-called Christian Socialism, as exhibited in the
report of Mr. Headlam’s address, in the writings of Count Leo
Tolstoi and others, appears to me to strike at the very root of
all Christianity. I have, as you know, declined to interfere
with your proceedings, lest I should mar your Mission work. If
you are to introduce teachers of such strange doctrines into
a church or chapel, which you hold by virtue of my license, I
must consider whether the good of our Mission is not more than
neutralised by the evil of those whom you associate with you;
and whether I can suffer it to go on under my authority. I am
very sorry to write so strongly, but I dare not be indifferent.
“I am, dear Mr. Dolling,
“Very truly yours,
“G. H. WINTON.”
In my answer I tried to point out to the Bishop, first, that Mr.
Headlam had never been inhibited, and, secondly, that while I would, in
deference to him, have the lectures delivered in the gymnasium instead
of in the church, I must protest against the way in which he had spoken
of the lecturers. Several other letters passed between us, but in the
meantime Canon Jacob had written to the Headmaster of Winchester (I
insert a letter he wrote to me), had withdrawn his subscription from
the Mission, and had written to the Bishop to say what he had done.
“PORTSEA VICARAGE,
“_March 3rd, 1890_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I have read with much pain, in the _Hampshire Post_ and
the _Hants Telegraph_, the report of Mr. Stewart Headlam’s
sermon at S. Agatha’s. I sent a copy of the former paper on
Friday to Dr. Fearon, and told him my extreme pain at finding my
Old School Mission identified with such doctrines.
“I have gone on subscribing £1 1s. a year to your work through
the Old Wykehamist Mission, in spite of much that I could not
approve, but this has reached a limit which makes it necessary
for me to reconsider the whole position. I do not wish to take
any action inconsiderately, or without careful thought. It may
be that you have explanations to offer. But I think it right to
tell you at once that I am deeply pained to find how much you
have added to our already sad and unhappy divisions.
“I am, faithfully yours,
“EDGAR JACOB.”
I also received from the Warden of Winchester College letters of the
strongest condemnation, letters, the first of which is signed “Warden,”
in which he says Mr. Headlam is a Socialist in the bad sense of the
word; and of myself, that, with my ultra High Church proclivities
on the one hand, and Socialist teaching on the other, no sober and
loyal-minded citizens can be expected to support the Mission, and that
his connection with it must be severed, so long as I remained the head
of it.
I felt that Canon Jacob and the Warden must be taken in a large measure
to represent Wykehamical feeling, not, perhaps, just those few who
knew me and S. Agatha’s well, but that large number who supported the
Mission, and that, therefore, there was no alternative left me but to
resign. So on Sunday morning I preached a sermon defending the line I
had taken, and at the same time telling the people that I thought for
peace it was better for me to leave. Never can I forget the kindness
of Dr. Fearon, other Winchester masters, and old Wykehamists during
the next week. Letters from all kinds and sorts of people, whom we
had never heard of, came to us, hoping that we would not resign, and
presently I received a letter from the Warden, in which he told me
that he had only written in his private capacity, and that he did
not represent either the school or anybody else but himself. I felt
very strongly, too, not only the kindness of people outside, but the
devotion of our people at home; and it seemed to me a plain duty that,
if Winchester wished me to remain, I should do so. This duty was
rendered all the more imperative by the very great desire expressed by
the Bishop himself that I should remain.
As we have no legal status, the Mission not being a parish, a change of
Bishops is a matter of great importance, and I looked forward with some
anxiety to Bishop Thorold’s coming. So it was with much thanksgiving
that I received this answer from him, soon after his appointment, to a
letter of mine about confirmation.
“BUTE HOUSE, CAMPDEN HILL, W.,
“_16th January, 1891_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I am glad to hear from you, for I have heard much of you and
your duty.
“Soon I hope to ask you here to dine and sleep, that we may
have some talk about your difficult work, which has a charm and
interest for me. We have eight such missions in South London,
and I have fostered them as with a father’s love.
“We will see about the Confirmation, but I prefer to do my work
myself, if in my power.
“When you write again, perhaps you will be able to write all
your letter yourself, ‘a lot of time’ for preparation is
scarcely classical.
“May the blessing of the Holy Spirit rest upon you, and the
sheep in the wilderness.
“Ever truly yours,
“A. W. ROFFEN.”
Dr. Harold Browne had always refused to come to S. Agatha’s, but he had
allowed us to choose the Bishop who, from year to year, confirmed our
people. But here was a Bishop who was not only coming himself, but who
evidently was going to throw himself, heart and soul, into our work,
and with the sufficient humour which just enables a man to slide over
the difficulties of life. This goodness towards us, and endeavour to
help us, never once ceased during the four years in which he ruled our
diocese. My heart is often sorry for hard words I may have said about
him.
In a week or two he asked me to stay with him in London, and we talked
for many hours. He drew out from me every detail of our work, approving
or disapproving, but ever ready to hear reasons, telling me quite
plainly that there was much he liked, much he disliked. Especially
was he interested in our schools--he thought we had been very brave
in gaining them--in our house, in which he hoped soon to stay; and,
above all, in our temporary church, and the manner of our memorials,
the lists of soldiers, sailors, emigrants, the confirmed, and the
blessed dead; and this led to explaining to him how we used the Holy
Communion as our best and most prevailing intercession. He had been
delighted when I told him that at our prayer meetings these names
were read out, but I am quite sure that at first, at any rate, he was
shocked at people coming to the celebrations for intercession and not
for communion. I explained to him how impossible it was for our people
to communicate frequently, the stress of their business and their
ignorance making preparation very difficult; and, I think, from words
he let fall, that he considered we were in some sense lowering the
dignity of the Blessed Sacrament by permitting it to be used for any
other purpose but communion, though he told me himself how often his
best intercessions were made when he was receiving communion. This did
not apply to intercessions for the dead. He evidently disbelieved in
any such being beneficial to them, or helpful to the persons making
them; but we prayed long in his study, after family prayers were over,
and I felt that I had gained one who, whatever our differences were,
would act towards me as a real father. The next morning, walking round
and round his beautiful garden--a wonderful oasis in the overcrowded
desert of Kensington, alas! now pulled down and turned into flats;
I could almost cry as I look at it, when I pass Campden Hill each
Sunday morning this Lent--he talked over the matter again and again,
specially desirous that I should discontinue the Mass for the Dead,
and that I should never have a celebration without communicants. I
told him--I hope with all dutifulness--that these two requests were
impossible; the first because I considered I was exercising one of the
greatest privileges of my priesthood, and because this special office
for the dead had been a wonderful help to many of our poor people--an
act of real reparation for stumbling-blocks they had put in the way
of companions now beyond their reach by any other method, and also
because the remembrance of the dead kindles and draws out, even in the
most brutish, an understanding of the supernatural, which becomes a
realisation of hope otherwise impossible; the second because it would
be impossible for the clergy and workers to bear the burden of toil and
responsibility that rested upon us every hour of the day, if it were
not for the help of those daily morning celebrations, and that the only
method by which that rubric as to communicants could be obeyed, would
be by compelling my workers to take turns--three on Monday, three on
Tuesday, &c.--however much indisposed they might feel at the moment
to make their communions. He said at once that this would be a most
hateful method, and I left him knowing that we were going to continue
these two things of which he disapproved; but he did not forbid them,
and his last words showed me that he was fully prepared to trust us. I
think what pleased him most was what he called our straightforwardness
and honesty; and I thank God that neither then nor since have I ever
hid anything from him.
His stay with us, when he came to confirm, very considerably deepened
our mutual affection. The confirmation was to be at eight p.m. The
people began to come into church at seven, according to their custom.
I always delighted in this hour before the confirmation as giving an
opportunity by extempore prayers, by heads for intercession, and by
singing hymns, of getting the friends of the candidates into a proper
frame of mind. The candidates knew exactly their places, for they had
sat in them at the three previous Sunday nights’ Mission services. They
knew exactly, too, in what order they were to go up to the Bishop.
Many a confirmation--indeed, many a first communion too--has lost
all its grace from want of preparation, not of the heart, but of the
mode of reception. The Bishop had been quite hurt when he found that
only a curate had been sent to meet him; but I think when he opened
the west door of S. Agatha’s, and saw the church quite full, people in
the aisles as well as in the seats, kneeling in humble prayer between
each verse of “When I survey the wondrous cross,” he forgave me for
not meeting him. In the vestry I said to him, “The service, of course,
is yours. You will make whatever arrangement you like about acolytes,
&c.” He asked those in red cassocks to take them off, and when I told
him that a crucifix was always carried in the procession, he asked that
it might be put away; but when I told him that there was one on the
high altar, he said, “Oh, I shall not see that one!” No words of mine
can fittingly express his tenderness towards those he confirmed. More
than half of them were grown men and women, many of them, whose former
lives could hardly be told about, drawn from the lowest slums by the
attractive power of the Cross, with a real and true belief in the grace
which they were about to receive at his hands, with a humility and yet
perfect trust which the soul, conscious of its own weakness and of
Christ’s power to save, alone experiences.
Meanwhile in our own house small difficulties had arisen. The Bishop,
whose digestion even at that time was greatly impaired, had kindly
sent us on a little sheet of paper his _menu_, headed, “What I
desire to eat,” a morsel of fish, a mutton chop, a rice pudding. But
he had not told us that he was going to bring a servant, and would
use some particular kind of sheets. When I got in I heard that Mary
was disturbed, and the disturbance of Mary was no small matter in our
household, because, finding the servant putting on these sheets, her
honour was grievously wounded, she deeming the Bishop thought that the
beds in our house were dirty. However, things righted themselves. Our
rule of common food had to be broken through, as the servant objected
to meal with the Bishop, and fed somewhere by himself. One could see
how utterly overtired Bishop Thorold was, but he put that altogether on
one side, and evinced the kindest interest in all our inmates, until at
last, when he could speak not another word, he went off to bed; and yet
I never shall forget how fatigue was conquered in the long, earnest,
loving intercession he offered to Almighty God for me and mine.
The next morning he examined the old church very attentively, remarked
upon what he considered the ugliness of our little altar, on which
there were painted in panels a priest in black vestments saying Mass
for the Dead; and a soul being carried by angels into paradise; again
told us he disapproved altogether of prayers for the dead, and yet more
of Masses, but never said one word to forbid them, and then drove off
to the garrison church, where he was going to confirm. I had looked
forward with considerable dread to his coming. I knew he wanted to like
us, but I was terribly afraid of the ordeal. But after the visit I
believed that through his episcopate there would be nothing but peace
between us. However, the enemy was not going to give us peace, and
in November, 1892, we noticed a gentleman attending the children’s
Mass armed with a pair of opera-glasses. I urged him to go into the
front pew, where he would not have to use them, thereby disturbing
the congregation. Very shortly afterwards I received from the Bishop
a long document sent to him by the Protestant Alliance, and asking me
particulars about the service, and to send him the children’s Mass
book. On December 16th I received the following letter from him.
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_December 16, 1892_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“With respect to the Sunday School Book now in use at S.
Agatha’s Mission Chapel, I do not feel that this is a moment
when I can equitably press upon you to withdraw it from use.
“My opinion, however, as to the grave inconsistency of its
contents with our Anglican standards remains unchanged, and
though it may be a matter of indifference to you, it is a matter
of real concern to me that the influence and development of
a mission conducted with such zeal and self-denial should be
in any way prejudiced in the eyes of those whose prayers and
sympathy ought not to go for nothing in your eyes, by the use
of a manual not vital to your ministrations, and but scantily
adopted in the Church.
“It is my hope and desire that you will consider the wisdom and
duty of quietly discontinuing it, when you can do so without
loss of self-respect, or feeling of giving way to ignorant
clamour; and I shall hope to hear from you before Trinity Sunday
that you have found yourself able to comply with this advice.
“Very truly yours,
“A. WINTON.”
I answered back at once, that I was quite ready to withdraw the book,
and to substitute another in its place, but that for my own sake I
should like to prove to him that there was no expression in it which
might not be discovered in the writings of the great Anglican divines,
and he wrote that he would be very glad to receive such a catena. Dear
Osborne at once set to work on a library of the Anglo-Catholic Fathers,
which we bought for the purpose, and submitted a defence to the Bishop.
Indeed the Bishop was kind enough to ask both of us to go to Farnham. I
think he was rather astonished when we arrived with a large trunk full
of books, but he was very patient while Osborne, who is a theologian,
which I am not, expounded out of Bramhall, Andrewes, and others, that
there has been a continual witness, oftentimes on the part of the most
learned prelates and authorities in the Church of England, to the right
to believe and to teach within its fold the doctrine of pleading the
Blessed Sacrament for the living and the dead, as was taught in the
little book.
This very characteristic letter left only one course possible to us,
the writing of a new book, which we did at once.
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_January 21, 1893_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I have now read, and with much interest, the extracts from the
writings of eminent Anglican divines on Eucharistic doctrine,
which you have collected with so much industry and laudable
anxiety to justify your own position.
“While I cannot admit--and in this you will doubtless concur
with me--that the _ipse dixit_ of any individual, eminent
and learned though he be, can accurately be quoted as the
mind of the Church at large, I have no wish to demur to the
authorities you quote as undeserving of great reverence and
consideration. It is also particularly agreeable to me, though
I have never expressed any doubt on the subject, to be assured
that your great desire is to be loyal to Anglican standards and
teaching, and that you have not knowingly transgressed them in
this instance.
“You will remember that on your own teaching I pronounced
no opinion whatever. It was the book used at S. Agatha’s
that seemed to deserve, and I still think deserves, my grave
remonstrance.
“After thinking it well over, I am clear that I should prefer
the withdrawal of the book, and your substituting for it one of
your own compiling. You will not be unwilling to introduce into
such a book, nor ashamed of so doing, more of the exact language
of our Prayer Book and of our Lord Himself. While it would be
inconsistent for me to sanction a book which from your own point
of view might in some of its statements widely diverge from that
I hold to be sound teaching, I could at least protect you in the
use of it. The last thing in the world I intend or desire is
to limit in the very least degree the liberty of the clergy to
hold and teach what may equitably be held to be supported and
countenanced by our standards. You know me well enough to trust
me when I say that I value your work, recognise your sacrifices,
cherish your friendship, and will gladly, so far as I can,
strengthen your hands.
“Your friend and father in God,
“A. WINTON.”
But in the meanwhile, to his astonishment as well as ours, a letter not
intended for publication, which he had written to the Secretary of the
Protestant Alliance, appeared in the papers:
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY.
“SIR,--Since acknowledging your memorial, I have
procured and examined the S. Agatha’s Sunday School Book, and
have also referred it to one of my examining chaplains, in
whose learning and judgment I have great confidence. While I
do not consider that all the passages in it on which you have
animadverted can be accurately pronounced to be as distinctly
Roman in doctrine as you have not unreasonably conceived them to
be, the general substance of the book is, in my opinion, quite
irreconcilable with the Eucharistic teaching of the Church of
England; nay, I have no hesitation in saying that I consider the
general atmosphere and phraseology of the volume to be even more
objectionable and dangerous, than any of the precise expressions
which have caused you such intelligible offence.
“It is right, however, that I should here explain that, if I am
correctly informed, the officiating clergyman, when this book is
used, himself says nothing except what is in the Common Prayer
Book.
“At the present moment I am in correspondence with Mr. Dolling
on the subject; but I wish at once to observe that his work at
S. Agatha’s, though disfigured by errors and eccentricities,
which, in common with not a few of his truest friends, I
sincerely deprecate, is of a kind which very few other men are
capable of accomplishing, and reaches a class of society too
frequently left to itself out of sheer helplessness and despair.
“I have twice confirmed in S. Agatha’s Chapel, and have stayed
a night under Mr. Dolling’s roof, and have given myself ample
opportunity for observing and gauging the nature of his work,
and the measure of his personal influence in the neighbourhood
where he resides. In my opinion, the substantial good he is
enabled to effect by his self-denying and Christian activities
far outweighs by its usefulness any distress that may be caused
to those who are gravely alarmed by doctrines and practices
which they consider to be quite inconsistent with the standards
of the Reformed Church.
“With this view I hope to be able to continue to him my support
and countenance, in the belief that he will again be ready, as
he has already shown himself to be ready, to accept my fatherly
direction, when responsibly and kindly offered. Hereby he will
move out of the way of his undisputed usefulness causes of
offence which alienate outside sympathy and disappoint sincere
well-wishers on the spot, and will also, if at the sacrifice of
some cherished convictions, strengthen his own cause, and help
the work he loves.
“I am, your faithful servant,
“A. WINTON.”
At first it seemed that, in justice to ourselves, it would be necessary
to print the whole of our correspondence with the Bishop, and our
defence of the little book. But, after thinking the matter over, it
seemed best to leave things as they were. After all, it was no business
of the public, and the question would only have opened up a controversy
which would have done more harm than good. But the Bishop, with
extraordinary generosity, sent me a letter, which he allowed me, if I
thought it would serve a good purpose, to print:
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_February 6, 1893_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“It was as disappointing to me as it must have been distressing
to you, that my reply to the complaint of the Secretary to the
Protestant Alliance, in which I do not find a syllable about
his intention to publish it, should have been sent to the papers
without my knowledge or sanction. But for our friendship all
hopes of arrangement might have been wrecked.
“You have intimated your willingness to withdraw the book of
which complaint has been made, and I think reasonably, and to
prepare another to be used in its place. I trust that the new
one will be less liable to misconstruction than the one you are
using now. While I have neither the desire nor the right to
arrogate to myself an infallible interpretation of the Church’s
standards, it is my plain duty to counsel, and even admonish,
where it is made plain to me that there is a divergence from
them. If this is not a Bishop’s duty, one of the most solemn
of his consecration vows becomes a hollow verbiage. I have no
sort of intention of withdrawing from you the countenance and
support which hitherto I have readily given to your work at S.
Agatha’s. To be consciously unjust to you is, I assure you, an
impossibility for me. But justice to you implies some sort of
justice to myself. You have never expected nor asked me to say
that with all your methods and teaching I can profess sympathy.
It is but straightforward for me to add that it is your
self-denying life, with the manly, generous activities behind
it which God is so manifestly blessing, that makes me more than
ready to condone what I and others would with satisfaction find
to be eliminated from your public services; and, in renewing an
expression of my good-will and personal affection, I desire not
to be thought to be acting inconsistently with the principles
and aspirations of a ministry of 44 years.
“Sincerely yours, A. WINTON.”
Nothing could exceed his kindness to us ever afterwards, and as his
eye ever had a twinkle in it, so his kindness had ever a delightful
playfulness. This letter of November 30th, 1893, will show how ready
he was to meet our wishes at personal inconvenience to himself.
“THE DEANERY, WINCHESTER.
“MY DEAR SIR,
“In reply to your letter of the 27th instant, the Bishop of
Winchester desires me to say that he has never yet fixed a day
that suited you, and never expects to be so fortunate. But, of
course, your confirmation shall be put off.
Faithfully yours,
“G. E. HITCHCOCK, _Chaplain_.”
This of March 28, 1894, was in answer to a request of mine for a
general licence in his diocese, as I had none, and, as I had been
elected to the Conference, it was supposed I might be objected to on
those grounds.
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY.
“MY DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“A free lance will be wise to keep his freedom.
With all good-will,
Yours, A. WINTON.”
And this, of May 11, 1894, in explanation of a mistake he had made
about Mr. Dowglass, whom I had asked him to license as our curate.
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY.
“MY DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I receive your rebuke with becoming meekness. But if you had
so many things of all sorts in your head as I have, and were
continually on the drive, away from all books of reference, you
would be merciful to me for not always recognising the identity
of curates with not uncommon names.
“Mr. Dowglass has been excellently reported to me, and I am only
too glad to have him in the diocese, and, of course, I will
license him when his papers are ready, and sent in.
With much contrition,
“I am, always faithfully yours,
“A. WINTON.”
I might just add one proof of his real liberality. On the death of my
friend and neighbour, Mr. Shute, who had created, with wonderful energy
and untiring zeal, S. Michael’s, the church next to ours, the Bishop
offered the incumbency to my fellow-priest Osborne, who had so ably
defended the little book which the Bishop had condemned.
He took, too, a continual interest in the building of our new church.
He saw all the plans, and himself suggested that it would not need a
new licence, so that all formality and red tape might be prevented.
Above all he urged us to move in all our memorials, and to make the
church as homely as we possibly could for our poor. A passion for
the poor consumed his heart, and he seemed to have kept them and the
outcast always in his mind, often asking me about someone whose story
I had told him perhaps a year before, and not only treating me in his
own house with the greatest tenderness and affection, but on public
occasions like the Diocesan Conference, when I felt it my duty to say
things about the Establishment and Social Questions, which few of my
brethren agreed with, he always gained for me a patient hearing, and
often said kindly things afterwards. Alas! if he had lived a little
longer, I should have been still at S. Agatha’s; and yet who could wish
him to live, when every hour was but an agony, and only an intense
sense of duty enabled him bravely to bear the burden of his flesh,
which he was so willing to surrender at any moment into his loving
Master’s hands.
I am only sorry that my own angry passions and bitter way of looking at
questions have, from time to time, moved me to say and write unkind
and unworthy things about him. But from the first day I ever saw him I
was conscious of a real love and affection, which deepened, until God
took him, and which will ever remain in my mind as a special grace and
gift of God, granted to me through four of the most difficult years of
my life.
I had often talked with Bishop Thorold of a fitting time for me to
leave Portsmouth, and he had agreed with me that, as soon as the
people were accustomed to the new church, I might resign. We had hoped
that the church might be opened on the first Sunday in October. It
was the anniversary of my taking full charge of the Mission, and the
progress of the parish had been marked each year by the dedication to
the glory of God and the use of our people, of some special piece of
parish machinery. I was greatly in need of rest, for my work, with its
threefold responsibility at Landport, Winchester, and begging, was
beginning to tell upon me, and for the last four years I had not had
one single day’s holiday. If the church were opened on the first Sunday
in October, I thought it would be quite permissible for me to leave the
following Easter, and I had told Dr. Fearon of this intention. When
I announced this to our own people, they at once began to make every
effort to induce me to alter my determination.
But in the meantime two circumstances had happened which disarranged
all our plans. First, Bishop Thorold died; and secondly, we discovered
the church could not be opened till quite the end of October. It had
been my boast that the whole fabric of the church was completed by
Portsmouth men, and I can never speak too highly of the punctuality
and excellence of their work. The builders, Messrs. Light and
Son--Portsmouth is mourning now the head of the firm, one of the most
useful, honoured, and respected of its citizens--Townsend, the foreman,
indeed all down to the men who mixed the mortar, and the boys who ran
the messages, had striven to make the church the enormous success
that it is. But we had employed a London firm to do the wood flooring
and the marble work. Their workmen were Italians; and Light’s men,
all Trade Unionists, almost refused to work with them, because they
said that they did not work for a proper rate of wages. However, the
arrangement had been made, and so, though the foreman told me he was
sure I would suffer for employing them, the work had to go on. They had
a row amongst themselves their first Saturday, and one got stabbed in
the hand, but, be the cause what it was, we found that the opening of
the church must be delayed a month. On September 28th I wrote to Bishop
Davidson, telling him that the church would be opened on October 27th,
and saying that Dr. Thorold had thought that no new licence would be
needed, as the old and the new church were practically joined together
by the vestry. I heard from him on October 4th, saying that though he
himself thought that it would be better that a new licence should be
given to the new building, yet Bishop Thorold’s opinion would justify
us going forward with our arrangements, and that he would let us know
later on. On October 17th we heard from him that he had considered the
question of the new licence, and it seemed clear to him that it ought
to be granted, and that the Rural Dean would visit us for the purpose
of inspecting the building.
In the meantime a dear friend had told us that the Bishop was hurt
at not being asked to take part in the opening services. The friend,
I afterwards discovered, was perfectly mistaken in his judgment; but
acting on that information, I wrote to the Bishop to explain why I had
not asked him to be present at the opening, and I thought the best way
to show him that no disrespect was intended was by telling him that I
had not intended asking Bishop Thorold, because I knew that our manner
of service would pain him very deeply.
On October 24th, I received a long letter from the Bishop, the purport
of which was that he could not grant the licence, until a question
so important as the third altar had been submitted to the proper
authorities, or the altar itself had been removed, but saying that he
would be glad to see me the next morning. And so on October 25th, I
spent the morning at Farnham.
Nothing could exceed the Bishop’s kindness and straightforwardness
during that interview. He is a man of most delightful manners. A
theologian at Oxford said of him, soon after his appointment to the
Deanery of Windsor: “He is a Nuncio already,” though he slily added,
“but not from Peter.” But I felt a good deal more than the mere charm
of his manner. He was evidently conscious that we were both in a very
difficult position. He seemed most desirous to do his duty towards me
and my people, and deeply felt the responsibility that was resting
on him. At the very outset of our conversation he said, “This is no
red-tape question of three altars, but of the services said at those
altars.” When I proposed to him that we should continue in the old
church until his judgment was pronounced, he seemed to feel that it
would be a mistake to upset the existing arrangements, and that it
would be better to screen off the third altar for the present and
proceed with the opening. I gave in to his desire at once, though I
had brought with me fifty-two telegrams ready for despatch should the
opening be delayed. When I got home, those who worked with me were very
distressed that I had not put off the opening, and I feel now that
they were certainly right, and that much pain and a certain amount
of scandal to the Church might have been saved if I had pursued this
course.
So we opened the new church on October 27th. Dr. Fearon had arranged
for the masters and men at Winchester to come down on the Monday after
the opening, and I had asked the Bishop of Southwell, the founder of
the Mission, to come and preach to them. He not only consented to do
this, but offered to preach the first sermon in the new church on the
Sunday morning at 11 o’clock. When he came down on the night before,
he kindly sent word to say that he would celebrate at 8 o’clock the
next morning. There were more than four hundred communicants at the
four early services, and at 11 we started to take possession of the new
church. I, who remembered the hooting and stoning of ten years ago,
could hardly believe it was the same place. Mr. Dyer-Edwardes, a great
benefactor to the Mission, had lent us a magnificent silver crucifix
to be carried in front of the procession, but everything else in the
procession belonged to the Mission. Dear Barratt, the truest friend a
priest has ever had, with the incense, and then our little choir lads,
and our choirmen, such loyal and earnest supporters of the Mission;
then the acolytes in red, most of whom had been with me ever since they
were little children, directed by Pennell, our ceremoniarius, then the
Bishop in his convocation robes, who, not desiring to pontificate,
walked before the unworthy priest who was to sing the first Mass in
the new S. Agatha’s. Directly behind me, leading the congregation, Mr.
White and Mr. Claxon, who have acted as churchwardens during the ten
years, and then an innumerable number of parishioners and old friends,
who had come home for the day. There was, I think, through the whole
of that crowd, blocking up all the streets and making it difficult for
us to pass through them, but one attitude of respect, I might even
say of affection, and a realising, too, that a great act of worship
was being offered to that God, Who is our common Father. If, when the
procession entered the building, there was a little unseemly rush, that
was not to be wondered at. Even at S. Peter’s, in the presence of the
Pope, English people do not always behave reverently and well. But long
before I had gained the altar there was a hush of reverent devotion,
and the wonderful beauty of the church made itself, for the first time,
manifest, its dignity and simplicity, its fittingness for magnificent
worship, and, above all, its excellent acoustic properties--a proud
moment, indeed, for Mr. Ball, the architect, and if it had not been
for the shadow which the covering of the third altar threw over my
troubled heart, a proud moment for me.
Many letters, which will be found in an appendix, passed between
the Bishop and myself. On November 15th, at his kind invitation, I
spent a long morning at Farnham. I was suffering from a bad attack of
influenza at the time. The Bishop’s position and mine were naturally
very difficult, for he had to discover matter for judgment out of the
mouth of the accused. I am quite conscious of not being a theologian,
and I answered as plainly and as simply as I could all his questions,
and I am since aware that I used an expression, which he afterwards
quoted in his judgment, which may be very liable to misconstruction. My
intercourse with Dr. Thorold had been so very different. There had been
perfect freedom in all conversations between us, nay more, I had often
volunteered information which he had not asked for. A hundred times
the memory of him flashed across my mind, and his many words of prayer
came back again and again to my remembrance. I was sitting in the same
study, but now I was accused, and I was conscious that my own and my
people’s happiness, nay, perhaps the safety of weak, timid souls, was
hanging in the balance. I pray that none of my readers may ever have
such an hour and a half as I passed at Farnham.
Meanwhile, until the Bishop’s judgment was pronounced, only one duty
lay before me--to go on as if nothing had occurred. My mind, however,
since the opening of the church, had altered upon one point. If the
Bishop permitted it, I should be forced to remain much longer than
Easter. I was told of a petition of over 5000 people, signed by all
classes, and by people of all shades of opinion, wanting me to stay
in Portsmouth. I discovered that the debt upon the church would be
much greater than I had anticipated, so many things having to be added
at the end. But, above all, I felt that it would take a considerable
time to make new S. Agatha’s really the home of the people. I knew,
of course, that other priests could work much more consistently and
successfully than I had done. That I never doubted for a moment. But
I knew, too, that I was the only one who had ten years of experience
teaching me how to deal with these particular people. On December 7th
the Bishop’s judgment came, and it left me, I conceived, no alternative
but to resign, which I did the next day. I believed directly I read
it that the judgment forbade us to say our Mass for the Dead, or to
have Celebrations without Communicants. The surrender of these two
points I felt it impossible to make. An error has largely arisen that
I left because I could not have a third altar in my church, but this
is quite incorrect. The Bishop, at the very commencement, said it
was not a red-tape question of a third altar, but a question of the
services said at that altar, and I myself, and my communicants, and
a magistrate in the town, who thought that I had not been explicit
in making it, made the offer that the altar should be moved, but the
services maintained. I am condemned also, by many, for having been
disobedient to the Bishop. Indeed, I think this was the reason why the
Bishop of Durham prevented me preaching a Mission in his diocese.
But I am sure that the Bishop of Winchester would be the first to say
that this was not the case. In one sense, if I had wished to stay,
it would have been very difficult to put me out. For I have created
almost everything that exists at S. Agatha’s, and I am either joint
or sole trustee for all the property; and I am, even now, responsible
for £3000 incurred either on the church or on property which has been
recently acquired for the Mission purposes. I say this in no spirit of
boasting, but only to set myself right with the public. If I were to
express my private opinion, I should say it would have been much wiser
for a Bishop just entering on his diocese to have let S. Agatha’s,
at any rate for a year or two, be ruled by the decision of his
predecessor; but Bishop Davidson had every right to take a different
view of the case, and, doubtless, he only put into action what is the
mature judgment of many English Churchmen. One of the most learned and
devoted of the High Church school has said that it is for the good of
the body that excrescences should be cut off. I am an excrescence,
ergo, when an opportunity arises, it is wise to lop me off. But,
if mine is intended as an object-lesson, I fear it will hardly be
so accepted by the other excrescences. They are all well sheltered
by their freeholds, and few bishops to-day would like to undertake
the odium of a ritual prosecution, far less the expense it entails.
After all, too, the excrescence is not so unlike the healthy limb. It
differs more in expression than in fact. By my resignation the Bishop
gains two points. First, though my successor will, every Friday, say
Mass for the Dead, he will only use outwardly the words of the Book
of Common Prayer. Secondly, he has asked the communicants to arrange
amongst themselves that there shall be three communicants at both the
10 and 11 o’clock Masses on Sundays. And this being so, he will say
the part of the service relating to communicants. But he requests that
they will come fasting, and give him notice beforehand. His desire to
obey the Prayer Book has, I think, landed him rather on the horns of
a dilemma. If no one gives him notice, will he have the Celebration,
using the Exhortation, Confession, and Absolution, knowing that no
communicants will be present? Or, will he give up the 10 and 11 o’clock
Celebrations? The same difficulty will apply to the week-day Masses.
We condemn as a fundamental error the idea that men were created for
the sake of the Sacraments. We believe that the Sacraments were created
for the sake of men. But it seems that, by this new theory, men were
created for the sake of the rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer. I
make no complaint whatsoever. I have no right to make a complaint. And
if, on the one hand, my conscience would have allowed me to say, for
instance, this week the service for the second Sunday after Lent, in
black vestments, or to have used a collect from the Visitation of the
Sick, or from the Burial of the Dead, either saying them in a sense
not intended by the Book of Common Prayer, or interpolating words
of my own, and secretly to say the rest of the Office for the Dead;
and, on the other, to invite people to make the most solemn of all
our public confessions, and to pronounce Absolution over them, when I
knew that not one of them was going to receive that Communion, which
necessitated such a confession and warranted such an absolution, I
should be still at S. Agatha’s. There is one solemn question which I
should like to ask those who lop us off. Do they wish that we should
go into lay-communion, and our work, as priests, be lost to the Church
of England? Or do they want us to exercise our priesthood in another
Communion? Before the old diocesans gaily commence their course of
lopping, or a new diocesan, refusing to walk in the safer paths of his
predecessors, proceeds to lop, I pray them pause and consider.
[Illustration: THE THIRD ALTAR.]
XII.
=Our Money-Grubbing.=
You so often hear it said now, “Only a rich man can afford to take
that living.” I doubt if there could be any more dangerous idea about
the position of the parish priest. Once let the parishioners, and the
Church at large, imagine that the Vicar is going to pay everything out
of his own pocket, and you destroy that most needed of all Christian
duties--systematic giving. The false idea, so largely believed--that
the clergy are all State-paid, and, therefore, well paid--is one of
the reasons why, in so many places, members of the Church of England
are utterly wanting in the duty of almsgiving. When Dr. Fearon chose
me, he chose the poorest man in England. As I have told you, I had
to pawn my watch on my first visit to the Bishop. And I believe that
this is the very reason why God has so wonderfully blessed us with
money. If we lived in mediæval times, people might almost believe of
the Mission the old legends of the miraculous multiplication of food
and money, for there have been many occasions when we were literally
without a penny; but those were the very times when money came to us
the most strangely. And why should we doubt that miracles are wrought
to-day? Though I could nearly always make a shrewd guess as to where
the money came from, even if it came anonymously, still I know it
came in answer to those two powers by which all miracles have been
wrought--faith and prayer; not my own, indeed, for that often failed,
but those of my helpers and my own people. I think the Bishop of
Winchester must have felt something like this when he kindly came and
saw round the Mission the week before we left. I could not, of course,
show to him our real treasures--men and women, clothed, and in their
right mind, sitting at the Saviour’s feet, a few years back lost to
all sense of shame and decency. I could not show him our Communicants’
Society: it would have been putting too great a strain upon my people’s
patience. But I could show him the outward signs of our success--the
changed streets, and the unmurmuring attitude of those who at once
saw that he was the Bishop. Many years before I had helped to save
his predecessor, when he was Bishop of Rochester, from being stoned
in Lorimer Square; but I had no fear that even one rude word would be
spoken to him. This, at any rate, was a discipline that our people had
learned. I was able to show him, too, our wonderful gymnasium, the
parsonage, the day-schools, the alms-houses, the Mission-house, old
S. Agatha’s, and new S. Agatha’s, nearly all of which had been built
by my begging. I wonder if any thought passed through his mind that
he was actually, at that moment, killing the goose that had laid the
golden eggs--truly a goose, for was it wise to lay out ten years of
one’s life in effecting all this; indeed, to entail upon one’s self
future years of begging, without any assurance more than the implied
consent of the Bishop for the time being that I should be permitted
to finish it? But, surely, it is only the faithless who would think it
was foolish. For to labour, and to know that others will enter into
your labour, is but a necessary consequence of being the servant of
a Church whose work is one and continuous, whomsoever it is done by;
and our part is only to be as grateful as our niggardly natures allow
us, because we have been permitted to share, ever so little, in the
glorious work by which, to-day, the Church of England is restoring to
herself her lapsed children. Whether it is prudent of rulers to kill
the goose, is a different question; they know their own business best,
and, at any rate, one admires those who have the courage to act upon
their convictions. They, too, who see the poor at second-hand--that
is, through the appeals which come to them--can hardly be expected to
realise the awful burden and difficulty of begging. I calculate that I
have devoted one day out of every week that I spent at Portsmouth to
this work alone.
You will notice in the accounts, which I hope you will read, a very
large item for postage and for travelling. This represents my begging
machinery. Every quarter I sent out to every subscriber, and to every
man at Winchester, an account of the quarter’s work. Few duties were
more irksome than the writing of these reports. One was bound to tell
the truth, and to tell it so as to interest. The days of writing these
reports will be remembered by every inmate of our house. I have often
heard new inmates told by old ones, “I would not ask him anything. He
is in a raging temper to-day.” At meals we all sat perfectly silent;
even George Kerr, drinking his cod-liver oil between meat and pudding,
or the antics and blandishments of the latest Buddha, could not make us
smile. And if Mary heard a piano-organ coming anywhere near, she would
run out with twopence to bribe them to go away. Everyone knew I was
writing the report; everyone knew how much depended upon its success. I
expect lots of the subscribers never read them; I am sure the majority
of Winchester men did not. But, still, I believe they were the great
means of keeping alive the knowledge of the Mission, and interest in it.
Then the begging by word of mouth. How extraordinarily kind people have
been to us in this respect. I have got offertories in no less than
eighty-one churches, and have spoken in drawing-rooms and public halls;
I have been sandwiched into classical concerts and comic concerts; I
have lectured in boys’ schools and girls’ schools, and have collected
in this way £3137, and yet this sum does not all represent the actual
amount received, for many a cheque came afterwards. I remember once
preaching at a little church at Nice, and being very much annoyed
with the clergyman for asking me, as there were only about ten people
present; and yet there I discovered Mr. Dyer-Edwardes, who has been
one of our greatest helpers, not only giving us money but supplying
most delightful holidays for the clergy in his beautiful home in
Gloucestershire. People at the meetings have always been so kind, but
they generally remarked, “Oh, it evidently gives you no trouble to
speak, you require no preparation.” They little knew the sleepless
nights which evolved perhaps one single joke, and the tremendous
difficulty of speaking time after time on the same subject without
getting exaggerated or inaccurate. This living in the train, too, is
terribly distressing, especially if you always want to get home at
night, and I never felt that I slept at ease away from home. A house
like ours was a responsibility, even greater than getting the money
to keep it going. In Lent preaching seven or eight courses in London
besides all my sermons at home, I have come home two or three times a
week by the midnight train, so much so that at last I found it cheaper
to have a season ticket. Yet even this was a reproach, for people
seeing me travel second class thought I was proud and extravagant;
as was also a fur coat, which one of my sisters gave me, as I suffer
greatly from the cold when travelling at night, for I heard a lady,
who passed me when coming out of a vestry, say, “If I had known he
had a coat like that, I should not have put five shillings in the
collection.” Then think of the moral deterioration of oneself. You
look at everyone from the point of view, What shall I get out of him?
Sneaking in at the vestry door you look round the corner to see if
there are any carriages. And yet one does not grudge all this, for it
means the larger part of £50,000 collected for the Church of England
during ten years.
Of course in all this collecting Winchester has been our chief
contributor. The men and masters were responsible for £150 of my
salary. There is an offertory three times a year in chapel. The balance
goes to a Central Wykehamist Fund, which is managed by a committee
of members elected by present Wykehamists, with the Headmaster as
chairman. This committee has sent me £11,292. But this does not
represent at all what I have received from Wykehamists, past and
present. Looking over the names of subscribers I should say I have
received £15,000 more. I cannot be grateful enough for this money. Much
of it has come from those, whom I know gave with difficulty. Much of it
came from those who did not agree, some with my social, some with my
religious, some with any of my opinions. But they gave it because they
believed that a good work was being done in Landport, which reacted
even upon the school itself.
A great deal of it has come, far more than one would believe, from
the people of S. Agatha’s. Gold is an unknown quantity almost in S.
Agatha’s offertories. When White and Claxon, who always counted the
money, discovered a five-shilling piece, they nearly had a fit. And
yet mostly in coppers, threepences, sixpences, and a few shillings,
we averaged over £4 on general Sundays, with a considerable addition
on any special day. Four years ago we started a parochial fund, every
regular communicant subscribing to it each quarter any sum they liked,
some a penny, some threepence, and some a half-crown. There were 286
members, and their subscriptions amounted to £380 in the four years.
The benefit of this fund does not consist in the amount of money,
but in the sense of having a stake in the parish, the possibility of
using with reality the word “my,” as “my church,” “my service,”
“my clergy.” The number would have been increased, but in many cases
whole families are communicants, and the father would give for all, or
at any rate for his wife, even if the children who were in work gave
themselves.
[Illustration: NEW S. AGATHA’S.]
Then the special funds were mostly collected in the parish; for a poor
scavenger who was killed, £130; for Mr. Osborne, when he left us, £123;
for the _Victoria_ catastrophe, £114, the mothers giving up their
treat that year; in the parochial sales also, both in the buying and
selling departments, parishioners were largely represented. The last
fund that they collected, amounting to £100 14s. 6d. in six months, was
to buy a new altar for the church, and when, on leaving, I asked them
whether I might use this for paying off part of the beautifying of the
Lady Chapel, every subscriber but one willingly gave me leave. If the
widow, who cast her mite into the Treasury, brought joy into the heart
of the great Watcher of all men’s deeds, surely that heart has received
joy over and over again in our poor Landport slum, for His eye saw the
self-denial entailed. There are some who give that which costs them
nothing. There are some who give that which costs them their pleasure.
There are some who give that which costs them their daily bread. At
that cost over and over again many of our people have cast into the
Treasury of God.
On the day before I left, and they had only been collecting about three
weeks, they gave me £175, making me promise to spend it upon myself.
I need not say the great Godsend it has been to me, for I left S.
Agatha’s as poor as I went there, even poorer, for once, when in dire
necessity, I had to sell all my books. And so, as I am now without
salary or employment, I am living on that money. I remember their
generosity at every meal I eat, and every time I lie down in bed, and
it is a joy to me beyond all joys that I owe this, as very nearly all
else during this last ten years, to their love and forethought. For I
still have to be very busy. You will see by this account that I have
a debt of over £3000 to pay. I thought at one moment of his interview
that the Bishop would have said something about this debt, for I am
paying for the church in which I shall never minister again, for an
increased playground for the school in which I shall never teach again,
for the bad house next the parsonage, so that it may be enlarged,
though I may never live there again, for an organ for the new church.
And then there are some boys whom I am still bound to help, and one
or two other cases, which I consider depend on me. At any rate, the
practical question arises, the builder, the lawyer, and the architect
must be paid. I am specially anxious about the builder. The head of the
firm is just dead, and of necessity they must arrange business matters.
They have been most upright and honourable, completing their business
in a most satisfactory manner. I have overdrawn my bank account, I have
borrowed from friends, I have even borrowed from money which was given
me to spend upon myself, and by these means I have paid £800 more than
I have received. I still owe them £1200. I am preaching ten courses of
sermons a week this Lent to try and raise this money.
An old Wykehamist, overcoming his shyness, penetrated into the vestry
of a church where I was preaching, and asked me if he could do anything
for me. He had only just left school, so he could not give me money,
but he proposed that his mother should get up a drawing-room meeting.
Lord Encombe kindly came and took the chair, and Mrs. Burton sent me
£58, the proceeds of the meeting. I think I am proudest of all that
her servants, who hear me preach in London, all contributed to that
result. A kind friend has taken the Pump-room at Tunbridge Wells,
to give me an opportunity of lecturing, as well as preaching at S.
Barnabas there. A lady is giving me her drawing-room in Chester Street
early in May. I cannot take the holiday which I need so much, far less
think of undertaking any new work, even if anybody would offer it me,
until I have collected this £3000. And I am afraid that it will be very
hard for me to get this money. The action of the Bishops of Durham and
Worcester, and of the Rector of Croydon, not only prevent me getting
money in these actual places (though I have just heard from the Vicar
of Evesham, where the Bishop inhibited me, that the good people there,
whom I have never seen, are going to send me their Lent savings), but
have a tendency to prejudice me in the minds of other people. But I
am sure if anybody would go down to see S. Agatha’s, walk round the
parish, examine our buildings, etc., they would discover that there has
been no waste in our expenditure, and that we have taught our people
not only to give, for they subscribe to all our funds, but, however
mistaken I may be myself in my own opinions, to be loyal and dutiful
members of the Church of England. Of course, if I had left after
another two years there would have been no difficulty about the money;
indeed, I do not think that, even if I had left at Easter, there would
have been much. At any rate, everything that is there now belongs to
the Church of England. The Bishop has approved of the priest-in-charge.
If I wished it, I could not interfere in one single ceremony, or give
one single instruction, and so I do think that, if there is anyone who
admires our work, or thinks it has been useful and done good, now is
the time that they should prove it by helping me to pay these debts.
A meeting was once held to sympathise with a poor woman, who had lost
her husband. Two gentlemen delivered very eloquent speeches, which drew
tears from the eyes of those who heard them. The third speaker said, “I
have no eloquence, but I sympathise £10,” which he put down upon the
table. The kindest things imaginable have been said about me by all
sorts of people, and written in all sorts of papers. I am extremely
grateful and gratified, but I think I should now appreciate a little of
the other kind of speaking.
BALANCE SHEET.
RECEIPTS. £ _s._ _d._
Central Wykehamist Committee 11,292 3 0
Church Societies 1,074 7 1
Diocesan Societies 759 12 6
Special Funds 899 12 4
S. Agatha’s Offertories 3,032 13 11
Sales and Collections in Parish 1,786 1 11
Profit of Shop 646 1 0
Rents and Club Dues 499 4 11
Debts Repaid and sums under £1 471 16 1
Winchester Houses 121 17 11
R. R. D. 313 7 0
Offertories, Meetings, Concerts, etc. 3,137 0 8
Anonymous Donations 6,428 1 9
Subscribers 17,352 14 8
Debt (for which Rev. R. R. Dolling is
responsible) 3,090 0 0
----------------------
£50,904 14 9
======================
EXPENDITURE. £ _s._ _d._
Travelling 446 6 5
Postage, Stationery, Bank Charges 863 16 7
Clubs 984 3 7
Mission 5,530 18 0
Charity 3,258 13 8
Salaries 5,591 17 9
Chapel Expenses 1,317 10 7
Buildings Bought 5,325 14 1
Special Offertories 1,226 13 7
Penitentiary 1,360 9 0
Emigration 1,115 5 1
Building Schools 3,384 11 10
Sunday Schools 397 1 10
Special Funds 662 11 4
Building Parsonage 1,381 17 1
S. Agatha’s Orphanage 4,500 0 0
New Church 11,308 11 4
Endowment 1,300 0 0
Remitted to J. G. Talbot, Esq., _re_
New Church 948 13 0
----------------------
£50,904 14 9
======================
XIII.
=Winchester.=
In this book, which tries to tell of the Winchester College Mission,
you will perhaps be disappointed that so little is said actually about
Winchester; but that was the most distinctive part of their method;
from first to last they never wanted to intrude. They put me in charge
of the Mission, they paid me my salary, they entrusted me, as you will
have seen, with large sums of money; but they never from first to last
desired to dictate methods, or to hinder even when my methods were not
quite at one with their own. It was an extraordinary generosity, and I
am afraid that I have oftentimes put it to the test.
Placing the Mission at Landport was a stroke of genius on the part
of the late Headmaster, Dr. Ridding. It enabled the men to become
quite familiar with the work which was being carried on in their
name. Prefects could come down from Saturday to Sunday night, and on
leave-out days any man in the school could come down. Recently some
change as to leave-out days has made this more difficult, but it is a
matter of great congratulation to me that most of the elder men, both
present and past, do not know the Mission merely by hearsay. Bedrooms
were always kept ready for them, and I think, as a rule, they enjoyed
themselves when they stayed with us, or, at least, they had the grace
to appear to do so. When I speak of this, people always say, “What
did they do?” I am afraid I have to answer, they did not do anything.
Someone used to take them round the parish on Saturday night, and show
them the different clubs, or they stayed in the gymnasium, or they came
up to my own room and talked. Sometimes, if there was a great stress of
work, they would help us in directing envelopes, or copying circulars.
On Sunday they went to church, and took their meals with us--a plain
breakfast of bread and butter, which we have to have on Sundays because
so many breakfast with us, was never objected to by them; and the
Sunday dinner was shared with thirty or forty other people, mostly of
a different rank of life to which they were accustomed. Writing it
down now in cold blood it does not seem anything, but I am sure it was
everything--a liberal education, a discovery that all men are pretty
much the same, that even the grossest sin, the direst poverty, has not
the power of annihilating true manhood--above all the lesson that true
worth consists not in what a man has, but what a man is; and perhaps
they just guessed at the higher lesson that union with God is not only
the power of a perfect cleansing, but the power of a renewed life,
which renders him who possesses it true and beautiful. Of course, some
men grasped all this easily, others saw things only as they were; but
I do not believe that any man ever stayed with us who did not go away
better for the visit.
I have been astonished oftentimes, when men came back long after they
left school to stay with us how much more deeply such thoughts had
penetrated their souls than I at the moment had believed. It seemed
to them very difficult to realise that almost all our inmates were of
what are called the lower, oftentimes of the degraded, classes; but men
are strangely imitative, and our inmates naturally adopted the customs
of those amongst whom they lived. The boy, too, of the lower class is
generally wanting in self-consciousness. He talks freely and easily.
The things he talks about are generally matters of experience to him.
He seldom theorises. He is desirous of making those in his company
feel at ease. I have seen Winchester men coming to us very anxious to
condescend, to be polite, and I have seen them utterly nonplussed at
the extraordinary good manners, simplicity, and powers of conversation
of the fellows sitting round our table. Practically they came to teach,
they remained to learn. I do not suppose that they were conscious of
their intention, or of the result of their visit.
Then, too, their coming down gave me an opportunity of speaking plainer
and straighter than I well could at Winchester. It was a great gain,
having this opportunity with the leading men and heads of houses. It is
very wonderful that they never seemed to resent this at all; sometimes
I even flatter myself they liked it. They saw, too, the awful havoc
which sin makes in character. Their lives at Winchester are so happy
and so employed that they have little time or, perhaps inclination, to
imagine the lives of those who are the very opposite of themselves,
and, I think, seeing these lives did impress them very much. I judge
this not only from what they said, but from the fact that several, I
might say many, of them have privately helped me not only with money,
but by taking pains in getting lads situations. And this interest
has not been merely for a moment, just quickened by the sight of the
poverty or distress, but has lasted after they left Winchester. Men did
me even the honour of making me their confidant about themselves, or
about some other man in the school for whom they were anxious. I grieve
to-day, now that the chance has gone from me, over many opportunities
wasted, sloth and pride so often preventing one, and one’s own selfish
nature continually supplying the excuse, “This is not the proper moment
to speak,” or, “You might lose your influence by speaking.”
These days spent with me gave me the right to ask for hospitality in
return. At first I only went to College, Joseph, my first Prefect of
Hall, making this a very easy matter for me; and where Mrs. Richardson,
the second master’s wife, is, there can never be embarrassment. And
so under her hospitable roof I began my venture of spending one day a
week in Winchester. Then Harold Bilbrough, head of Mr. Kensington’s
house, asked me to go there. And soon the kind hospitality of the
House Dons enabled me to visit every House in the school. I arrived
in time to dine with the men in their hall. Then in the afternoon we
watched cricket or football, or whatever was going on; in the winter
the House Prefects giving me tea up at the House, in the summer ices,
or an equivalent, at Louisa’s. Alas! Louisa’s is now no more; there is
a school shop instead. The House Don usually asked four or five men
in to dinner in the evening; sometimes I was asked to say a few words
at “_Preces_”; then the head of the House would take me into each
gallery, and I saw all the fellows in bed, got to know, if possible,
the younger ones, saw if there were any clothes I could take down
to my people at home; a chance often arose of saying in jest a word
that went deeper, or sometimes a word of comfort, but at any rate it
broke down all shyness. I cannot for one single moment flatter myself
that I exercised much influence, certainly not a religious influence
strictly so-called. That was not my business. My religious mission was
to Landport, not to Winchester, and I should have been utterly disloyal
to the Winchester authorities and the parents of the boys if I had even
tried to exercise such influence. On the other hand, I do believe that
I was able to help many a man in the crisis of his school life, and to
say many a word which would last after he left Winchester, and I judge
from many letters received long after men have left the school, and
from kind words which Dr. Fearon and the masters have said to me, that
they thought the influence which I had at Winchester was really helpful
to the school life.
Though it is difficult for me to speak of this, it is very easy for me
to speak of the extraordinary help Winchester has been, personally, to
me. The days spent there were days of perfect relaxation. In the summer
watching cricket in Meads was a pure joy, one after another, men and
Dons coming up to tell of all the news, and to discuss what was going
on. There is, perhaps, no playing-field as beautiful in the whole of
England; in front of you S. Catherine’s Hill with its crown of trees,
on one side the College Chapel, on the other S. Cross; everywhere
gleams of beauty, and even on the sultriest day a delightful breeze.
Then the most restful of all surroundings, a perfectly smooth green
sward, and to give life the extraordinary excitement of the game,
when the one thing that one desired most was that a man’s batting or
bowling in a foreign match should entitle him to get into Lord’s; on
the less sacred sward games innumerable, the anxiety of House captains
about the younger men coming on, and dear Fort coaching and encouraging
everybody. Beautiful as it all was, I am not sure that the intense
excitement of Sixes or Fifteens, our Winchester football, was not even
greater; the endeavour to fathom the mystery why commoners have a
special go and _verve_ of their own, the discussing it over and
over again with House men and College men and with Dons. Sometimes
people talk as if too much is made of games, that they are altogether
Philistine, destroying refinement. At any rate, at Winchester this was
never the case. From an experience of ten years, I would say that the
vast majority of men in the Eleven and the Football teams were the
nicest men in the school, and I have grown to know most of these men
extremely well. My first year I did not; men were shy of me. Perhaps
they thought that, because I was a parson, I was likely to be a “smug.”
But I remember well my second year, when the Captain of Lord’s, I think
it was Thesiger, walked arm in arm with me across Meads, I felt I had
won a final victory. And the real beauty of the whole thing was, these
men never guessed what they were doing for me. Their pure kindness was
so modest, so unassuming, it was like eating and drinking new life. Age
has nothing to do with years, the Winchester Missioner never can become
an old man. Living amongst my own boys at home one did not gain this,
there is so much of tears and sorrow, so much that is sordid mixed
up in their lives, they are often so very old themselves. But to see
these, one succeeding to another, ever young, ever enthusiastic, with
literally no cares, and just as much work as was good for them, and
to be allowed to enter into their life, to become part of the school,
this rendered possible by their wonderful generosity, was to realise
all the liberality of their environment and the beauty of their homes.
I have come to Winchester oftentimes with a heart almost broken with
sorrow; that heart-break has never lasted out one hour. Of course there
is another side. We English deem that because a system suits eighty
out of every hundred boys, it must suit the other twenty, and so the
other twenty have to come to school. It is an atmosphere where they
do not develop, where what is best and truest in them seems to be for
ever driven back into their own hearts, until the best ceases to be
good and sometimes becomes the worst--boys timid in will, weak in body,
real cowards in spirit, they cannot help it. If parents, discovering
such a one in their family, would devise some other method of education
for them, it would be better for them and better for schools, for it
is these boys who bring out in others whatever is vulgar and cruel,
and there is latent vulgarity and cruelty in most boys from fourteen
to sixteen. The best set of Prefect’s eyes cannot be everywhere, and
consequently little eyes are sometimes dimmed with tears, and little
hearts are broken. And then there are bad boys. Take any four hundred
men, women, or girls, and you will find bad ones amongst them. And
badness has a strange way of impressing itself on others. Thank God, at
that age it does not sink very deep, the bad is very superficial, and
leaves little or no mark behind it. Oh, the blessed power of recovery
in the young!
We have two great blessings at Winchester. We are a small school--only
four hundred--and none of our men are very rich. There is a perfect
friendliness between all the masters and the men. Of course, I have
heard words of anger against Dons, but I have never known a real
hard thought about one of them. It is an extraordinary friendliness,
and this friendliness passes down into the whole school. There are
generations of brothers, coming one after the other, sometimes three
in the same house at the same time, the greatest safeguard possible.
And, above all, a deep, wholesome, religious spirit--not perhaps what
would satisfy exact theologians, but manly and straightforward. For as
I believe of my own children at Landport, so I believe of Winchester
men. All that is necessary for the soul’s salvation is all that it
is necessary for a boy to learn--the power of prayer, the power of
repentance, the power of the Sacraments, and these can be learned long
before a boy comes to school--his mother the one priceless teacher.
We need at school the opportunity of testing the religion learned,
far more than of learning religion, and when the boy is equipped
with the simple armour which I have spoken of, he is well prepared
for every emergency of temptation. I remember a little lad once
saying to me, when I saw him working late at night, “I am mugging
John.” I suppose when boys reach the sixth form they are intellectual
enough to understand criticism, even of the Greek Testament; but I
deprecate myself the Bible in any case being turned into a school
book, and I think the parents who imagine that they can impose upon
the school-master their duty of teaching religion to their children,
inflict on their children a cruel wrong, on the master an impossible
task.
I would I had the power to write what I feel about Winchester. I would
I had words to make you feel how I have realised the magnificence of
its great tradition--an unbroken chain of upright English gentlemen,
holding the most useful place in their nation’s history; not perchance
the most brilliant, but certainly amongst the most dependable men of
their time--and how earnestly I believe that this tradition is realised
by almost every man in the school, and that the nation will realise it
just as truly in times to come as in times past.
This intimate knowledge of men at school naturally led to my knowing
many of their families, in Winchester language their “pitch-up”; and
truly the Mission has discovered a new interpretation of that notion,
if not perhaps its origin; for I think almost every family that I have
known has contributed to the funds of the Mission, not only in money,
but in clothes, in asking parties of us to spend the day with them,
sometimes even in supporting cases that we were very anxious about.
It has led, too, to a kind of association of prayer for the Mission’s
welfare, composed of relatives of past and present Wykehamists. Miss
Wigram, of South Lodge, Champion Hill, S.E., the sister of
“The Cat” and “The Kitten,” would be glad to give particulars.
Once or twice a year, too, I was able to go up to Oxford, sometimes
to Cambridge, and thus keep in touch with the men there. There is
something especially charming in this hospitality, though I doubt if
one could stand it for very long, unless one could discover the curious
secret of Mr. Lucraft. There is perhaps nothing more attractive than
seeing a man act host for the first time, especially when he has got
the kitchens and plate-closet of Magdalen behind him. I remember on
one visit a distinguished Low Church clergyman suddenly asking me
what I had been doing for the spread of religion, and I could only
answer, “Taking three square meals a day.” I think he was very much
shocked; but you will likely understand that under this hospitality
there was hidden a true generosity, and an interest in the Mission and
myself. New College was naturally my head-quarters, and men took really
extraordinary pains to arrange that I should see as many Wykehamists
as possible at the different centres of hospitality, and I have always
thought that taking trouble, certainly at Oxford, was the greatest
proof of taking real interest. God, too, allows one to speak more
plainly at Oxford than one could at Winchester, and there come into
my memory now many conversations full of the deepest interest. At any
rate, it is a great privilege to have won the right to speak, even if
men did not always follow the advice given, and letters received years
after the conversation--many received since men knew that I was leaving
Landport--almost induce me to flatter myself that the Mission has been
a much greater help than at the time I ever realised. Of course, it is
natural that men who knew me at Winchester should have some interest
in the Mission, one would have been disappointed if they had not; but
to discover that a large number of old Wykehamists were cordially
ready to befriend us, not only with money, but with sympathy, was a
very astonishing revelation to me. The larger part of the money has
come from them; and when you think that it was given into the hands
of a socialistic Ritualist to use and to distribute, you can measure
something of the generosity. It would not be becoming for me to mention
names, but if this book falls into the hands of men who have been on
the Committee, especially the Treasurers and Secretaries for the last
ten years, I would like them to realise how their loyalty to us has
been one of the chief factors in a generous Wykehamical support, which
gave us the grace of perseverance in the most difficult time of our
work. I am conscious, as no one else can be, how often my own actions
have strained this loyalty. I know that not only old Wykehamists, but
even the school authorities themselves, have often been very severely
tried by things we have deemed it our duty to say or to do. Sometimes
a word in a letter, or reading between the lines, might suggest
caution to us, but never during the whole of these ten years has any
single word been said by anyone in authority, or by others who had
gained the right by having contributed to our funds, that could be
construed into any other meaning than the tenderest love and the truest
desire to help. Perhaps there could be no greater sign of that real
liberalism that permeates every true Englishman, in whatever camp,
either political or religious, circumstance may have placed him. To
Wykehamists at Oxford or Cambridge, to men in the City and at the Bar,
to soldiers scattered throughout the world, and to priests working at
home and abroad, to schoolmasters, Indian civilians, and to Bishops, I,
who have failed in my endeavour to do some work for Winchester, venture
to offer my heartiest thanks for innumerable acts of kindness and
generosity during these ten years.
XIV.
=Our Method of Services.=
I hope through all this description of social work at Landport,
Winchester, Oxford, and elsewhere, you have been able to read a
deeper truth than mere Socialism even at its best. The lesson which
is the foundation of all work like ours is that, however earnestly
you may strive to change circumstances, you must realise that change
of character is the thing to be aimed at, and practically if you
do not achieve this, you have hardly achieved anything at all. And
I know but one method by which this change of character can be
effected, the method of Jesus Christ, not merely to show to people
the perfection and beauty of His character--that oftentimes might
lead only to despair--but to enable them, by the means which He
Himself has ordained, to be partakers of His very nature. To say to a
poor sin-ruled creature, whom you know all his old companions, every
public-house door as it swings open, will allure into the ways of sin
again, “Be like Jesus, be good,” is only making a demand that you
yourself know can never be fulfilled. But to be able to say to him,
“Here is this Jesus, Who for your sake became a real man, as you are
a man, Who worked in the carpenter’s shop, earning, with the sweat
of His brow, daily bread for Himself, His dear mother, and her
husband, Who was disappointed and injured by His friends as well as
by His enemies, Who was really tempted by the devil, Whose life in
many respects was just like your own, Who never turned away His face
from any poor wretched outcast, but spoke to them tenderly and gently
words of love and hope, Who when He could do no more for you by way of
example, willed to die for you: having nothing else to give, He gave
His own life-blood, and in the giving of that, won for you a power of
union with Himself, that though you must do your part, and be sorry
for your sins, and try to be better, He will as surely do His part by
letting His precious blood wash away your sin, and strengthen you to
live an amended life. Here is this Jesus standing as it were between
the living and the dead, so few, few living, so many, many dead, dead
with a death more terrible by far than the worm and corruption can
effect, for they but touch the outward covering of a man, with a death
which has destroyed the real life, the knowledge that God was their
Father, that they had souls capable of everything that was beautiful
and true. Here is Jesus, Who can give even to the clumsy vulgar body
the power of doing gracious acts, of speaking true words, Who can
give to the intellect the power of realising true noble ideals, and
so assimilating them, that they may become a very fibre of their
thoughts.” In almost all our people there was this death, this living,
hopeless, faithless death. Who could deliver them from the body of
this death? One Who could restore to them faith in the supernatural,
hope in themselves, love towards their fellow-men. No preaching can do
this. I believe nothing can but the Blessed Sacrament. The compassion,
which Jesus learned in the trials of His life, taught Him to realise
that man, if he is to be touched, must be touched in his entirety,
that an attempt to deal with him spiritually alone is bound to fail.
How Christ-destroying is all that theology that tries to be wiser and
more spiritual than the Christ! The Blessed Sacrament is not only the
prolongation of the Incarnation in the world, but it is a means by
which Jesus wills that He shall be apprehended by the multitude. And
so ten and a half years ago I set before myself this as the method
of my ministry. Some I know make the Blessed Sacrament the crown of
their religion. I desired to make it the foundation as well. As the
Incarnation is the revelation to us of God the Father, so the Divine
Son wills to be known in the breaking of bread.
[Illustration: OUR CHOIR AND ACOLYTES.]
How far we succeeded in this, the following letter from Father Maturin
will show:
“ST. ANDREW’S, N.B.,
“_April 1st, 1896_.
“MY DEAR DOLLING,
“The wrench from S. Agatha’s must be a great one for you, and
I deplore it very much. For I had exceptional opportunities of
seeing behind the scenes into the real work, and its effects
upon the people, during the mission which Robinson and I gave
there a few months ago. Some things have left an impression upon
my mind which I shall never, I think, quite forget.
“One was the extraordinary simplicity and reality of the
people’s worship. I do not think I have ever seen anything
quite like it in the Church of England, though I have had a
rather exceptionally wide experience of different parishes in
England and America. The stiffness and formalism which haunts
us and hampers us everywhere, was not known at S. Agatha’s.
You somehow succeeded in laying that ghost, and in teaching
the people that the church is their home, where they should
behave as if they are at home. Men came and went there as to a
place of rest which they loved. Some time ago the Archbishop
of Canterbury, and other bishops, made a move to have the
churches left open for private prayer, but the people seldom use
them. Somehow at S. Agatha’s they do use their church; it had
the appearance of being homelike and in constant use. I have
often gone into some of our best-known churches in London in
the daytime, and felt chilled and lonely. I have a very vivid
memory of two occasions, amongst others, at S. Agatha’s--one
was a Saturday during the mission, when I had to go over to
Southampton, and coming back in the afternoon I went straight
to the church, and found many people in the church on their
knees, and a constant stream of people coming and going. The
other occasion was your last day at S. Agatha’s. I got there
late in the evening, and found a large congregation saying their
own prayers, no service, and the people seeming to feel no need
of help, but knowing themselves how to lay their needs before
God. I shall never forget that devout congregation kneeling in
perfect stillness in the dark church, having apparently learnt
that lesson so hard to teach, especially to those who can’t
read, how to pour out their souls to God. It was the same at the
Masses and other services; the people seemed to know how to pray.
“If you ask me to what this quite exceptional power of prayer is
to be attributed, I think I can say without hesitation that, so
far as I could judge, I should trace it to two things:
“(i.) One is your constantly keeping up their interest in all
that was going on amongst them, by telling them of the needs and
troubles of others, and suggesting prayers, _extempore_ and
others, to them. I could feel myself its power, and the way in
which the people appeared to have grown used to bringing their
own and others’ difficulties constantly before God. Rigidity had
to bend and yield before this, and it did, and real personal
devotion took its place. At the same time the regular services
in no sense lost any of their dignity. I have never seen a more
dignified and devout Mass anywhere.
“(ii.) The other cause to which I attribute so much of the
spirit of prayer, and the chief one, was that the people,
however poor and ignorant, seemed to have a grasp upon and a
love of the Blessed Sacrament such as I have seldom, if ever,
seen elsewhere. Their worship and their Christian life centred
round it. You had wholly banished from their minds the idea
that the Presence was only confined to the act of communion.
It was enough for them to know the Blessed Sacrament was upon
the altar, to crowd to the church--that attraction which draws
Christendom was exercising its full sway over them, and the
result was what one would expect. I feel convinced by what I
saw, that we shall never get people to realise the Real Presence
in all its fulness without reservation. The poorest at S.
Agatha’s ‘knew what they worshipped.’
“No doubt along with all this there must have been careful and
thorough teaching, but of that I will not speak. Only one other
thing I will notice, though I might speak of many things. I
was very much struck with the very extraordinary conversions.
Some of those who had led very bad lives a few years before,
appeared to have broken from the past in a way I have seldom
seen before, and in the place of vice and degradation there was
an extraordinary refinement; the past seemed gone. I have some
cases especially in my mind at this moment. I believe--indeed,
I have no doubt--this was owing in part, at least, to the fact
that probably these poor people had never resisted; for they
had never had the offer of the grace of the Sacraments, and
with the first waking of conscience came the blessing of the
knowledge of the Catholic Faith in its fulness. I should like to
have taken some of those who criticise any departure from rigid
conformity to Prayer Book methods, to see what I saw. Certainly
no good results would justify anything that is wrong, but I
conceive that, so far as I could see, the methods of S. Agatha’s
were no greater a departure from Prayer Book ways than is used,
I suppose, in the vast majority of parishes in England.
“But I must not write more. I only hope that S. Agatha’s may go
on for the future upon the lines so well and so prayerfully laid
down.
“Ever affectionately yours,
“B. W. MATURIN.”
Dr. Linklater built a very fitting Mission Church; it seated about five
hundred people, and I found Celebrations on Sunday at seven and eight,
morning and evening prayer, and a children’s service; and on week-days,
Celebrations twice a week, and evensong every night. I felt that it
would be wiser to leave the Sunday services unchanged for two years,
supplementing them if I saw it was needed. But the week-day services
I took in hand very soon after I came. For my brother priests and for
my workers, it was very soon necessary to have a daily Celebration,
not only for the nourishment of our own souls, but to give us the
opportunity of pleading that Sacrifice for the whole body of Christ’s
Church, and especially for the wants of our own district. I say it with
the fullest confidence, that this daily Celebration has been the chief
strength of the parochial life.
But here, at the very outset, we were met by the difficulty of that
rubric about three communicants, which seems to have become the
shibboleth which proves loyalty or otherwise to the Church of England.
Our numbers made it almost impossible for us to arrange for three
communicants each morning, even if I could conscientiously have done
this. I am told that there are churches which qualify for saying a
daily Mass by arranging that three people will be responsible for each
morning in the week. I can understand few customs that are so likely
to injure souls. Very soon one and another beside the clergy and
helpers began to drop in. Remember, the poor have no room where they
can pray alone. The church becomes for them the customary place where
prayer is to be made, except the very brief morning and evening prayer.
The Celebrations, too, were offered on the different mornings with
different intentions. Soldiers, sailors, and emigrants one morning,
Penitentiary work another, and so on. Often the silent tears trickling
down a woman’s face would show you she was praying for her own boy or
her own girl. To these poor feeble folk, with no power of prayer or
concentration of mind, with but few words which they can use, even in
their daily intercourse, the knowledge that their just saying “Jack”
or “Mary” as they knelt in silence, was the truest intercession,
gathering all the sighs and tears of their heart in union with that
all-sufficient Sacrifice, which alone could bring joy and peace to
Jack or Mary. I had a better right to know this, for often as I went
up into the vestry a name would be whispered in my ear, or a little
piece of paper pressed into my hand. I think when I first told this
to Bishop Thorold, he feared it was a kind of superstition, but when I
could assure him that this grace of prayer gained before the Blessed
Sacrament became the custom of the whole life, he no longer thought
that we were making a superstitious use of it, or were training people
to trust so in this great gift of God that they could not realise His
presence elsewhere.
Soon, too, we found it necessary to arrange a special place for
communicants. We had been able from the first to exercise a great deal
of discipline in the parish. Remember the Church of England is the only
religious body which exercises no discipline about Holy Communion.
Of course, a great deal can be said on the side of the liberty of
the communicant, and his being the best judge of his worthiness to
receive. But surely something may be said on the other side, the duty
of the priest to consider the Blessed Sacrament as a great trust.
Practically I am sure it is a great hindrance to the authority of the
Church among large numbers of people. Over and over again, in talking
to earnest Nonconformists, they have expressed to me their wonder and
amazement that we, who profess to honour the Blessed Sacrament so
much, should actually take no pains to see it is not profaned. Their
admirable system of letters of commendation at once puts the new-comer
in communication with their church authorities, and it enables those
authorities to judge about the man’s fitness for Communion. I received
a curious letter bearing upon this from an earnest Christian the other
day. “When I was young and strong I devoted myself to organising in
certain fields of philanthropy. I was a Churchman, and I taught both
in the Sunday Schools of Conformity and Nonconformity. It will seem to
you, perhaps, terribly lax, but I saw no valid reason why I should not
communicate in the chapel as well as regularly in my parish church.
Before I was allowed to attend Communion at the chapel, I had to
undergo a solemn probation. At the church no question of any kind was
put to me, my fitness was entirely treated as either my own affair or a
matter of indifference.” At any rate, I am perfectly sure of this, that
it would be fatal in a Mission district to offer the Sacraments freely
without fencing them round with all possible discipline.
There is another great inconvenience in not knowing the number of
communicants; sometimes too many Hosts are consecrated, sometimes too
few. I suppose that three week-day mornings out of the six we had no
communicants. It seemed to me, therefore, a perfectly profane thing
to invite people to receive the Communion, to turn round and say “to
them that come to receive the Holy Communion,” when I knew no one
was coming, most solemn, nay, awful words, then to allow my minister
to make confession, perhaps the most grave and weighty possible in
language, “in the name of all those who are minded to receive the Holy
Communion,” when he and I knew that no one was so minded, and, still
more profane, to pronounce an absolution over those who have made no
confession, or if they have, had no right to make that confession. Thus
one set of rubrics and prayers in the Prayer Book landed me on the
horns of a dilemma; either I was compelled to say what I knew was a
mockery, or to give up my daily celebration. Ninety-nine clergymen out
of a hundred, finding another rubric as to giving notice of Communion
and another exhortation a difficulty, get rid of the difficulty by
disregarding the rubric and by leaving the exhortation unsaid. Why
should I not do the same?
The same kind of difficulty had to be faced with regard to the week-day
evening service. It was wretchedly attended, and I do not wonder. We
are told that in pre-Reformation times people came readily to the
week-day offices. But what proof have we of this? Was the daily office,
of which our Matins and Evensong is a survival, ever frequented by the
laity? Perhaps people will answer that there is no obligation for the
laity to go to church on a week-day, though the obligation has from
the earliest days, I believe, been binding on the clergy to say their
offices. Therefore these offices were constructed for the use of the
clergy. But in a Mission district, where the people are practically
heathen, and where you have little chance of instructing them except
in church, the service of necessity must be such that they can join
in it with edification. I believe you want two kinds of worship--one
very dignified and ornate, which enables them to realise that they are
making an offering to the Lord of Heaven and Earth, the other very
simple and familiar, that they are talking to a loving Father Who knows
all their needs and wants to help them. If you had the ornate worship
alone, there would be a danger of mere ritualism. If you had the
familiar worship alone, there might be a danger of what some people
seem to be so unnaturally afraid of--too much familiarity. At any rate,
saying Evensong every night, you would certainly have neither of the
dangers, but, on the other hand, you would have none of the educational
or heart-touching power.
I am not venturing to make any suggestion about churches except such
as those in my own district. But when we had said evening prayer to
empty benches for a year, we thought the thing was hopeless. People
would come to a prayer meeting in the Mission room, or in one of our
own rooms, but they would not come to church, which was the very place
where we wanted to get them. But directly we began a prayer meeting in
church many people came, and God granted to us such visible proofs--His
answer seen by all the people--that many times during the year, because
we have continued the prayer meetings on Monday ever since, people
would come with some special need, quite sure that, in some way or
another, God would answer it. The Bishop of Guildford made it a strong
point in his endeavour to arrange matters with the Bishop of Winchester
that we should give up this extempore prayer, but I would rather have
left the Mission than done so.
Then on Thursdays we began the Vespers of the Blessed Sacrament. This
Bishop Harold Browne also objected to till he had read it, and then he
said it was one of the most beautiful and scriptural services he had
ever seen. I expect a good deal of ecclesiastical troubles might be
stopped if Bishops would see things before they condemned them. The
same psalms being always sung in the Vespers, the antiphon drawing
out, as it were, the sacramental meaning of the psalm, was a wonderful
education; the cope, the acolytes, and the incense, added a great
dignity, a dignity which, at S. Agatha’s, has never been stilted or
unnatural; and the impress of this act of solemn worship upon many
an ignorant heart left a true sense of the dignity of worship and a
glimpse of the supernatural. Those who can read little, learn through
ear and eye. These psalms, too, have been a great heritage to many of
our people. I have known many a pain-stricken one recite them over
and over again, a grace which certainly would never have been gained
by saying different psalms every evening. And no one who has ever
seen them at S. Agatha’s can doubt the power of the Stations. As I
sit thinking now, I have not the courage to speak of them; but Friday
after Friday they were like a great sob going up from the heart of this
sinful place, to tell Jesus how sorry we were that we had been His
very murderers, driving the thorns into His head, and the nails into
His hands and feet. The objection to Compline, that the congregation
absolved the priest, was so strangely ignorant, that the Bishop
withdrew it at once. Thus our week-day services took their present
form, which have continued the last eight years, with generally a
little sermon added. The common people always hear gladly.
Very soon the difficulty about the children pressed upon us. They
certainly had no conception of reverence or of worship. After much
prayer and consideration, I determined that the only solution was to
have a Children’s Mass. I wonder if any parish priest has ever been
blessed with such Sunday School teachers as I have; many had taught
for Dr. Linklater; and though I don’t think they liked me at all at
first--they thought I was very rough and severe--they loyally stuck to
me. At first, when we spoke of the Children’s Mass, many of them seemed
to object to it; but a year’s hard work had well prepared the children
for it. I was permitted to use the book in use at St. Alban’s, Holborn,
and so got rid of that awful difficulty of inattentive children, for
in this book they are employed from the time they come into church
till they go out, either listening to the priest in those parts of
the service which he says aloud, or, while he is saying his private
devotions, being led by some responsible person in their own. What
wonderful services these have been. How they have trained boys and
girls naturally to come on to Communion. How they have impressed every
child with the dignity and solemnity of worship. How they have taught
them to realise God and the supernatural. And almost all this is due
to the devotion of the teachers. It is invidious, perhaps, to mention
names, but all the teachers will understand why dear Barratt’s name and
Miss Damerum’s come to my mind; they stand as a kind of representatives
of the rest. And, if I might add one special parochial benefit, the
Children’s Mass gave us the first idea of the congregation singing
their own Mass, for the children had no choir, and yet they sang Creed,
Gloria, Benedictus, Agnus, everything.
This giving the children a service of their own mercifully got rid
of them from Matins at 11 o’clock. Soon the older people, coming in
at the end of the children’s service, began to ask why they could not
have the same kind of service. There were, however, two difficulties in
the way. I felt bound to make no alteration in the morning and evening
services on Sundays until I had been in the parish for two years. What
a blessed probation this was, for it gave us time to train choir,
acolytes, and congregation. When I told the original choir that they
would have to go out of the chancel, which was very small and confined,
and virtually sit in a corner, and that there would be a Celebration
instead of Matins, they nearly all objected to the alteration. I am
afraid I had tried them very much before; I always have been very
hard on choirs. I had made them give up singing Gregorians--I never
yet heard congregational Gregorians. Then when Major Foote kindly
joined the choir, when he was stationed at Portsmouth, and tried to
teach them proper time, etc., with one accord they suggested that they
could not learn to sing right, and he must accommodate his singing to
theirs. I am afraid, as I have said, I was very hard on them, and not
nearly patient enough. So we had to get a new choir ready when they
would leave, train a set of acolytes, and teach the congregation.
Nothing is more fatal than to introduce any change which people do
not thoroughly understand. On Sunday nights, after Evensong, most
of the congregation used to remain behind. I showed them all the
vestments one by one, I made them follow in the Prayer Book every word
of the service, I made them learn, to two easy settings of the Holy
Communion, all the parts they had to sing, and this without any choir.
I also explained to them all about the incense. I made them, either in
rows, or individually, stand up and answer questions to show that they
understood. At first, of course, they were shy, but Blind Willie, who,
one might almost say, was divinely taught in these things, began by
answering, and the others soon followed. We have never given up this
habit of catechising, and so every change in worship has been well
understood by the whole congregation. Some of our first acolytes have
gone away from Portsmouth, some have married and given their place
to others, some, like dear George Norton, are still upon the altar.
Surely no place has ever been served like S. Agatha’s. Their wonderful
simplicity, their utter want of mannerism, not a ritualist amongst them
all. From the first we had given out notice that no one could receive
Communion at the children’s service unless they had previously given
in their names. This we had done in anticipation of the Sunday when
Matins should be said at 9 o’clock, and the Holy Eucharist become the
central act of our worship. No one had given in their names on that
first Sunday morning, so we did not expect any communicants. But, while
the children’s service was going on, three smartly-dressed ladies came
in, and, not content to kneel like other people at the bottom of the
church until that service was over, pushed their way up amongst the
children, whispering and looking about, to the utter amazement of the
children, who judged from their teachers that it was utterly impossible
that a grown-up person could behave badly in church. Seeing them in
the front pew before the service began at 11, I ventured to ask them
why they had come, and they said they had heard that this was such
a curious church that they would like to see it, and that they were
going to receive the Holy Communion. I found that they had come from
close to S. Jude’s Church. I saw by their manners that our church would
disconcert them very much, and certainly not help them in preparing for
a good Communion, so I whispered to the verger to get a cab, and, as
soon as it came, I said, “It will be much better for you to make your
Communions at S. Jude’s, as you have not given me notice.” So I walked
down the church with them, put them into the cab, and paid the driver.
Luckily this story got repeated, and that, together with the discomfort
of the church, has largely kept sightseers away. Perhaps you will think
I was very severe upon these ladies, but I am sure it was one of the
most useful lessons I have ever given, both to them and to my people as
well. Nothing can be so bad as going to a church because we hear that
the preaching or the service is curious. One such person mars the whole
atmosphere of religion, and, above all, I was anxious to keep Southsea
people away, except those who worshipped with us from conviction.
Soon we added a dignity to the Evensong by vesting the officiant in
a cope, and offering incense at the Magnificat. But I think I can
say that there have been no changes in the services or ritual of
S. Agatha’s during the last eight years, except that we have added
services for men and women alone, a second Celebration daily, and an
extra one on the first Sunday in the month, and evening prayer daily
at 6.30; so that when we went into our new church we had five services
daily, eight services every Sunday, and ten on the first Sunday in the
month.
During the winter, too, late at night, so as to catch the impossibles,
my dear friend Hobbs, chief school-master on the _Vernon_, enabled
us to give a magic-lantern service, which was extremely valuable.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: COMMUNICANTS’ LEAGUE, 1895.]
Very largely, too, we have been helped in all this by our blind
organist, dear Richard Whittick. There is a wonderful tenderness in
the sympathetic touch of a blind player, and he has given a note of
refinement to the whole of our services, playing on the worst organ
that ever was built, and yet bringing music out of it. The services
made a great demand upon him, because we required him almost every
night, and so it was very lucky for him that Mr. Attree, the organist
of the Dockyard Church, relieved him on Thursday evenings, and at two
of the Sunday services. We owe to Mr. Attree many of the beautiful
photographs with which this book is illustrated. By the way, among the
other things I have to pay, though I only had the use of it for six
weeks, is £225 to Messrs. Hill for our new organ. Perhaps it is to our
present choir that my greatest apologies are due, for they have quite
willingly altogether effaced themselves, content merely to lead the
congregation, and to have whatever music and hymns I thought best.
And yet we all felt that in moving into a new church the choir needed
strengthening, and so, when dear Mr. Roe left us because his health
had broken down, God sent the Reverend Stanley Gresham, the exact
man we needed. With the boys and the choirmen he really did wonders,
and he is only just another instance, if we needed one, how from
September, 1885, till January, 1896, we have never lacked either
the persons or the things which we needed. There were ninety-nine
communicants on our first Easter Sunday, and over five hundred on our
last Easter Sunday. “Increase Celebrations, encourage non-communicating
attendance, and you will lessen the number of communicants.” How often
this is said. Let S. Agatha’s answer it. “Teach too much about the
Blessed Sacrament, give people an exaggerated belief about it, and
you will train them to neglect other church services; their objective
worship will destroy their subjective faith in God.” Let S. Agatha’s
answer. “Have all these ornate services, increase this ritualism, press
confession, and you will alienate the lay people, and drive worshippers
away from their own church.” Let S. Agatha’s answer. For ten years
we have taught and encouraged non-communicating attendance. Our
communicants had outgrown our Mission Church. We had taught practically
nothing else but that the Blessed Sacrament is the revelation of
Christ, Who is the revelation of the Father. Not only our Eucharists
but our other services were filled to overflowing, and faith in Christ
as a personal Saviour, and the Father as a personal Providence, had
permeated the whole of our parish. For ten years we have taught
confession, heard confessions openly in church, for eight years we
have had all these ritualistic services, and though five times the
Bishop of the Diocese has seen fit to summon us to his presence, and
to remonstrate with us upon some practice or doctrine, yet no single
complaint has ever been made by one person in our parish.
XV.
=Our Method of Religion.=
Of course, the actual church services must, in every well-ordered
parish, be supplemented by a considerable amount of religious work
outside the church, and our first object being to make Communion a
real bond of union between us all, we strove by Bible Classes, and by
private instruction, to either prepare for Confirmation, or, if people
had already been confirmed, to restore them to their privileges. I
differ, I know, from many of my brethren about the age of Confirmation.
Very seldom has anyone been presented at S. Agatha’s under fourteen,
and I should think that more than half of those confirmed were over
twenty, many of them much older. The preparation took about four months
each year, the lady-workers taking the girls and young women, I the
married women, and my assistant clergy sharing with me the boys and
men. Classes had often to be held at half-past nine, and even later,
our younger people worked so late. It was possible to weed out a great
many during the first two months, those who could but would not attend,
and those who, though attending, showed by their manner that they had
no real interest in it. I am sure it was far better to repress rather
than over-encourage, and if there was any grit or desire, those who
were refused were bound to offer themselves next year. It was of the
utmost importance for their mates and companions not to make it too
cheap. The individual work, if it was only ten minutes a week, was
infinitely more precious than all classes, and then there were the
three final preparations in church, of which I have spoken before.
We never made confession compulsory--I do not think that it would be
honest in the Church of England to do so--and though instances occurred
in which one was sorry one could not, and believed that it would
have been greatly to the benefit of the candidate, yet on the other
hand, one realised the great danger it would have been if it had been
forced, and therefore not really natural. On the whole, I am inclined
to believe that the voluntary system in this, as in most other things,
is really the best. It is wonderful what experience these Confirmation
seasons gave to us. Last night I was preaching at Kennington, and the
parish priest told me, “The people here say that you seem to know
all about them and their lives.” I am quite sure all this knowledge
came from my Confirmation work at Landport. There is a simplicity and
naturalness in people without any veneer of society, so that, when they
trust you, they will literally tell you anything about themselves, and
very often those who, when they first came to us, would have scoffed
at the idea of making a confession, practically made their confessions
long before they formally did so.
We had ten Confirmations during my time, and 580 people were confirmed.
And here you will see that the great difficulty of a parish like
ours, and one of its chief sorrows, are the migratory habits of
the population, especially amongst the men; 46 of these have become
soldiers and sailors, 38 have been emigrated, 141 have left the town,
30 have moved too far away from the church to remain communicants with
us, and 40 are dead. Thus more than half have passed away from our
immediate influence, and no longer strengthen the parochial life. Of
the 285 who remain, 46 have lapsed altogether from Communion, 37 are
irregular communicants, about three or four times a year, and 202 are
members of the Communicants’ League, most of them communicating once a
month. It is over these lapsed ones that we sorrow most, and there come
up before one’s mind, now that one has no further chance with them, so
many wasted opportunities. It is only God Who is never hopeless about
any single soul, but Whose divine excuse, “They know not what they do,”
is said continually for even the most sinful in the moments of their
greatest depravity. I am sure that if we could only have translated
into our ministry something of this hope, this excuse, I should not
have to write the awful words, “46 lapsed,” and yet, thank God, the
judgment of their having lapsed is only our judgment, not His, and
perhaps He might write over us, that if we were only more honest we
would have lapsed too. Remember, nothing in their surroundings urges
them towards religion. How many of us, especially the clergy, are
religious because we needs must. Many of those who have gone away write
to us continually, and we know all about them, but, except by their
prayers, they can no longer strengthen S. Agatha’s. If all these had
stayed our Easter Communion would have been over eight hundred instead
of five hundred. The following letter just received will show how a boy
we prepared for Confirmation fulfilled his obligations:
“SYDNEY, N.S.W.,
“_February 11th, 1896_.
“DEAR FATHER DOLLING,
“After a very long silence, I again write these few lines to
you, hoping to find you in good health; and also to let you
know that I am still alive and well, and (thanks to your kind
teaching) I am living a sober and quiet life, and have done so
since I came out here. But I should very much like to see you
again, and also dear old S. Agatha’s. I am making Melbourne my
home when I am on shore, and I attend Christ Church, South Yarra
(Canon Tucker). Do you know him? He is a good man. I have quite
lost sight of W----. I think that he must either be dead or gone
home again. The times are getting better out here, as there are
thousands of people flocking to the West Australian gold-fields.
But they die there by hundreds. I want to ask you one favour. I
should like to have one of your cabinet photos like you used to
sell at the shop. Do send me one. So now I think I must draw to
a close. With kind regards to all and best wishes,
“I remain, yours faithfully,
“W. H. L----.”
And here is a letter about a boy whom we emigrated three years ago,
about whom we were extremely doubtful, but who has done so well that he
is trying to emigrate his family.
“EAST END EMIGRATION FUND,
“_March 26th, 1896_.
“DEAR SIR,
“You will be glad to hear that I received the following report
from our agent in Montreal with reference to this family:--
“‘I went three times to Bluebonnets to see Stigant before I met
him. He married a few months ago; he and his wife seem very
happy and comfortable. He has only two rooms at present, but
has rented a good house for the 1st May. He is quite confident
he can procure work for Stevens and his brothers on arrival. He
seems an earnest, steady fellow, and I think his people will get
along very well with him. They might come on the first ship,
arriving here about May 1st.’
“I feel sure that you will be glad to hear this satisfactory
report of young Stigant.
“Yours truly,
“WALTER BARRATT.”
I do not suppose that anyone considers that the Tractarian movement, in
its later developments, has been a pure gain to the Church of England.
I can remember, when I was a lad, a week’s preparation for the monthly
Communion, in which all the family shared, the mentioning of it at
daily family prayer, the putting off of engagements during the week,
the private talks both with my father and my mother, and thanksgiving
at family prayer the night after. We who talk so condescendingly of the
past have very grievous need to ask ourselves whether, while religion
has increased, piety has decreased; and whether the multiplication of
weekly communicants really and truly means better Communions, and does
not often mean a Communion without preparation before, and without
thanksgiving after. God forbid I should say that this is the case, but
we all know that every privilege entails an increased responsibility,
and that the body is in danger just as much from over, as from
undernourishment, unless that nourishment be perfectly assimilated
to the whole system. At any rate, I endeavoured to keep this thought
before me when planning our only parochial society, which we called
our Communicants’ League. It was unique, at any rate, in one respect:
it had no rules. I have so oftentimes found, in hearing confessions,
how burdensome the rule becomes even of saying a daily collect, and
there is nothing more fatal to the progress of the soul, especially to
the timid soul, than incurring unnecessary responsibilities. I believe
that no member of the League ever passed a day without thinking of
S. Agatha’s, and oftentimes among the ignorant, who have so little
power of expressing themselves, thoughts are the best prayers. But the
League had four suggestions: first, to be present at Mass every Sunday;
secondly, to prepare for Communion on the first Sunday in the month,
if conscience taught, to go to confession, and, if possible, making
the Communion; thirdly, to make it fasting, if possible; fourthly,
to contribute something to the expenses of the parish every quarter,
the sum being left wholly to the conscience of the contributor. None
of these rules were obligatory, but they were almost universally
kept, except as regards making the Communion, because some only came
to Communion once in two months. In order that there might be no
difficulty about the preparation, there were services on Mondays,
for women alone, at 3 p.m.; on Wednesdays, for lads, at 9 p.m.; on
Thursdays, for girls, at 9 p.m.; a general preparation of conscience,
for women, at 8 p.m. on Fridays, for men at 8 p.m. on Saturdays; and I
sat in church practically the whole of the last four days of the week
to hear confessions. The preparation of conscience was very valuable.
I said aloud a commandment, then asked eight or ten questions about
it making a little pause after each question; beyond getting drunk,
doing wrong as they call it, and stealing, the poor have very little
knowledge of what sin is. This system of examination prepared many
for their first confessions. The League has 441 members. On the first
Sunday in the month everybody gives their name as they come into
church, and their Communions are marked in a book. We are able thus
to test their attendance, and also mark change of address, a very
important matter in a migratory parish. The League was responsible,
also, for the Day of Perpetual Intercession, of which I have spoken,
and for a service for men alone on Sunday afternoons.
Once a year, in S. Agatha’s week, we kept a great festival, when we all
supped together, anyone sending what they liked in the way of food.
Sometimes there was too much, though our appetites were generally good.
Sometimes we had not enough. But that was all part of S. Agatha’s
system. At these meetings the whole of the secrets of the parish for
the coming year were disclosed. How splendid our great gymnasium
used to look, filled with tables covered with all kinds and sorts of
things, the most curious puddings, the most extraordinary cakes, in the
funniest plates and dishes. Such an intense union and harmony amongst
us all. Even when I had to say, as I often had, hard, really hard,
things, with what love, what tenderness, were they accepted. I, at any
rate, shall never see the like again, for it is seldom granted twice
to a man in his life to be called to a work like this, for they were
all, in the truest sense, my own children; I had begotten them nearly
all in Jesus Christ, and they have proved their loyalty not, I thank
God, to me, but to our common Master. When I had to leave, all our
farewells were said in church. During those last few days, when they
saw us in the street, they went within doors themselves. And yet, with
all that, not one was absent from their duty to the priest who came to
take temporary charge. No single one said, “Because Mr. Dolling has
left I leave.” They knew their duty was to Christ and His Church, not
to me. And yet it was a very grievous trial to them, so grievous that,
to many of them, it almost meant shipwreck. I think I am committing no
breach of confidence if I let you read one or two of the letters which
I received just after I left.
“DEAR FATHER,
“I went to church on friday night no stations of the cross. I
went on Sunday it looked nice to see the Bishop their for he
looked like us very much cut up. our text was Jesus weep and God
shall wipe away all tears from every eye. it do not matter were
we look weather up high or down low the very bricks seem to say
you cannot do without him but we are all going to be very good
to this father because he speaks so good of you so you must make
haste and get better. I hope Misses Dolling are better.
“I remain yours truly.”
The Bishop referred to is the Bishop of Southwell.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“You didn’t come to see me before you went, and my heart was
too full to come and see you. I have not been to Church yet,
for I have been very poorly, for this job have pretty nigh
broke me up altogether, after sitting under you for ten years,
and never have been inside another church nor chapel since,
and I hope the Bishop won’t close his eyes to go to sleep till
he sends you back again, for I can’t sleep, and I don’t see
for why he should, but, please God, I shall go up to Church in
the week, and go to receive my Communion on Sunday the same as
usual, but I don’t know how I shall feel not to see you there,
nor Miss Dolling, nor nobody. You are gone, but you will never
be forgotten by me. Give my love to Miss Dolling and Miss Blair
and Miss Geraldine and Miss Rowan, and if we do not meet in this
world, I hope we shall in the next, where there won’t be no
sorrow.
“Yours affectionately.”
The Bishop referred to is the Bishop of Winchester.
“Dear rev. farther, the new priest that come is so nice he do
ofer up some beautful prayers and speaks so nice to us all but
ther will never be on that will be nearest our hearts as you
dear farther. O I bless the day I ented St. Agathas that wer I
was first converted and O how your prayers have reached my heart
I have cried may a time over them I have blessed you and I praye
for you and your dear sisters for they was always good and kind
to me a unworthy sinner but my dear Jesus will bless you all for
what you have done for me for he knowed I was one of his lost
sheep that was lost. O my dear Jesus good to me a sinner to take
me back to his foild. I often think of the text the Bishop gave
us. Yea I have loved thee with an everlasting love therefore
with loveing kindness have I drawn thee and it is quite true for
my dear Jesus how gently have he drawn me when I have been in
any trouble I have heard words in my ear ask the Savour to healp
you and he will carry you though, I never mean to neglect my
dear Savour any more I will allways bless him not only with my
lips but with all my live. so no more till I have the pleasure
of writing to you again.
from your most humble servant.”
The Bishop referred to is the Bishop of Guildford, who confirmed her.
“DEAR FATHER
“According to your request I am sending a few words, they will
be but few. I have not been to Church since Thursday Evening
until the 11 celebration this morning. It will, I know, greatly
please you to hear that the Church was quite full, mostly our
own people, and it was a very nice service, ‘Alike, but, oh, how
different.’ How my heart ached to see another priest in your
place, my heart and eyes were full, but I remembered that we had
to trust, wait patiently for the answer to the loving prayer
that was going up to God from every heart of your people, and,
oh, we do hope and pray that the time will soon come when we
shall have you all back again with us. We cannot let you stay
away from St. Agatha’s. Our best love and respects to you and
all the dear ladies. Trusting, dear Father, you will remember us
in all your prayers, I remain in all truth and loyalty,
“Your deeply grieving child in God.”
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“It seems like a dream to-day, more than ever, to be at St.
Agatha’s, without our good Father Dolling and other dear faces,
yet the fact remains but too true, and yet not without you in
the truest sense, for we met together in the Spirit this morning
in the blessed Sacrament, and may our united prayers ascend
to Almighty God to support you and yours and the whole of St.
Agatha’s in this our fiery trial and affliction, and that we
may come forth purged and glorified, and win the victory by His
dear mercy. Hoping yours and dear one’s health may be good, even
after the difficult task of leave taking. We have already made
the acquaintance of Mr. Bull, he is a very nice man indeed, he
preached a very appropriate sermon this morning from 1 Cor.
iii. 13. I think we had a good number of communicants this
morning at 7 o’clock, we were about 20 or 30, and, I believe,
many more at 8. This evening, instead of the Mission Service,
all the communicants who can will meet Mr. Bull in Church for
further acquaintance. Now, with earnest hope of seeing you back
at Portsmouth again very soon in good health, and with prayers
for your own and dear St. Agatha’s welfare,
“Believe me yours very sincerely.”
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“It is not an easy thing to be off with the old love before you
are on with the new. The new clergy are here, and they appear
to be very earnest priests. Of course, one cannot judge how
things will go along yet, but I hope for the best. God never has
deserted St. Agatha’s, and never will. Knowing you will have a
great number of letters to read, I will not bore you with a long
one.
“Yours very truly.”
There was hardly a word of complaint out of four hundred letters,
because they knew it would vex me; but everyone testified to the
heartiness and affection with which they had met the tact and kindness
and sympathy of Fr. Bull. Perhaps I ought not to write all this, but I
feel so proud of them, so thankful to God for them. You will forgive me
inserting a letter which Fr. Bull wrote me after he left.
“RADLEY VICARAGE, ABINGDON.
“DEAR FATHER DOLLING,
“I cannot leave the work at S. Agatha’s without writing to tell
you how deeply impressed I am by all that I have seen during
my six weeks’ charge. I came to the work with many misgivings,
expecting to find your people made sore and irritable by all
the troubles which brought your ministry at S. Agatha’s to a
close. But nothing could have been more beautiful than the
patience with which they bore their sorrow, and the loyalty and
courage with which they carried on the work of the parish.
“The points which made the profoundest impression on me were, I
think, these:
“1. First, the true depth and reality of their love for our dear
Redeemer. I dare not try to describe the manifestation of so
sacred a feeling, but it is enough to say that it made itself
felt in every detail of work and worship, sanctifying what is
sometimes looked upon as secular, inspiring every movement of
ritual, and filling the outward forms of religion with a real
outpouring of the heart.
“2. Then the very healthy type of devotion. It was ‘Jesus only’
in every variety of service; no wandering from the narrow way of
true devotion into the sentimental bye-paths of ‘fancy’ religion.
“3. Real faith in the power of prayer. People at S. Agatha’s had
thoroughly realised that prayer has a great influence on the
course of events, and they prayed with a readiness and fervour
unknown in those places where the spirit of prayer has been
strangled by _the exclusive_ use of unvarying forms. I am
sure that your people learned to pray so well, chiefly in the
training of those services supplementary to matins and evensong.
“4. The combination of discipline and independence. This was
most striking. Men of strong will and very decided character
worked together in perfect harmony, and carried on the work of
the parish with strength and vigour, because they recognised the
difference between liberty and licence and the duty of loyalty.
I found the parish practically self-working.
“5. The happy relationship between priest and people. The people
look on their priest as a father and a friend, and not merely
as a relieving officer to the parish. The account of your life
and work among them, which, I believe, you are preparing, will
explain how this was accomplished. But it will be a joy to you
to know that the lessons you taught are not forgotten, and that
your people readily extend the same confidence and love to any
priest who brings them the same faith and sacraments. This is
only one of many signs which show that you won these souls to
Christ, and not merely to yourself.
“6. I cannot conclude without bearing witness to a fact which
forces itself constantly on the attention of anyone who has seen
the inside of your work; namely, that your faithful teaching of
the doctrine of the Church about the future life, and our duty
to those who have been taken from us for a time, is undoubtedly
the secret of your work at S. Agatha’s. To quote only one of
many pathetic letters I received, one man writes thus: ‘Prayers
for and with our dear ones in paradise is the only thing that
has made life tolerable to me for the last twenty-six years.’
I felt all the time that I only saw a part of that dear family
which you have gathered together round their Father’s table, and
that by far the larger part of those who shared in our prayers
and Sacrifice were wanderers over sea and land in foreign
countries, or souls at rest in paradise.
“Forgive me if anything I have said may seem to be patronising.
You know my only wish is to bear witness to the depth and
soundness of your work, which has been so much misunderstood and
misrepresented. I will not dwell on the kind way in which you
did your best to make my work easy for me, nor on the wonderful
love and patience with which your people welcomed me; it was as
overwhelming as it was undeserved.
“I am, yours very faithfully,
“PAUL B. BULL.”
Many younger clergy and people from a distance wounded by the Bishop’s
action in insisting on a change in our services which had been in use
for eight years, wrote to me about going to Rome, but no such word was
even whispered in S. Agatha’s. And this was not to be wondered at;
for neither from me, nor from my curates, nor from my helpers, had
they ever learned anything distinctly Roman, unless reservation of
the Blessed Sacrament can be so called. We tried to make our religion
manly, natural, dignified, and yet, in the truest sense, homely. Every
word from the altar was spoken plainly, so that everyone could hear it.
There were no concealments from the Bishop or anyone else. If there had
been, I should be there still.
Our one object was to translate into the new church all that there had
been in the old. My first idea of the new church was that it should be
built as plainly as possible. I, who had suffered so much from begging,
deemed it wrong to add any further burden to myself. Besides, I felt
I had already over-exhausted the generosity of my many friends. But
then, God sent Mr. Ball, the architect; and directly I talked to him
I saw how wrong this intention had been. If there is one place which
needs a magnificent and impressive church, it is a slum. He had made
a study of the church architecture which I liked best, and which I
had learned to know in Northern Italy. Directly you enter the new S.
Agatha’s you realise it is a temple of God--of God Eternal, of God
Almighty; and, as it stands now, it has satisfied all my desires.
Every act done at the altar can be seen through the whole church;
every word spoken there, or from the pulpit, can be heard. There is
no use my trying to describe it; I do not think even Mr. Ruskin ever
made us understand what a building is like. I think one of the reasons
why the people at once felt at home in it was because they had been
working for it so long. For two years Miss Wright had been directing
a number of ladies in getting the vestments complete. It is almost
impossible for me to say what S. Agatha’s owes to Miss Wright. Then the
people themselves had bought a chalice and paten, a set of Stations
which cost £140, all of the cassocks; indeed, they had contributed
over £330, all collected in small sums during the last three years.
Winchester had done some special work for us, too. A little boy in Mr.
Smith’s house, who died some years ago, gave us our oak lectern, which
cost £75. College, past and present, clothed with alabaster one of
the pillars of the sanctuary. Three houses gave me nearly £60 for the
oak panelling, on which the names from the old church are translated
into the new. The great central pillar was clothed in alabaster and
marble, and its capital carved in memory of one of my dear lads--a
middy--who died of scarlet fever on board ship, and who had made his
first Communion in old S. Agatha’s. One of the granite pillars was paid
for, and its capital carved in memory of a brother and sister very dear
to me, who died within a year of one another. There is still a debt
of £230 on the ornamentation of the church, part of it due to Messrs.
Powell, who did the beautiful mosaic work in the Lady apse, and whom
I am most anxious to pay off. It is wonderful how the magnificence of
this mosaic work harmonises with the simplicity and beauty of Mr.
Summer’s sgraffitto work. It was a great gift of God to discover an
artist who does not only superintend, but actually, with his own hands,
religiously perfects his work. I felt, as I took my last look at the
church, that it was impossible for me to express in words what I felt I
owe, and what Landport and Winchester people owe, to Mr. Ball and Mr.
Light--a debt which we can never repay. But there is a debt which we
can pay--£100 to Mr. Ball, £1400 to Mr. Light, and £350 to the Bank,
which they have advanced to me on Mr. Light’s account.
[Illustration: NEW S. AGATHA’S.]
My own pressing need of discharging these debts, perhaps, has made
me forget one special benefit of a church like ours. It practically
admits of continuous ornamentation. We have built but the roughest of
brick walls. And I feel that this is of infinite importance, that each
generation should be able to say, “my” church. That hideous desire to
get things finished is the secret of the shoddy, ugly churches which
disfigure Christianity, and having to pay nothing for them is one of
the greatest wrongs that can be done to a congregation. These great
wall-spaces of Italian architecture are designed for the very purpose
of being the ignorant man’s Bible, and the poor man’s opportunity of
offering his mite to God; and I have no doubt that S. Agatha’s people
will, by degrees, create it, what Mr. Ruskin says S. Mark’s is to the
Venetians--“an open Bible,” which even the most unlearned and ignorant
may easily read.
XVI.
=A Plea for Toleration.=
My work in Landport is finished. I hand over to the Bishop of
Winchester all necessary plant for the future of S. Agatha’s--Church,
Schools, Mission House, Parsonage, Gymnasium, Clubs, Almshouses--which
the generosity of Wykehamists and my own friends has enabled me to
build for the Church of England. I hand him over a parish with a
communicants’ roll of 441, so united that for ten years there has
never been a difference amongst us, so full of zeal for Holy Religion
that they have created admiration and wonder in the heart of that most
experienced missioner Father Maturin, and who welcomed, without one
single murmur, Father Bull, who took my place, when the Bishop’s demand
for alteration in the services caused me to resign. Into the Bishop’s
hands, and the hands of my successor appointed by Winchester College, I
place this great trust to which God appointed me ten and a half years
ago, and I pray God that they may be able to administer it with greater
zeal, self-denial, and success than I have been able.
I have taken it for granted that this book will generally be read by
those who know S. Agatha’s, and therefore I have frequently spoken
about persons and things without any introduction, knowing that these
readers would know what I meant; but for the sake of others who do
not know me or the work, I should like to make a few explanations.
In the first place “I” always stands for “we,” and “my” always stands
for “ours”; for I have had round me a body of the most devoted helpers
that parish priest ever had, not only my own sisters and the ladies who
lived with them, my fellow-clergy, and the laymen who lived with me,
but the day-school and Sunday-school teachers, the district visitors,
all who served in the church, either on the altar or in the choir,
my own personal clerks, the servants in my own and Miss Dolling’s
house, our shopwoman, and many more too numerous to mention. Every
parochial plan was well discussed by those who had to administer it;
objections were stated, differences were heard, but when once we had
arrived at what was deemed to be the right course, one mouth spoke the
judgment--one brain, one hand, executed it. There was no degradation of
service, there was no unstinted labour, there was no demand on heart
and enthusiasm that I have ever asked and been refused by one of my
workers. I could almost dare to use some of S. Paul’s expressions with
regard to the unselfish loyalty with which I have been supported; and
I know the parish felt that, whether it was they or I; so we preached,
and so they believed. Might I give two instances?
As I have said before, I am an unlearned man, unable to pass even my
“little go” at Cambridge. When Charles Osborne came to me, I had no
knowledge of exact theology at all, except what I had been able to
scrape together during one year at Salisbury Theological College,
where the Rev. E. B. Ottley was particularly kind and patient with
me. But Osborne devoted an hour a day all the time he was with me to
talking theology with me. There is no method of learning so easy as the
conversational method, especially such conversation as his, and when
the opportunity came to me to occupy London pulpits, he prepared the
notes of many of my sermons, and looked up the references; and ever
since he left me, though he now has work almost as time-exhausting as
my own, he has never failed to send me at Lent, and at other times when
I needed them, courses of sermons. I have often felt little better
than a humbug, delivering sermons which are the fruit of his brain.
And when I left Portsmouth, my then secretary followed me to London,
and has remained with me, so as to prevent the compositors who set up
this book committing suicide, or the world being scandalised with my
bad spelling. These are but two little instances of countless acts of
love and devotion which it has been our extraordinary privilege for
the last ten years to enjoy; and when you hear of trades’ unions of
curates and vicars, and of disloyalty on the one side, and humiliations
on the other, I should like you to realise that our work was successful
because, though I was the apparent doer of it, I merely represented
a community bound together by the tenderest ties of mutual service.
People take a very exaggerated view of mission work. It is not only
the pleasantest and most rewarding, but it is really the easiest
done. Preaching about a great deal, and giving retreats and missions,
enables one to judge, I think, pretty fairly of the difficulties of
other clergymen’s work, and I am quite sure that I am speaking only the
literal truth when I say that I have never been in any parish where
the work was as easy as in my own. Of course, we added to ourselves
many things that were not strictly parochial; and if these had not
been begun, and we had merely stuck to working amongst our own people,
this truth would have been even more apparent. Faith in humanity is
the foundation of all mission work, very easy to be attained in a
slum where, every single day, some soul reveals to you progress; very
difficult to attain in a parish where your church is well filled by
a respectable congregation. Then a greater elasticity of method is
allowed, and it was just the attempt to check this that never could
have occurred if Bishop Thorold had lived. And yet I think that if
reasonable people, unprejudiced and unbiassed, would consider the
Prayer Book, and the methods by which it has been interpreted for the
last fifty years, they would be less anxious to desire to curtail this
greater liberty of method.
At best surely the Prayer Book is a compromise, for which, indeed, we
may be most grateful to Almighty God, when we consider the character
of those who constructed it, and the Court pressure under which many
of them were continually coerced. But surely a compromise, fond as we
are of them in England, is never a lasting arrangement. Fifty years ago
people might conscientiously call our Liturgy incomparable, because,
as a witty Irishman said, they had no others to compare it with. But
now, when the inexhaustible treasures of both East and West have been
rediscovered by us, and when those Catholic doctrines, long hidden away
in the hearts of a few learned clerics, were, by the Oxford movement,
scattered broadcast over England, the method by which those doctrines
alone could be understanded of the people, was by interpreting the
Prayer Book according to Catholic ceremonial, and the progress which
has been made in this interpretation is a fact that we, who see its
effects, can hardly appreciate. Is it not true to say that fifty
years ago almost every single Bishop on the English bench would have
proclaimed the priest a traitor, and endeavoured to deprive him, for
doctrines that are taught, and for ceremonies which are performed,
in twenty-five per cent. of the churches in their dioceses to-day?
Remember, the things which have been condemned in S. Agatha’s are done
in a large number of churches in England. Earnest souls everywhere
are crying out for Masses to be said for their dear dead. There is no
service in the Prayer Book appointed for this purpose. But the Catholic
priest who understands and appreciates the piety of this desire, who
believes himself that he has this treasure committed to him by God,
will not surely be deemed disloyal to the Church of England if he
ventures to use either the service in the Prayer Book of Edward VI.,
which our own Prayer Book declares “doth not contain anything contrary
to the Word of God, or to sound doctrine,” or chooses from some ancient
source a like office. It seems to me that this is a far more honest
practice than to use in a forced sense the Commendatory Prayer from the
Visitation of the Sick, the first prayer in the Burial Service, or the
first Good Friday collect, the use which my successor has adopted in
deference, I suppose, to the Bishop’s wish. I know his great integrity
of purpose, and his utter honesty of mind, and, therefore, I am sure
that he considers his method a more honest one than mine. But the chief
thing which commended S. Agatha’s to Bishop Thorold, to my numerous
supporters, and to my poor people, was the plainness of speech and
calling things by their names, which oftentimes superficial gazers
may deem unwise, but which I have ever found to pay in the long run.
But if it might be said that putting in a new prayer is disloyal, no
one can say that leaving out a prayer, or disregarding a rubric is
disloyal. I do not suppose that there is any church in England where
every prayer is said, and every rubric obeyed; nay, the service would
be intolerable, impossible, if it were so. People have, however, a
convenient way of saying, “This rubric is obsolete; that prayer may
be lawfully left out, that exhortation never read.” Who is the best
judge of that? The parish priest who has laboured ten years amongst his
people, and knows every one of them, and the Bishop who has visited,
loved, and blessed that work for four years, or the Bishop who has
been in the diocese for three weeks? Two rubrics stand side by side
in the Book of Common Prayer. One of them as to having notice given
of Communion I obeyed, the other as to the number of communicants
I disobeyed. Ninety-nine clergy out of a hundred disobey the one I
obeyed, eighty obey the one that I disobeyed. Let me illustrate, by
my successor’s action, the enormous difficulty of obeying both. He
says, You must give notice if you are coming to the Holy Communion,
and he has told the people that, unless notice is given so that he may
know that there will be communicants, the Children’s Mass at 10, and
the High Mass at 11, must be given up. The notice is to be given in
on Saturday night. If two communicants give notice, or one, or none,
what would his action be? Would he wait till people came to church
and tell them that there would be a different kind of service, and
thus prevent many of his faithful from being present at a Celebration,
which many of them believe to be a Christian obligation, or would he
get certain people to promise, three for 10, and three for 11 each
Sunday?--a strain on their loyalty that I, whom they loved and knew,
would never have dared to demand, for the working woman with children
an utter impossibility, for the District Visitor from Southsea a walk
of a mile and a half there and back, entailing most likely an illness
and a breakdown, for the working man living with all his children round
him, breakfast a common meal shared by all on Sunday--I am not talking
of the irreligious man who eats his breakfast, and lies in bed till one
or two p.m.--the binding upon him of a burden, which we ourselves, who
are often forced to say late Masses, can hardly sustain. This line of
thought applies just as well to the daily Masses in a place in which it
was utterly impossible, with all my workers round me, to manufacture
six communicants every day.
I have ventured to go into this question again at length, because I
am anxious that the public should understand it. If the Bishops are
going to make an attack all round on beneficed as well as unbeneficed
clergy, on High, Low, and Broad equally, then I and my people would
have no right to complain. But I doubt very much whether the Church of
England could stand the strain of such an attack. If such an attack
is to be made it must be uniform, and not according to the individual
mind of the Bishop; Bishop Perowne might succeed Bishop King, Bishop
Ryle might succeed Bishop Temple. And surely this danger ought to be
realised before fresh power is put into the Bishops’ hands, such power
as is proposed in the recent Patronage Act, which would have meant
in my case that if I had been presented to a living, either in the
diocese of Durham or of Worcester, I should not only have been refused
by the Bishop, but--as I read the Act--my patron would have lost his
nomination, and the prelate would have appointed his own nominee. Far
more dangerous would it be, as a recent bill in Convocation proposed,
to allow the Bishop to be sole judge of what rubrics are obsolete, and
what must of necessity be observed.
We are told that these are days when every Church Society is being
starved, when the Bishops can neither get money nor men for their great
overgrown dioceses, and therefore that the masses are in a large extent
lost to the Church of England. Here is a place where over £50,000 has
been spent in ten years, only £760 of it coming from a Diocesan Fund.
Here is a place where three clergy, and many earnest laymen and women,
have been working at no cost to the official resources of the Church
at all. Here is a place where large numbers of the poorest and most
ignorant have been instructed in the saving truths of Holy Religion.
Here is a place which the late Bishop of the diocese fostered with
truest tenderness and care. I do not venture to ask the question which
I was going to ask, but I leave it to the judgment of my readers to
answer the question themselves. I know that one answer is conceivable.
“No work, no labour, no success is any excuse, when disobedience to the
Prayer Book is practised alongside of it.” But does anyone pretend to
believe that this is the consistent method of the Church of England;
or, if it had been so for the last fifty years, would one spark of
life have been left in her?
If this little book has interested you at all, I would earnestly ask
you to help me to pay off my debt. During the last three months people
have been very generous to me, and I have paid off £800. This leaves me
still owing £2290. Many Winchester men are very anxious, I know, that
the Wykehamist Committee should become responsible for this debt, and
I shall be very grateful if they do, because that might enable me to
raise from the bank the money that I require to pay the builders. But
even if they make themselves responsible, I feel it to be my bounden
duty to do all I can to get this money together, for all the time that
they are collecting it, they will be able to give my successor very
little for his Mission work. I know that in many things he excels me,
but I know that I am a better beggar than he is. He will require every
penny that he can possibly scrape together, and so I am most anxious to
set all Wykehamical resources free, by paying off this sum as quickly
as possible.
Many people write and ask me, What are you going to do yourself? The
answer to that rests in other hands than mine. When this debt is paid,
if the Church of England offers me work, and I believe that it is God’s
intention that I should accept it, I will at once. In the meantime I
am trying to learn a little lesson that one of my dearest children, a
Jesuit priest, wrote down for me, “God allows you to build the fibre
of your brain, the blood of your heart, into a temple for His glory,
and then with one breath of His nostril o’erturns it, that He may see
whether you will bear this also.”
APPENDIX
“17, CLARENCE STREET, LANDPORT,
“_September 28th, 1895_.
“MY LORD BISHOP,
“We are taking possession of our new church on October 27th. It
practically is joined by the vestries to the old church, which
was licensed for celebrations by Bishop Harold Browne, and your
predecessor did not think it would require a new licence.
“As at present the district is not a legal Parish, the question
of consecration does not arise.
“I am, your lordship’s obedient servant,
“R. RADCLYFFE DOLLING.”
“DALMENY PARK, EDINBURGH,
“_4th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“Your letter of Sept. 28th has only now reached me in Scotland.
Everything has been upset somewhat during our removal from one
house to another.
“I am greatly interested to learn that you hope to enter so
soon upon the use of the new church. I shall be anxious, so
far as possible, to meet your wishes in every way with regard
to licence. If you were told by Bishop Thorold that no fresh
licence would be necessary, I have no doubt such is the case,
but I should, myself, have thought it would probably be better
that a new licence should be given for the new building. This,
however, we can talk over when we meet, and I trust the meeting
may take place ere long, as I am most anxious to see something
of your work, upon the spot. I have heard much of it, and I
pray God to grant you all guidance and blessing among the
difficulties by which you are surrounded.
“Bishop Thorold’s opinion that no fresh licence is required
will, at least, justify you in going forward now with all
your arrangements, and if it turns out hereafter that it is
desirable to issue a fresh licence, there will, I imagine, be no
difficulty in doing so. I hope to be at Farnham next week, and
to enter as speedily as possible upon diocesan work. I know I
may rely upon your giving me the help of your prayers.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“17, CLARENCE STREET, LANDPORT,
“_October 7th, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I am most grateful for your kind letter. Bishop Thorold’s idea
was that until the church was consecrated (that would be as soon
as the parish was created), the old licence would suffice. But I
quite feel that your lordship’s wish is most reasonable, and as
soon as convenient to yourself the required formalities could be
performed.
“We have never ceased to pray for your lordship since your
election, and there are no priest or people more desirous to
welcome you.
“The Bishop of Southwell, or the Bishop of Reading, will be with
us at the opening, or during the octave. There is one of my
soldier children on furlough, who needs to be confirmed. Might
he have your permission to do it?
“Yours very obediently,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_10th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I thank you for your letter. I will consider the question of
licence. In the meantime, do not let the postponement of a
decision on that point interfere in any way with your plans and
arrangements.
“With regard to the confirmation of the lad you refer to,
I should be quite willing that the Bishop of Southwell or
the Bishop of Reading should confirm him if you think this
desirable, and if such Bishop is willing, at your request, to do
it.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“FARNHAM,
“_17th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I have considered the question of a licence for your new
church, or rather, for you to minister therein, and it seems
clear that such a licence ought to be issued. I have, therefore,
asked the Rural Dean, in ordinary course, to send me the usual
report that he has visited the building, and that all is in due
order.
“Of course, in strict accordance with rule, no service should
take place in the building till the proper licence (after the
Rural Dean’s letter) has been received by you.
“But as I know you have been making arrangements for your
opening services, and that it was owing to the change of Bishops
that you did not sooner apply to me, I am quite willing that
your arrangements should be proceeded with, and you will, of
course, understand that, in the very improbable event of any
question arising as to the building or its due ‘appointments,’ I
am not to be regarded as hereby prejudging such question.
“I am sure it will be your wish that all should be in due order,
and I pray that the blessing of God may rest in rich measure on
you and on your work.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_October 18th, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I shall be very glad to see Canon Jacob. I am very distressed
to hear from ... that you are hurt at my action about the
Opening, and I venture to assure you that the arrangements that
I have made are those which I contemplated before there was
any vacancy in the See, arrangements which I had planned in
accordance with the action of the two late Bishops towards the
Mission.
“Bishop Harold Browne would never come here at all, or send
his Suffragan, but allowed me to choose a Bishop to confer
Confirmation.
“Bishop Thorold came himself, and sent his Suffragan, to
Confirm, but otherwise he never took part in any ceremony in the
church, and he personally often told me that he greatly disliked
the ritual. And even when he came to Confirm, as of course the
service was altogether his own and not ours, he did not allow
the acolytes to wear red cassocks, and when I pointed out that
the Crucifix was carried in front of the Procession, he ordered
it not to be used, though when I told him there was another on
the altar, and offered to take it down, he said, ‘No; I shall
not see that one.’ I should certainly never have asked him to
come to any other service at S. Agatha’s, as I am sure it would
have pained him very deeply, and my people here are so very
ignorant, that I could not have altered it, had he happened to
be present.
“I would not have you think from this, that I did not revere
and respect him, even perhaps love him, and we have oftentimes
been very near to each other in prayer. And, therefore, I had
determined not to ask him to take any part in the ceremonies
connected with the Opening of the church, until the time of the
Consecration should come, and for the same reason, of course, I
would not ask his Suffragan, though the Bishop of Southampton
is a Wykehamist, and I should much like to have had him here.
“I do not like to intrude upon your Lordship at such great
length, but I should not like your Lordship to think that I am
at all lacking in respect to your person or to your great office.
Yours very obediently,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_20th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I thank you for your letter, but either you must, I think, have
misunderstood ... or he must have misunderstood me. Perhaps both.
“I perfectly understand the position as you now explain it,
namely, that you are simply following out arrangements which
were made in Bishop Thorold’s time, and which were such as you
thought he would desire.
“Nothing could be further from my mind than to be ‘hurt’ by
anything that has passed. I have too much respect for you and
for your work. I feel sure you have wished to do all that is
right, and (as I said in a former letter) I am anxious not to
disturb arrangements which were made before I was responsible.
“I hear to-day from the Rural Dean that he has arranged with you
to pay his visit next Wednesday, so perhaps after all the new
licence may reach you in time.
“I pray that the blessing and guidance of God may be given you
in your difficult task.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_24th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I have this morning received the Rural Dean’s report of his
visit yesterday to your new church. While expressing his
admiration of the building, he tells me the fittings are not yet
_in situ_, though they will for the most part be ready by
Saturday next. He cannot therefore report upon them in detail.
But speaking generally, it is clear that the arrangements are
in so forward a condition that, if no question of difficulty
arose, a licence might be sent to you forthwith, authorising
you in the usual form to minister the offices of the Church
therein. Of course, if it were a question of now consecrating
the church, and thereby giving legal authority to what stands
therein, I should require, as always, a more detailed report
when everything is _in situ_. But as you do not ask for
Consecration at present, legal questions in the technical sense
do not arise in quite the same manner.
“There is, however, one important matter mentioned by the Rural
Dean which I must at once bring before you. Canon Jacob says:
‘It is proposed to place a third altar in the middle of the
South Aisle ... and the altar is avowedly to be used for Masses
for the Dead. Mr. Dolling said that Bishop Thorold saw this in
the temporary church (there it was simply the second altar,
corresponding to that in the east end of the south aisle of
the new church), and intensely disliked it. Here, however, it
assumes a far greater prominence, for it is not the altar for
ordinary daily use, as in the temporary church, but simply to
be used for Masses for the Dead. Mr. Dolling lays the greatest
stress on this.’
“Now here is a matter of supreme importance. I have no wish
to prejudge any legal question which may arise, and I am not
aware whether any authoritative decision has been given in the
Church Courts respecting the legality of a third altar in such a
position in such a church.
“But I should obviously be treating you unfairly, were I now to
send you a licence virtually sanctioning such an arrangement as
this, and then, hereafter, when the time comes for consecrating
the church, and when your people have grown used to the
arrangement, to direct the removal of so prominent a feature on
the ground that when duly submitted for the consideration of the
Diocesan Court, it is found to be illegal. My belief is that,
if the circumstances are such as Canon Jacob has described,
it would be so declared, though in this I may, of course, be
mistaken.
“I do not know what sanction was originally obtained for the
plans of your church. If plans distinctly exhibiting this
feature received Bishop Thorold’s signature and sanction, I
would ask you to tell me so at once. In lack, however, of such
information, I must ask that the church be not publicly opened
for Divine Service until a question so important as this has
been submitted to the proper authorities for decision, or until
the altar in question has been removed from the building.
I think you must see that this is no matter of subordinate
detail. Were it such, I should not wish, in the very peculiar
circumstances of this case, to be over-particular at this
moment. But large principles are involved, and it would
therefore be quite wrong to prejudge what may be the ultimate
decision on so important a matter, by formally licensing you to
minister in a building containing thus prominently a feature
upon which, if the Rural Dean correctly reports, you lay the
greatest stress.
“I am exceedingly sorry to seem thus to interfere at the last
moment with the arrangements you have made; but you are aware
that this is not my fault, and I think I am only treating you
with such fairness and openness as I should wish myself to meet
with in like circumstances. Let me recall to you briefly what
has passed.
“On October 2nd I received from you a letter telling me, for
the first time, that you proposed taking possession of the new
church on October 27th, and adding that Bishop Thorold did
not think it would require a new licence. In my reply, while
I sanctioned your going forward with the arrangements which
had been already made for the opening services, I said that I
should myself have thought it would probably be better that a
new licence should be given for the new building. To this you
quite assented, and I accordingly directed the Rural Dean to pay
the usual preliminary visit. The first intimation I received
from you that any difficult question would be likely to arise
was in your letter of October 18th, in which you said: ‘I should
certainly never have asked Bishop Thorold to come to any other
service at St. Agatha’s (_i.e._, other than Confirmation),
as I am sure it would have pained him very deeply.’ I merely
recall these facts in order to remind you that I could not have
written sooner on this subject. Had I had reason to suppose
at an earlier date that there were likely to be difficulties
of this kind, I should have asked you to postpone the opening
services until the question of licence had been further
considered.
“You are aware from my former letters how cordially I appreciate
and value your vigorous work at Landport, and how anxious I
am to promote and help it in every legitimate way. I am most
anxious not to make a fuss about trifles, and I desire to
recognise to the full the due elasticity and variety desirable
in the services of the Church, especially in such neighbourhoods
as yours. You will never find me inclined to be needlessly rigid
about comparative trifles, but a Bishop’s responsibility is so
grave that when large questions arise he must of necessity act
with the utmost care.
“I trust that it may be possible for you so to modify the
arrangements as to enable your proposed opening services to
take place, postponing for the present the decision upon the
particular point to which I have called attention.
“If you desire to see me upon the subject, I shall be at your
service here at any hour to-morrow, except 1.30 to 3, when I
have another engagement. If you are coming, please telegraph to
say so.
I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.
“Since writing the above I have thought it may be a convenience
to you that I should send it to you by hand. My chaplain
accordingly bears it.”
An interview took place on October 25th. (See p. 167.)
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_25th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I must send a few lines to thank you for the honest and simple
straightforwardness and frankness with which you this morning
put before me your position in the question which has arisen,
and for your ultimate acquiescence in the suggestion I made as
to your proper course of procedure.
“I pray God that to each of us, in our respective positions of
anxious and responsible work, may be given from on high that
right judgment in all things for which we are accustomed to
ask; and whatever may ultimately be decided with respect to the
particular point which is now under consideration, I feel sure
we shall not lose or loose that bond of fellowship which unites
in heart and spirit those who have in common the one great aim
of advancing to the best of our power, and in accordance with
what seems to us to be the due order of our Church of England,
the Kingdom of our Blessed Lord.
“I am, with kindest regards,
“Very truly yours,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_25th October, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I send you the statement I read out to my people. I have
directed the architect to prepare you the plans. I shall be
grateful if, when you receive them, you will give me a date when
I may expect your decision.
“I am, yours very obediently,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“As our new church practically joins on to the old church, the
late Bishop considered that no new licence would be needed. When
I communicated this fact to our new Bishop, he desired that a
new licence should be granted, and therefore sent the Rural Dean
to report on the fabric and ornaments of the church.
“Acting on his report, the Bishop feels that it is impossible
to grant this licence until he has consulted authorities as to
the legality of the Third Altar, the one which you beautified in
memory of Henry Ross, and which used to stand in the old church
with the Memorials of the Dead around it. He therefore wrote to
me that the licence would not be granted until the Altar was
removed. My own feelings under these circumstances were that it
would be better for us to remain in the old church, and not to
open the new church. But when I saw the Bishop this morning, he
very much disliked this idea, and suggested, as an alternative,
that we should proceed with the opening, screening off the Altar
and the Memorials of the Dead; that the plans should be at once
submitted to him, showing every detail; and that he should
proceed after due time to deliver judgment; if he can license
the Altar, I am to remove the screen; if he cannot, I am at once
to resign, so that a successor may be appointed who will remove
the Altar and the Memorials.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_26th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I have just received your letter enclosing a copy of the
intimation you read yesterday to your people. I feel sure it
was not your wish to say anything which would convey a mistaken
impression of what has passed between us on the question at
issue, but you have certainly done so, however unintentionally.
“Your words, ‘The Bishop wrote to me that the Licence would not
be granted until the Altar was removed,’ are surely inconsistent
with the purport of the actual letter, in which I tried to
point out to you that the question was one which I ought not to
prejudge, and that it required time for consideration.
“Again, I never, either in letter or conversation, desired you
to screen off the ‘Memorials of the Dead.’ If the temporary
screening off of the site intended for the proposed third altar
necessarily involves this--which I did not understand--it is
merely incidental, and your words would convey the wholly false
impression that I had objected to the erection of ‘Memorials of
the Dead.’ I have not seen them, and I do not know their precise
character, nor did I mention them in any way.
“Most important of all, your final sentence practically says
that in the event of such a third altar being found to be
inadmissible, it is my wish that you should resign.
“You will remember that on the contrary I expressed my great
regret at hearing from you that such would in that event be
your course of action, although you assured me that in any
circumstances you had already settled to leave S. Agatha’s a
few months hence. My own wish would be strongly against your
resignation.
“I feel sure, as I have said, that it was not your intention to
mislead any who may have heard or read your words, and I do not
doubt that you will desire at once to set the matter right, by
giving publicity to this letter or otherwise.
“I am, dear Mr. Dolling,
“Yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.
“REV. R. R. DOLLING.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_October 28th, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I am very sorry, indeed, if I have in any way misrepresented
our conversation, but in your letter to me of the 24th, you say:
“‘I must ask that the church be not publicly opened for Divine
Service, until a question so important as this has been
submitted to the proper authorities for decision, or until the
altar in question has been removed from the building.’
“You yourself told me, when I saw you, that it would be a
scandal if the church was not opened, and, therefore, surely
it was only left to me by your letter of the 24th, to create a
scandal or to remove the altar.
“Secondly, the memorials are practically a part of the altar,
as a frame is to the picture, and without these memorials,
the altar would, I take it, be unobjectionable, or rather, as
I think you said yourself, the question is not the red-tape
question whether there is to be a third altar, but whether it is
to be an altar of this kind--_i.e._, Dedicated to the Dead.
There will be the twelve Celebrations said at it every week, and
only two of them will be said for the Dead. I certainly supposed
that your injunction, therefore, referred to the character of
the thing as a whole.
“Thirdly, I certainly do not say that you would wish me to
resign. What I do say is, ‘If he cannot license the altar, I
am at once to resign, so that a successor may be appointed,
who will remove the altar and the memorials.’ This surely does
not convey the meaning that you wish me to resign, but that
the action which you quite conscientiously may be compelled to
take, may necessitate my resignation, which is quite a different
thing. I believe that there is not a man in all the Diocese
more anxious that I should remain than you are. I have written
to the Portsmouth paper which mentioned the fact. I enclose you
the letter.
“Canon Jacob’s letter which I enclose, and which please return,
may enable the question to be decided in a more satisfactory way
than by your Lordship’s personal judgment.
“I hope that in a few weeks the fabric of the church will be
free of debt. I have built a Parsonage House, and I have £1100
in hand towards the endowment. If on these terms the district
can be created into a parish, the question would then be one
which could be decided by the highest ecclesiastical legal
authorities.
“I should be very grateful for your Lordship’s opinion on this
matter.
“Ever your obedient servant,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_29th October, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I thank you for your letter of yesterday. If, as I suppose,
the letter to the _Evening News_ which you send me in
manuscript has been published in that paper, it meets the chief
objection I felt to the wording of the memorandum you sent me,
and I am obliged to you for making the point clear to those who
might have misunderstood it. If you are satisfied, I do not wish
to dwell further upon the other points mentioned in my letter
to you, although I still think your words would convey to most
hearers or readers a different impression from that which you
can yourself have intended. With regard to the suggestion, that
an endeavour should now be made to have the district legally
assigned, and the church duly consecrated as a parish church,
I should like a little time for consideration and consultation
with others before giving you definite advice. You will remember
that the Diocese is still new to me, and that in a matter like
this local knowledge is almost essential to a right decision.
Such knowledge I will do my best to acquire speedily. I retain
in the meantime Canon Jacob’s letter upon the subject.
I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“S. AGATHA, LANDPORT,
“_November 4th, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I send you plans of east end, with its two apses and altars,
and north and south side of church, showing stations and third
altar. The only place not shown is the baptistery under the
tower. I had intended putting an altar in this for the use of
parents on the morning of the baptism of their children. I did
not speak of this to Bishop Thorold, for it was only suggested
to me when I showed the baptistery and font to some of the
mothers, and they said what a comfort and help it would be to
take Communion in the baptistery. I will send you a little plan
of this. I mentioned it to Canon Jacob, but he said there was no
use in speaking of it to you. Most of the columns, paintings,
&c., are memorials; they will all have on them, ‘Pray for the
soul of,’ &c. The altars all have candlesticks on them. There is
a large crucifix by the pulpit.
“Ever yours very truly,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
We always have confession in public in church, so there would be three
seats for this purpose in the church.
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_6th November, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I received last night your letter of the previous day,
enclosing the plans. Now that I have these before me I can
better consider the subject, and ask such counsel as seems
desirable. It is difficult for me to say by what day I may be
able to give you my decision upon the matter.
“I am much pressed at present with work of every kind, but I
will take care that there is no unnecessary delay. I should
hope, in a fortnight’s time at the latest, to be able to write
to you definitely.
“It is possible I may wish to see you again. May I ask you
to tell me whether any particular day in the week would be
specially convenient or inconvenient to you for the journey to
Farnham?
“Nothing could, I think, be gained by my seeing the architect,
as the plans seem perfectly clear.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_11th November, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“Would it suit you to call here next Saturday morning, November
16th, or, if more convenient, to dine and sleep here on Friday
night, the 15th, leaving as early as you like on Saturday
morning?
“I am anxious, if possible, not to postpone our interview beyond
next week. Please let me know when I may expect you.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
A prolonged interview took place on November 15th. (See p. 170.)
“CLARENCE STREET, LANDPORT,
“_15th November, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I am very grateful to you for your patience this afternoon. You
will he glad to hear that I do not feel any the worse. It would
be a great relief to me if your lordship could tell me about
the date when your lordship is likely to deliver judgment. Of
course, we do not mean for one moment to hasten you, but our
own minds would be more at rest if we knew about the date.
“Mr. Gresham desires to join with me in many thanks to Mrs.
Davidson for her great kindness.
“Yours very obediently,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_16th November, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I send you our Vespers of the Blessed Sacrament, our Stations,
our Mass for the Dead, and our children’s Mass book, and
the rules of our Communicants’ Society. Our conversation of
yesterday was so different from what I have had with Bishops
in former days. They seemed to desire to deal with things
concerning which complaint had been made to them, and so, when
I had ventured on other details of our service here, they
stopped me, as though to say, ‘That question is not before me,
I do not desire to know it.’ It seemed to me, yesterday, that
your attitude was the very opposite of this. You wanted to know
everything we do at S. Agatha’s, and, therefore, praying over
it all last night, and thinking about it, I was very anxious to
discover if I was perfectly honest and straightforward, and I
think I was. But when I was leaving your room you said to me,
‘Have you anything more to say?’ I took that, at the moment, to
mean, ‘Is there any defence more that you would like to make
concerning your doings?’ But, on thinking it over, it seems to
me it may have meant, ‘Are there any other services or practices
that you ought to tell me about?’ If this is your meaning, pray
let me know, and I will send to you, in detail, everything else
that we do. If, on the other hand, this thought of mine is over
scrupulosity, please don’t answer this letter.
“Your obedient servant,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_21st November, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I have not had a moment in which to reply to your letter
received two days ago.
“When I asked you at our recent interview whether you had
anything more to say, I did not in the least mean to ask you
for a detailed account of all the services you hold. Some day I
should be interested to hear from you about everything, in order
that I may thoroughly understand your position and teaching.
But all I desired in our recent interview was to understand the
present situation in all its bearings, so that my decision may
be based upon a really sufficient knowledge.
“I have been so much pressed during this last week by unexpected
matters, including the illness and death of a dear friend,
that I have been ceaselessly on the railway, and it has been
impossible for me to give to S. Agatha’s matters the attention
they deserve. Hence there may be a little delay in my sending
you the formal letter I have promised. I can only say that I am
doing my best.
“I remain, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_7th December, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I am now able to write to you definitely upon the question
which has arisen with regard to S. Agatha’s church, and as
you may probably wish to make my letter public, it will be
convenient that I should briefly recall what has taken place. On
October 2nd, a few days after I had become Bishop of Winchester,
I heard from you that you had made arrangements to open the
new church for divine service on October 27th. With a view,
therefore, to your receiving the necessary licence, I directed
Canon Jacob, as Rural Dean, to pay the customary preliminary
visit to the church, and to report to me whether all was in due
order. On October 24th I received this report. He told me of the
beauty and dignity of the building, and its general suitableness
for divine service in a great parish. The fittings and ornaments
were not yet _in situ_, and he was, therefore, unable
to report upon them in detail. But he directed my attention,
as in duty bound, to the structural arrangements for Holy
Communion. These, as shown in his report, and in his subsequent
explanations to me with appended plans, are as follows: One
large Holy Table or Altar in the usual position in the centre of
the east end of the church; a second (for less largely attended
services) at the east end of the south aisle; and a third in
the south aisle, placed against the side wall of the church. It
is also your wish to place a fourth in your Baptistery at the
west end of the north aisle, but that question is not at present
before us.
“When Canon Jacob paid his official visit to the church, the
proposed third altar had not yet been erected; and after full
correspondence and conversation between yourself and me upon
the subject, it was decided that the opening services should be
held in accordance with the arrangements you had already made
before I became Bishop, but that the site of the proposed third
altar should be temporarily curtained off, and its erection
at the least postponed, so that I should have time before
issuing formal licence for the conduct of divine service in the
building, to consider the arrangements proposed. You urged me to
give you an answer as speedily as possible, as in the event of
my being unable to sanction the proposed arrangements you would
feel it necessary to withdraw immediately from S. Agatha’s,
instead of remaining until Easter next, when you proposed in any
case to resign.
“As it is not proposed that the church should be consecrated at
present, the question raised does not, and, indeed, cannot, now
come formally before the Diocesan Court. Pending consecration,
it rests with the Bishop to grant or withhold at his discretion
the necessary licence for the conduct of divine service in the
new building. In order, therefore, to understand in all its
bearings the question to which you attach so much importance,
I have, in addition to our correspondence, had two prolonged
interviews with you; and I am anxious again to express to you
my appreciation of the honest and straightforward readiness you
have throughout shown to give me all possible information as
to your usages and the opinions on which they are based. In a
matter of this kind, where we have but one object--namely, to
arrive at a right conclusion in accordance with the doctrines
and laws of the Church of England--it is of paramount importance
that there should be no concealment or reserve in setting the
facts before the Bishop, on whom lies the grave responsibility
of decision.
“I am cordially grateful to you, therefore, for freeing me from
any difficulty of that sort. After deliberately weighing all
that you have put before me, I have come to the conclusion that
I should act wrongly were I, on my personal authority, now to
sanction the erection and use of the proposed third altar in the
situation and for the purposes you have described to me. When
the church is consecrated it would, of course, be possible for
you, or your successor, to apply to the Diocesan Court for a
faculty for the erection of such a third altar; and, were the
faculty refused, you would have the opportunity--which you tell
me you desire--of bringing the question before the higher Courts
on appeal from the decision of the Chancellor.
“In the meantime, as I have fully explained to you in
conversation, I cannot, in exercising my discretion upon a
proposition so unusual, regard the question as merely the
technical one--may there be three altars or holy tables in one
church?
“It is easy to conceive a church or cathedral of such dimensions
or construction as to render it desirable to extend yet further
the principle upon which a second altar or holy table has been
sanctioned in many of our churches for more convenient use when
the number of communicants is small; and, whatever might be
the legal decision on such a point, no question of doctrine or
principle need thereby be raised. But such is not the case at
S. Agatha’s. You do not ask for my sanction of the third altar
on grounds of convenience (in the ordinary sense of the word);
and, indeed, it is obvious that in that respect it would have no
advantage over the second, or subsidiary, altar, to which I have
raised no objection. You have explained to me that your wish for
the addition rests, in the main, on quite different grounds. The
altar in question is intended to have special association with a
deceased friend, whose memory is rightly cherished in the parish.
“You desire that it should be surrounded with memorials of the
dead, and that its special, though not exclusive, use should be
for the celebration of what you describe as ‘Mass for the Dead.’
“I endeavoured, in our recent conversation, to ascertain exactly
what you mean by this term, and you explained candidly and
clearly what it is that you believe and teach. You regard the
Celebration of Holy Communion ‘for the dead’ as having the
effect [you add, ‘we know not how’] of shortening the period
during which the souls of the faithful departed are in a
state of ‘purgation’ or ‘preparation,’ and of hastening their
admission to the Beatific state.
“Now, I have no wish to dictate to you, or to dogmatise, upon
the mysterious and difficult question of what is known as
‘prayer for the dead’--a term obviously capable of a great
variety of meaning, ranging from the words we use in the Prayer
for the Church Militant to doctrines of quite another sort.
The whole subject is of great importance, and I will gladly
discuss it with you hereafter; but, whatever liberty of private
opinion and individual devotion may be permissible, I have no
hesitation in saying that I should depart both from the spirit
and the letter of our Church’s formularies were I definitely
to sanction the addition of a third altar to S. Agatha’s with
the knowledge that one main purpose of its erection is that it
should be a centre for services and teaching of the character
above described.
“I myself believe your teaching on this subject to be
contrariant to some of the distinctive principles of the Church
of England, and I am bound to add further that I am unable to
reconcile your usages in celebrating the Holy Communion with the
specific directions in the Book of Common Prayer, which both
you and I have solemnly pledged ourselves to follow. You tell
me, for example, that in S. Agatha’s Church, where you have
about twenty celebrations of the Holy Communion every week, more
than half the celebrations on week-days, ‘perhaps eight out of
fifteen,’ are in ordinary circumstances without communicants.
You have so arranged that the celebrant shall know beforehand if
any desire to communicate, and, if not, the celebrant omits the
Exhortation, Confession, and Absolution from the Service.
“On week-days, unless they are festivals, the Creed and the
_Gloria in Excelsis_ are always omitted.
“It is impossible for me to disregard these facts in coming to
a decision as to what I ought, at this juncture, to do. You
have, as it seems to me, dealt practically at your will with our
Church’s Rules.
“I do not, for a moment, doubt that your motive is a good one.
Your services are those which, in your individual opinion, are
best calculated to lead your people into a knowledge of what you
believe to be the truth.
“But the Church of England does not allow us thus to deal at
our will with the Book of Common Prayer, and in the event of
your deciding to remain at S. Agatha’s, I must carefully discuss
with you what modifications are required in order to bring your
services into harmony with the Prayer Book.
“I need not repeat to you what I have so often said as to my
sense of the value of your devoted work in the midst of special
difficulties. Many of your distinctive Church Services seem to
me to have a special value, as bringing home to the minds of
unlearned people, by the use of anniversaries and memorials and
otherwise, the links which bind us to the world unseen.
“These are, I believe, compatible with perfect loyalty to the
Book of Common Prayer.
“I earnestly trust you may not think it necessary to sever
yourself at present from a parish in which God has signally
blessed your energy, your self-devotion, and your enthusiasm;
and you may rely upon my constant endeavour to help and further
your work in every legitimate way.
“I am, my dear Mr. Dolling,
“Yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION,
“LANDPORT, PORTSMOUTH,
“_9th December, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I have to-day sent to Dr. Fearon my resignation. I think your
account of our interviews is quite correct, except in one
detail. I did not intend to say that I did not know how the
Service of the Holy Communion affected the state of the dead.
There is, however, one practical question.
“I must conduct the Services as I have for the last ten years.
Do you wish me and my staff to go away at once, or to wait until
Dr. Fearon has appointed my successor? I am ready to follow
either course; only for fear of mistakes arising, I should like
to say that as long as I am in charge the Sunday and daily
services remain the same.
I am, your lordship’s obedient servant,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_10th December, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I am exceedingly sorry to learn that you feel it to be your
duty to leave St. Agatha’s forthwith, but, of course, I
recognise that your decision is perfectly consistent with what
you said to me at our first interview.
“With regard to your question, What is to be done as to the
services until your resignation takes effect, I have no sort of
wish to press unfairly upon you, and I think it would be a grave
misfortune were St. Agatha’s Church to be closed pending the
appointment of your successor.
“I think that until that appointment is made you had better
continue to officiate. This will, I hope, be in accordance
both with your own wish and with the wish of your people; and,
though I must not be supposed to be giving formal sanction to
the teaching or usages to which I have called your attention,
and must adhere to my decision respecting the third altar, I
am far from wishing to cause unnecessary difficulty in any
way. Should anything lead you to modify your decision, and to
desire to remain at St. Agatha’s, it will be a pleasure to me
to hear from you to that effect. I am glad that I succeeded
in my endeavour to represent fairly what you told me at our
interviews. The particular words to which alone you take
exception in my account, are contained in the memorandum I made
at the moment, and read to you for your approval. But the point
is comparatively unimportant, and, of course, I accept the
correction you desire to make.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_11th December, 1895_.
“DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“You will not blame me if I say that your letter amazes me. If
my teaching is so contrary to the mind of the Church of England
that it necessitates a step so disastrous as the disruption of a
work like this, I cannot imagine how you can allow me to remain
here one single day.
“I want, therefore, to make it clearly understood that I have
unscreened the altar, and am using it, and that I shall conduct
the services exactly as I have conducted them for the last eight
years. I know you will understand that I do not say this in
any spirit of bravado, but I desire, above all things, to be
perfectly plain with you. Having said this, I am content to stay
here for a short time, but there are two reasons that urge me
to request you to fix a date not later than January 10th--(1)
The Mission expenses are nearly £100 per month, and I am already
very much overpressed with debts; in fact, winding up all the
different charities and other expenses here, and repairing the
parsonage and other property I have bought, and the paying for
the church, will, I think, necessitate my begging £1500 before
I leave, perhaps even more, and your action will very likely
dry up some of our sources of charity. (2) I have to consider
my own and my sister’s health. I doubt if your lordship could
imagine what it is to be here. It is almost impossible for us to
go out of doors; the tears and lamentations of our poor people
are more than we can bear for any length of time. I write this
all with more confidence because your letter of to-day confirms
my own remembrance of our interviews when I assured you I should
have to leave, and, therefore, I am assured you have already
considered the difficult question of a successor.
“I am, your lordship’s obedient servant,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“OXFORD,
“_13th December, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“Owing to ceaseless pressure of other work I have not, since
your letter reached me yesterday, had a free moment for writing
to you.
“I can only repeat that I have no sort of wish to expedite the
resignation on which you have, to my great regret, and in spite
of my remonstrance, decided.
“I cannot easily reconcile your action in ‘unscreening’ the
third altar with what you said to me on our first interview,
but in present circumstances I say no more upon that, and I am
anxious to make every allowance for your acts and words at a
time of such stress and strain.
“I have just read in the _Times_ what you are reported to have
said at a meeting last night. I can hardly doubt that the report
must be inaccurate. You could not, I feel sure, have represented
me, after all that has passed, as thinking it ‘necessary that
disruption should take place,’ or as harassing you with minute
insistence on matters of mere rubrical detail. A grave question
of Church order has come formally before me for decision as
Bishop of the Diocese. With anxious care, and with an earnest
wish to consider your difficulties, I have decided in accordance
with what seems to be my duty, and thereupon, to my great
regret, you have resigned at once, instead of waiting until
the time you have publicly announced. I can scarcely conceive
that anyone who studies our Ordinal, and realises a Bishop’s
obligations and responsibilities, could wish me to have acted
otherwise than I have.
“I must in all kindness remonstrate against your
resignation--even at a time of excitement--as though it were my
act rather than your own. Few things in my life have caused me
more sorrow and anxiety than this.
“With regard to the date when you cease to officiate at St.
Agatha’s; the appointment of your successor rests, as you know,
with others, and not with me.
“I earnestly trust that if you persist in your resignation you
will consider the difficulties of the Mission District, or
Parish, and of those with whom the appointment rests, and will
do what you can to meet, or to relieve them.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_14th December, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I cannot quite understand what you mean by ‘in spite of my
remonstrance you are resigning.’
“Under your two predecessors we conducted service exactly as we
desire to do in our new church. The little altar is the same,
the memorials are the same, except that they are put on better
materials. But no single act do we desire to perform, no single
word to say, that was not done and said in old S. Agatha’s. That
is, as far as I can judge, if your predecessor had been here, we
should not have gone away.
“He objected personally to the little altar, but not officially.
The people here feel this so strongly that they want to lock up
the new church and return to the old. Therefore it is surely
through your action--unwilling action, I am sure--that I must
either alter things or go away. Is there any other alternative?
I cannot alter things, because I should be declaring to my own
people that doctrines which have been taught among them for the
last eight years I could conscientiously change at your bidding.
“I quite recognise your difficulty in the matter, and I hope
that you will, in the enclosed paper, from which report that
in the _Times_ is condensed, read what I say about your
action. It is your condemnation of my teachings, which you deem
so erroneous and contrary to the forms of the Church of England,
that necessitates the disruption.
“Dr. Fearon has already consulted with your Lordship about my
successor; and has already, with your consent, offered the post
to another man. So there is no difficulty about my going. Indeed
he thinks the date--January 10--reasonable. I have told him that
I shall be delighted to show the new Priest the details of the
work here, and introduce him to the church workers, etc.; and I
have sent him a few statistics about the parish, copies of which
I send to your Lordship, and I am sure they will interest you.
I am,
“Your Lordship’s obedient servant,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_17th December, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I thank you for your letter of the 14th. It followed me to
Bournemouth, where I was busy all day yesterday. Hence the delay
in my reply. The cutting you kindly sent me shows that, as I
supposed, the summary published in the London papers failed,
perhaps necessarily, to represent quite fairly what you really
said; and I thank you for the tone of many parts of your speech,
and for the statistics you have enclosed.
“Pardon me if I say that it still seems to me to be true that
‘you are resigning in spite of my remonstrance.’ When, at our
first interview, you told me of your intention, I deprecated it,
and I do so still. Elementary principles of Church order seem
to me to suggest a different course as at least possible, but I
realise that you have made up your mind, and that it is useless
to press you further.
“With regard to your reference to my predecessors in the See,
you cannot, I think, suppose that if the question which came
formally before me had come formally before either Bishop
Thorold or Bishop Harold Browne, the ultimate decision would
have been a different one.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_17th December, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“The question would not have come before Dr. Thorold officially.
He provided for that by not requiring a new licence.
“From memory I cannot speak with much authority of Bishop
Harold Browne’s attitude towards us, except that several times
different Protestant Societies complained to him about us; and
though, as far as I remember, he wrote letters showing that he
personally did not approve of our methods, he never publicly or
officially condemned them.
“But about Dr. Thorold I can speak with assurance. Directly he
was designated by the Crown for the Bishopric, he asked me to
stay with him in London, and we had two very long conversations
about our work here; and I quite well remember his saying to me,
when I told him how many celebrations we had on Sundays and on
week-days, ‘Surely it is not good for your people to go so often
to Communion.’ And when I explained to him that at some of the
celebrations on Sundays, and many on week-days, there were no
communicants, he turned round sharply, and said, ‘Mr. Dolling, I
do not like that at all.’
“After I had explained my difficulties to him, and the power
that I believed these celebrations were to us and to my people,
though I do not think he was convinced by my argument, he made
no further objection.
“The first time he stayed here to confirm he went with me to
look over the church. He was delighted with the memorials of
the confirmed, &c.; but when he came to our little altar he
said, ‘I think that is the ugliest thing I ever saw.’ And when
I explained to him more about celebrations for the departed and
prayers for the dead, he said, ‘I don’t believe in it for a
moment.’
“We talked over the point for a long time, but I am positively
sure that he never forbade me; and when I showed him at
Farnham the plans of the new church, after he had said, ‘I
am so glad you are building a basilica,’ though objecting to
the baldacchino which was in the picture, I enlarged upon my
intention of making the church as beautiful as I could by
paintings, mosaics, &c. I said, ‘We are going to have nothing
ugly or unworthy in it; even the little altar which you thought
so ugly the people have collected money to beautify, in memory
of Ross’--and I told him the story. I think there were tears in
his eyes when I had finished, and I am quite certain he said
nothing.
“Of course I have written all this from memory, but I can give
you an exact proof. Some years ago he was approached by the
Protestant Alliance, on the subject of a book which our children
used at their Celebration, and at his request, I withdrew it,
and wrote a new book, which though he could not personally
sanction, he permitted us to use. In the enclosed copy you will
find in pages 25, 26, the words which the children use aloud
directly after the Consecration, and especially on page 26, you
will see the Memorial of the Dead. On pages 10–12 you will see
what I teach about representing to the Eternal Father, both for
the Living and the Dead, the Propitiatory Sacrifice, which our
Lord made once for all upon the Cross.
“You will see, therefore, that he perfectly understood my
attitude with regard to these two questions, and my method of
teaching them to my children.
“If by going back to our old church, we could put back our
altars in their former places, and be authorised by you to
use the exact services we have used in the past under your
predecessors, it might solve the difficulty.
“Or the alternative, whether in the new church at the High Altar
or at the Subsidiary Altar, we could use the services we have
used under your predecessor, is, I think, a question for your
Lordship to suggest to me.
“But the two points which your letter seemed to forbid, were
the offering of the Blessed Sacrifice for the Dead, and the
Celebrations without Communion, and not the merely technical
point whether there may be three altars in the church.
“Of course, Winchester is the chief factor in the question, and
I think that the enclosed letter of Dr. Fearon, when I told him
that our people had proposed, as a _modus vivendi_, that we
should settle the question by going back into the old church,
determines the matter as far as I am concerned.
I am, your Lordship’s obedient servant,
“R. RADCLYFFE DOLLING.”
“FARNHAM CASTLE, SURREY,
“_19th December, 1895_.
“DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“I thank you for your letter of yesterday, telling me further
details of what passed between my predecessors and yourself.
What you say seems to make it quite clear that, whatever may
have passed in conversation, the question now at issue was never
formally submitted to either of them.
“My replies addressed yesterday to the two memorials from
‘The Church Workers of S. Agatha’s’ and from ‘Communicants of
S. Agatha’s,’ taken in connection with my previous letters
to yourself, will, I hope, have made clear to you what is my
position in the matter, and I do not think you will feel it to
be necessary that I should add anything further.
I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
“WINCHESTER COLLEGE MISSION, LANDPORT,
“_20th December, 1895_.
“MY DEAR LORD BISHOP,
“I cannot bear to close this correspondence without saying that
if, by any word of mine, I have spoken with disrespect either of
you personally, or of your high office, I beg you will pardon
it, and believe that it was perfectly unintentional.
“We leave on the morning of January 11th, and I shall be here
every day till then getting matters finally arranged.
“I hardly like to suggest to your Lordship, because, of course,
you know what is best; but I think it would materially help your
guidance of this most needy place, in the future, if you could
spare a few hours to see it before I go.
“There are matters about the church schools, which I won with
great difficulty, which are especially pressing.
“I would offer to come to Farnham, if you would receive me, but
I do not think you would be able to judge unless you came here.
“I am, your Lordship’s obedient servant,
“R. R. DOLLING.”
“_Friday Night, 20th December, 1895._
“MY DEAR MR. DOLLING,
“In the stress of Ember days, with an ordination pending
to-morrow, and some thirty men in the house, I can but send
you a single line to reply to your letter just received. Pray
believe that nothing could be further from my thoughts than to
find cause of offence in any word you have said during this time
of extreme trial for both of us. I have felt far too deeply for
you to even think of such trifles. I remember you many times
daily in my prayers.
“It can seldom, I hope, happen to anyone in a position of
responsible authority in the Church to have to give a decision
so painful to himself in the consequences it is found to
involve, as that which it was my duty to give in this matter.
I can but rest on the firm belief that He who calls one to the
discharge of such responsibilities, will give ear to the prayer
for grace that they may be discharged aright.
“While the question of what you would finally resolve to do
remained in any way open, I felt that I might seriously confuse
the issue to the minds of your people, were I to visit the
parish, as though to judge of the work going on; whereas, as it
seemed to me, the point at issue was quite independent of this.
Now that you have come to a final decision, I should esteem it a
privilege to go quietly and privately over the ground with you,
and learn any details that you can tell me. Next week is not,
perhaps, a good one for such a purpose, but it seems my only
chance. If I go on Friday, 27th, would it suit you? I could be
with you on that day from 11.39 to 2.15.
“I am, yours very truly,
“RANDALL WINTON.”
SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
“_It is the record of a work very remarkable in all its aspects,
written with all modesty; and we think that to not a few weary workers
among the sinful and degraded it may bring fresh lessons of courage and
hopefulness._”--CHURCH TIMES.
“_Will be read with the greatest interest by all who desire to learn
the secret of Mr. Dolling’s wonderful success in a most difficult
task._”--GUARDIAN.
“_A vivid and breezy account, from Mr. Dolling’s own unconventional
pen, of the singularly successful work done by him in connexion with
the Winchester College Mission, in the regeneration of the district of
St. Agatha’s, Landport._”--TIMES.
“_Simply it is the record of ten years’ stupendous work, performed by
Mr. Dolling among the poor of the difficult district of Portsmouth
known as Landport; and, moreover, it is a record most modestly--even
pathetically modestly--presented; a record that is convincing in its
bare truth, and in every line of it beyond expression interesting.
He has given lay readers a picture of such work that they should, in
all humility, most carefully study. It is not too much to say that
the book is absorbingly full of incentives to thought; for every page
reveals something wonderful in the way of resource, self-restraint,
and accomplishment, not only on Mr. Dolling’s part, but on the part of
those connected with him at St. Agatha’s._”--PALL MALL GAZETTE.
“_It would be wholly impossible for us to give any detailed account
of the working of the Mission described in Mr. Dolling’s book. But
the full account will be found in the book itself. A record of
ministration to little children, to boys and girls, to young men and
women, to old men and women, to sailors and soldiers, to waifs and
outcasts, to prostitutes and thieves. A story which is alive with human
interest._”--DAILY NEWS.
“_We cannot lay down his book without regretting that its author
should be whipped from pillar to post in the Church of England. We
know of no slum record so well told or so important in its practical
significance. Mr. Dolling gives the reader an excellent idea of
the district and people. Liberal Churchmen ought to consider these
chapters, as they have an important bearing upon the future of the
Church of England; and the book should be carefully read by everyone
interested in the practical work of social reform. Mr. Dolling’s
method, as the world knows, is religion of the broadly sympathetic and
ceremonial kind._”--PROGRESSIVE REVIEW.
“_It is the story of a genial, vigorous, unconventional, and
thoroughly liberal-minded worker._”--SPEAKER.
“_His Mission has been, from first to last, a triumph of the
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