The Religious Life of London

by J. Ewing Ritchie

AT A WATCH-NIGHT SERVICE.

Methodism has one special institution. Its love-feasts are old—old as Apostolic times. Its class

meetings are the confessional in its simplest and most unobjectionable type, but in the institution of the watch-night it boldly struck out a new path for itself. In publicly setting apart the last fleeting moments of the old year and the first of the new to penitence, and special prayer, and stirring appeal, and fresh resolve, it has set an example which other sects are preparing to follow. In the Church of England the Methodist plan is being extensively carried out. On last New Year’s-eve there were midnight services in the churches in all parts of London. Especially have the Ritualists availed themselves of the opportunity. Dr. Cumming chose the occasion for preaching a sermon to young men, and Mr. Spurgeon’s great congregation met, as usual, to see the old year out and the new year in. But after all, the Methodist services were the most numerous. In the metropolitan district they advertised services on watch-night at no less than seventy-three chapels, and there were other smaller ones at which watch-services were held, though they were not advertised. At first sight there seem to be many obvious objections to midnight meetings. They keep people up late; they keep them out in the streets late; they interfere with the routine of business and the prescribed order of domestic life; they cause delicate people to wake up next morning

with an aching brow and a fevered frame. To others they bring catarrh, disorder of the mucous membrane, cold, necessitating as a remedy water-gruel and cough mixtures. Obviously, however, these are minor considerations. It may be asked: Is not the soul, that never dies, of more value than the body, which to-morrow may be dust and ashes? The life that now is—what is it compared with the life that is to come?

Last year’s eve I was one of a crowd that found their way to the ancient head-quarters of Wesleyanism—the fine old chapel which, it is to be hoped, will not be improved off the face of the earth, in the City Road. It was an unpleasant night to tear one’s self away from one’s study fire or the friendly circle. The rain was heavy, the streets were a mass of mud, and the melancholy lamps, which are the disgrace of such a metropolis as London, did little more than make the darkness visible. Over all the City a Stygian gloom prevailed, except where the light blazed forth from the gin-palaces, which seemed, as I passed, to be doing a roaring trade, and to be filled with sots but too happy to find an excuse for the glass. Occasionally also a cigar shop threw out a little ray of light on the pavement and across the street, and now

and then from an upper window the lamps gleamed, and you heard the click of billiards. So still was the traffic that even the beggars had gone home. Here and there an omnibus, here and there a cab crawling for the last time, for the new Act was to come into operation the next day—here and there a policeman, here and there a belated clerk, here and there an unfortunate—such were all you saw as you paced along the deserted City that night. You could almost fancy its inhabitants had fled as if an enemy were on its way, or as if the plague ran riot in its streets. A little after ten the scene began to change. Doors were opened by heads of families doubtful as to the state of the weather. Up area steps creeped ancient males and females to do what they had done years and years before. Children, young men and women, fathers and mothers, masters and servants, got out into the streets. I followed them, and was soon seated in the chapel in the City Road. All round me were monuments of Wesleyan worthies. It were a task too long to describe their virtues or record their memories here. Up in that pulpit Wesley preached, and there the imprint of his genius yet survives. It is hard to realize what a power Wesleyanism is. I did not expect to see many; in reality the commodious

chapel was well filled. The service began at half-past ten, but it was not till long past that hour that the congregation had entirely assembled. It seemed to me this was a great mistake. For half an hour or so the opening and shutting of doors and the entrance of hearers interfered much with the comfort of those who had already come. Under these circumstances the service was trying to all taking part in it. Neither preacher nor hearer had a fair chance. In reality the attraction of the night was the sermon of the pastor of the place, the Rev. M. C. Osborn, and he did not begin till his pulpit had been occupied by an assistant for an hour. After it was all over it puzzled me to perceive what had been gained by the preliminary service and the assistant’s sermon. The assistant was a young man, and it was the sort of a sermon a properly trained young man would preach. The subject was the barren figtree, a striking subject treated with all the tediousness of commonplace. It was clear the preacher had read more than he felt, or he would not have spoken of the responsibility of a figtree, or bothered himself with the threefold sense which cropped up under his three divisions—first, as to the figtree, then as to the state of the Jews to whom Christ told his parable, and then as to its applicability at the

present time. His great virtues were fluency, perfect coolness and self-possession, and a distinct and powerful utterance. When he came to the terrible climax, when he spoke of the condemnation which awaited the finally impenitent, when he repeated how there could be no hope for such as they, how for them there was agony of which no tongue could tell the horror, or no imagination conceive, there was no pathos in his tones, no tear trembling in his eye, no sign of sensibility in his heart. The Saviour wept over Jerusalem as He saw the coming fate of the city that had mocked at His warnings, that had stoned the prophets, that was to crucify Himself. It did not seem to me that the sermon produced much effect. When it has been the writer’s privilege to converse with Wesleyans they have contrasted their warmth with the coldness of the services of other denominations; but in Episcopalian church or Independent or Baptist chapel—nay, at a Quaker’s meeting—such a service as that preliminary to Mr. Osborn’s appearance might have been held without causing any sensation on account of its extra warmth and fire. It was plain, and simple, and orthodox, and when it was over the people seemed to feel that the proper thing had been said, and that was all.

Mr. Osborn next entered the pulpit, while the people were singing with well-trained voices and without the help of an organ one of the well-known Wesleyan hymns. His appearance excites confidence. As he stood up there seemed in his face something of the fatherly feeling of a real, not a conventional bishop. A lay brother engaged in prayer. In spite of its boisterous tone and stentorian Ohs and ands it was deep, and heartfelt, and impressive, and invoked the responses which custom permits in a Wesleyan chapel alone. Then came a short sermon from Mr. Osborn, from the text in Jeremiah which tells how “the harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.” In his hands the text suggested three thoughts—1. There are special seasons for men to become religious. 2. There is a possibility of letting such seasons pass away unimproved. 3. A time will come when the consciousness of such neglected seasons will awaken in the mind bitter memory and unavailing regret. The sermon was in its way wonderfully ripe and full. To every man living under the Gospel is salvation offered. To some that offer is made in youth, or by the preaching of the Gospel, or by providential dispensations, or by revivals of religion occurring in their neighbourhood. But God never coerces

any one, nor interferes with man’s free will. Human law proceeds upon the supposition of man’s perfect ability to control his actions, and God does the same. The grace of God is resistible, as the Bible shows in the case of the Antediluvians, of Pharaoh, and Jerusalem; but too late people who resist that grace will remember it, and that remembrance will form the most bitter ingredient in their lot. As it is, when people are going wrong, they refuse to think. The preacher then dwelt on the last words—not saved. Most powerfully did he carry out that meaning as he pictured the shipwrecked mariner who sees the sail that was to have saved him pass out of sight; or as the besieged army behold the succour that was to have rescued them cut off; or as the criminal left for execution hears there is no reprieve for him; or as that poor woman with her babe and little ones, who found the other night (alluding to a tragedy which had just occurred) the fire-escape failed to reach them, and fell a sacrifice to the devouring flames. But whilst there was life there was hope; and then the preacher appealed to all on that last night of the old year to accept God’s offer of life, and to cast themselves at His feet. For about ten minutes every head was bowed in silent prayer. In that