It seems to be a speciality of this Church of Progress that it disappears in summer altogether. It is only in the winter time that its doors are thrown open—not at all to the poor and needy, but to those who can pay. Is not this a little hard? Life is short, and the disciple of progress may well mourn that for him half the year exists in vain. Then, again, this Church of Progress, as much as the oldest and most-abused Churches of Christendom, makes very rigorous requirements on the pocket. Sixpence is the minimum paid. If you would hear comfortably you must pay a shilling. If you would have a seat where you can see and hear still more comfortably you must shell out half-a-crown. Now, if a man goes with his wife and family, it is obvious that the sum he will have to pay will be, if he have but a scanty income, no small consideration. It is true that a reduction is made if you take tickets for the course, but what I find fault with is that the casual poor have no chance of being benefited by this new gospel—that it does not appeal to them—that it ignores them altogether. I may hear the greatest of Dissenting preachers, I may sit under deans and bishops—nay, I may listen
to the finished accents of an archbishop—without putting my hand in my pocket, but for the lecture at St. George’s Hall, and the sacred minstrelsy there, I must at the least pay sixpence. The sum is a small one, but it has a tendency to narrow the Church and to limit its influence—it must keep outside many who otherwise would worship there. Why should the Church of Progress only appeal to the man with sixpence in his pocket? Is it only the capitalist whose soul is worth looking after? For common people will any old-wife’s fable do?
A more serious fault may be found with the Church of Progress. “We are not animated by any spirit of antagonism,” they say; “and as we propose to occupy a new field of utility, we see no reason why our assemblies should be regarded with hostility by other bodies.” “Our religion is positive and constructive, not negative and aggressive.” “Our Church is founded upon the recognition of the primary importance of human welfare; and its purpose will be to develop the power of philanthropy by education in the truths of science and philosophy, and by the elevating influence of the highest and purest art.” What Protestant Church cannot say the same? As
to art, whence does the Church of Progress get its music, which perhaps is its chief attraction, but from the Churches which it tells us are losing their hold upon the minds of the people? It rears philanthropy: what was Peabody? It talks of philosophy: what were such philosophers as Sir David Brewster or Professor Faraday? Equally delusive is its denial of antagonism. It is founded for those “whose religious ideas find no suitable exponent in any of the existing Churches.” The existing Churches more or less appeal to the Bible, and to Christ as Master, and place before the mind as consolation, or warning, or allurement, the splendours and the terrors of a world to come. In the new Church all this is set on one side. Science, not dogma, is to be the teacher, and they sing—
“Reason and love! thy kingdom come,
Oh, Church of endless ages rise!
Till fairer shines our mortal home
Than heavens we sought beyond the skies.”
Is it true to say that between this new light and the old there is no antagonism? Is it honest to say, as they do in the address already referred to, “we ask no one to adopt or deny any of the creeds of the Churches. We shall endeavour to promulgate truth,
and truth is always Divine”? Is it not clear that no one can join the Church of Progress unless he has ceased to believe in the creeds of the Churches? that it is impossible to believe in Christ and Baxter Langley as well? When Pilate said unto the Jews, “Whom will ye that I release unto you, Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ?” none but an idiot would have said there was no antagonism between the two. Again, it may be asked, by what right do these “earnest, conscientious men and women” in Langham Place call themselves a Church? Is it for the sake of deceiving the public? To teach art, or science, or literature, is not religion. Why, then, define as a Church people who meet on a Sunday to hear lectures on science, literature, and art? Undoubtedly, people may do worse on a Sunday night, but in listening to such lectures they have no right to say they are at church.
Mr. George Jacob Holyoake is also one of their lecturers; and if he be not antagonistic, what is he? Of all irrepressible men Mr. Holyoake is undoubtedly the most so. You meet him everywhere. Not a social science meeting, nor a political gathering, nor a philosophical discussion exists within reach of London but he is present at it, to take part in its discussions
as the exponent of the views, and feelings, and desires of the British working man. If London is demonstrative, as when a Garibaldi appears upon the stage, foremost of those who meet to do him honour is Mr. Holyoake. In the House of Commons he is similarly prominent. In the Speaker’s gallery or in the lobby you may see him all night long, here speaking to a member, there listening to one as if the care of all the country rested on his shoulders. I don’t fancy Mr. Holyoake is the great man he takes himself to be. I deny his right to be the exponent of the class of whom he condescends to be the ornament and shield. I admit his boundless activity, his wonderful talent for intrusion, the cleverness of his talk. I admit, too, the energy with which in the course of a now extended career he has travelled the land, with a view to convince his fellow-men that there is no future, that he who says there is but repeats the old worn-out fiction of the priests, and that it is for this world rather than the next that we must labour and strive. Undoubtedly for Mr. Holyoake some extenuation must be made. A man may well doubt the Christianity which instead of removing his religious doubts throws him into gaol for the crime of expressing them. Nevertheless, I may doubt, if not the sincerity,—for about
that there can be no question—at any rate the truth and wisdom of his creed; and may, after all, prefer the light of the Gospel to that which he asks me to admire. I may admit that there have been quacks, and impostors, and charlatans in the religious world—that the Church has fearfully failed in its mission—that, armed with the sword of the State, it has been often a curse and a blight—but it does not follow that the truth, of which the Church should be the living organization, has no existence, that it has no mission in this world, that the Bible is to be trampled under foot, that the Saviour is to be abolished, and that for man, instead of the narrow path and the heavenly crown, nothing is left but that he should eat, and drink, and die. Such, however, I believe, is Mr. Holyoake’s Gospel. As to his utterances on Sunday when I heard him, they were of the poorest character possible. The subject was the common people; and after describing three or four classes of them, he finished with the inculcation of the by no means original idea—that they were not so bad as they seem, that we had to respect in them the humanity which, under favourable circumstances, might be developed into something better. I never heard Mr. Holyoake preach before, and I shall take care never to hear him