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

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

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

On the previous night I had heard him deliver an address in one of the densely populated districts of Salford. Admission to the chapel in which the service was held was exclusively confined to women, and, notwithstanding it was Sat.u.r.day night, there were at least a thousand sober-looking and respectably dressed women present. The subject of the discussion was Christ's conversation with Nicodemus--whose social position Mr. Moody incidentally made familiar to the congregation by observing, "if he had lived in these days, he would have been a doctor of divinity, Nicodemus, D. D, or perhaps LL D." His purpose was to make it clear that men are saved, not by any action of their own, but simply by faith. This he ill.u.s.trated, among other ways, by introducing a domestic scene from the life of the children of Israel in the Wilderness at the time the brazen serpent was lifted up. The dramatis personae were a Young Convert, a Sceptic, and the Sceptic's Mother. The convert, who has been bitten by the serpent, and, having followed Moses' injunction, is cured, "comes along" and finds the sceptic lying down "badly bitten."

He entreats him to look upon the brazen serpent which Moses has lifted up. But the sceptic has no faith in the alleged cure, and refuses.

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

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

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

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

And so he dies in his unbelief.

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

The story of Daniel is one peculiarly susceptible of Mr. Moody's usual method of treatment, and for three-quarters of an hour he kept the congregation at the morning meeting enthralled whilst he told how Daniel's simple faith triumphed over the machinations of the unbeliever.

Mr. Moody's style is unlike that of most religious revivalists. He neither shouts nor gesticulates, and mentioned "h.e.l.l" only once, and that in connection with the life the drunkard makes for himself. His manner is reflected by the congregation in respect of abstention from working themselves up into "a state." This makes all the more impressive the signs of genuine emotion which follow and accompany the preacher's utterance. When he was picturing the scene of Daniel translating the king's dream, rapidly reciting Daniel's account of the dream, and Nebuchadnezzar's quick and delighted e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, "That's so!" "That's it!" as he recognised the incidents, I fancied it was not without difficulty some of the people, bending forward, listening with glistening eye and heightened colour, refrained from clapping their hands for glee that the faithful Daniel, the unyielding servant of G.o.d, had triumphed over tribulation, and had walked out of prison to take his place on the right hand of the king.

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

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

"BENDIGO."

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

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

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

Before introducing Bendigo to the meeting, Mr. Dupee said his own "brother Jim" would say a few words, his claim upon the attention of the congregation being enforced by the a.s.severation that he was "the next great miracle of the nineteenth century." From particulars which Mr. Dupee proceeded to give in relation to the early history of his brother, it would be difficult to decide whether he or Bendigo had the fuller claim to the t.i.tle of the "wickedest man in Nottingham."

A single anecdote told to the discredit of his early life must suffice in indication of its general character. He was, it appeared, always getting tipsy and arriving home at untimely hours.

"One night," said the preacher, "he came home very late, and was kicking up an awful row in the street just before he came in. I opened the window, and, looking out, said to him very gently, 'Now Jim, do come in without waking mother.' And what d'ye think he said?

Why, he said nothing, but just up with a brick and heaved it at me.

That was Jim in the old days," he continued, turning to his brother with an admiring glance. "He always was lively as a sinner, and he's just the same now he's on his way to join the saints."

"Jim" even at the outset fully justified this exordium by suddenly approaching the pulpit desk with his hands stretched out, singing the "Hallelujah band." In the course of an address delivered with much animation and filled with startling phrases, it became clear that "Jim" had been the immediate instrument of the conversion of Bendigo.

He added considerably to the stock of information respecting the early life of that personage, and told in detail how better things began to dawn upon him.

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

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

"Infidels," said Jim.

"What's that?" queried Bendigo.

"Why, fellows as don't believe in G.o.d or the devil."

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

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

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

"Praise G.o.d from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him for brother Bendigo."

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

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

"I've been a fighting character," he said, and this was a periphrastic way of referring to his old occupation in which he evidently took great pleasure; "but now I'm a Miracle. What could I do? I was the youngest-born of twenty-one children, and the first thing done with me was to put me in a workhouse. There I got among fellows who brought me out, and I became a fighting character. Thirty years ago I came up to London to fight Ben Caunt, and I licked him. I'm sixty-three now, and I didn't think I should ever come up to London to fight for King Jesus.

But here I am, and I wish I could read out of the blessed Book for then I could talk to you better. But I never learnt to read, though I'm hoping by listening to the conversation around me to pick up a good deal of the Bible, and then I'll talk to you better. I'm only two years old at present, and know no more than a baby. It's two years ago since Jesus came to me and had a bout with me, and I can tell you He licked me in the first round. He got me down on my knees the first go, and there I found grace. I've got a good many cups and belts which I won when I was a fighting character. Them cups and belts will fade, but there's a crown being prepared for old Bendigo that'll never fade."

This and much more to the same purport the veteran said, and then Mr.

Dupee interposed with more "few words," the plate was sent round, and the superintendent and Bendigo went downstairs to relieve "brother Jim,"

the echo of whose stentorian voice had occasionally been wafted in at the open door whilst Bendigo was relating his experiences.

"FIDDLER JOSS."

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

The congregation began to drop in by degrees, and proved to be of a character altogether different from what might have been expected in such a place on such an occasion. Out of ten people perhaps one belonged to the cla.s.s among which London missionaries are accustomed to labour.

But while men and women of the "casual" order were almost entirely absent, and men of what is called in this connection "the working cla.s.s"

were few and far between, there entered by hundreds people who looked as if they were the responsible owners of snug little businesses in the provision, stationery, or "general" line. An air of profound respectability, combined with the enjoyment of creature comforts, prevailed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, according to Fiddler Joss, is the way in which const.i.tuted authorities in church and chapel matters deal with the poor man in London and elsewhere. Mr. Methodist would not speak to Mr. Baptist, Mr.

Wesleyan would have nothing to do with Mr. Congregationalist, Mr. High Church scoffed at Mr. Low Church, Mr. Low Church did not care what became of any of the rest, and among them all the poor man was utterly neglected.