decorative
TheT girl was little, slender, insignificant—only her love made her heroic. The man was big, broad, one to be noticed in a crowd, and his love made him as helpless as a little child.
T girl was little, slender, insignificant—only her love made her heroic. The man was big, broad, one to be noticed in a crowd, and his love made him as helpless as a little child.
They stood opposite each other in the poor, shabby little room. His eyes devoured her face wildly, incredulously, but her eyes were fixed on a great hole in the faded carpet.
Her mind was chaotic, for with his eager words of love rang others, bewildering her. Side by side with his passionate outpouring of his love for her, his longing to have her for his own, to live for her and work for her, were other words—words of ambition and great aspirations, words of intending travel into far-away countries, of hardships and discomforts to be borne for the sake of the book that was to be written—the book that was to bring fame and satisfaction to the writer of it.
And these words rang with a deep note of earnestness and strength, and overpowered those eager, present tones that were pleading to her so wildly.
"I called you Kathleen Mavourneen last night, you remember, and you smiled and blushed!" he protested, roughly. "Why did you do it? Kathleen, youdolove me, you do! Why don't you speak to me? I tell you, I have seen it in your eyes. Why do you deny it now?"
She shook her head, and her heart cried in agony, "How long? How long?"
"Won't you try, then?" with a humbleness that was not natural to him. "Oh, Kitty, little Kitty, I cannot live without you!"
He held out his arms to her despairingly.
"I have a singing lesson to give at one o'clock," she said.
His arms fell to his sides. The sun streamed in on to the pretty, pale, downbent face of the girl, and on to the white, haggard face of the man who stood opposite.
There were no shadows in the little room—it was all glare and shabbiness.
"I will go," he said, and then his eyes caught fire; "but you are a flirt! Do you hear, a paltry, heartless flirt! You have led me on—played with me. You have made your eyes soft, your lips sweet, to amuse yourself at my expense! How do you do it?" with a little cynical laugh. "It's really clever—of its kind—you know——"
He moved towards the door.
"I beg your pardon," he said icily. "I should not have spoken so to a woman. Good-bye."
"You will begin your travels now?" she said.
He laughed.
"Why keep up the pretence?" he said; "it's rather late now to pretend any interest in my life."
She was silent.
At the door he paused.
He was a proud man, and he had an iron will.
But his love made him helpless and weak as a little child.
"Kathleen," he breathed, "you are sure?"
A moment she stood still and rigid as a statue.
"Little one, I love you so——" His voice was soft and caressing; but her love made her heroic. She raised her head. "I am sure," she said steadily.
The girl sat in a corner of the warm, gorgeous drawing-room, and wished vaguely that people would not nod and stare at her so energetically. She was used to it now, and tired of it.
She had never liked it, but fame brings notoriety in its train, and notoriety brings nods and whispers and stares.
She was dressed beautifully. She had always liked pretty things, and now she could have as many as she wanted.
The man stood over in a doorway and watched her with cynical eyes.
He had not seen her for five years, and as he stood there another man lounged up and spoke to him.
"Looking atla belle Philomèle?" he said; "she's quite the rage, you know. Ever heard her sing? You're only just back from the wilds, aren't you? Oh, well, of course you'll go to St. James's Hall to-morrow? She's going to sing, you know. Her voice is splendid. I never go to hear her myself—makes me feel I'm a miserable sinner somehow—does, 'pon my word. I've heard her twice, and then I dropped it. Don't like feeling small, you know."
He lounged away again, and the man with the cynical eyes still watched her.
Her head was turned away from him—only a soft, fair cheek and little ear nestling in a soft mass of hair, a white throat, and a lot of pale chiffon and silk, could he see. And suddenly the cheek and even neck were flooded with a red blush, and then they looked whiter than before. He wondered, and smiled bitterly as he did so.
And the girl's eyes remained fixed, eager, fascinated, on the long looking-glass before her.
But she was not looking at herself.
Afterwards he sought her.
"You were wise," he said mockingly, and her eyes grew dark with pain.
He took the seat beside her and played with the costly fan he had picked up.
wise"You were wise," he said, mockingly.
"You were wise," he said, mockingly.
"You were wise," he said, mockingly.
"I must congratulate you," he said indifferently. "This"—with a comprehensive wave towards her dress and the diamonds at her throat—"is better than the old days."
"Yes."
"But perhaps you have forgotten so long as—what is it?—ten—no, five years ago?"
"No."
He furled and unfurled the fan in silence, and wondered who had given her the Parma violets in her hair.
"Your—book?" she said timidly.
He stared at her blankly.
She reddened slowly.
"You—you—were going to—to travel, and write about it—strange places——" she faltered.
"Oh, ah! yes, I believe I was—five years ago."
Her face was white again now.
"Youhavetravelled?" she ventured at last.
"Oh, yes! I've done nothing else for five years. I've shot tigers, bears—I've lived with Chinamen and negroes—chummed with cannibals once—oh!"—with a laugh—"I've had a fine time!"
Her eyes were wistful.
Her hostess brought up a man to be introduced, and when she turned again, the chair was empty.
She did not see him again for two weeks.
There was an added pathos in the beautiful voice.
La belle Philomèlebrought tears to many thousands of eyes, but her own were dry and restless. It was dawning on her that she had made a mistake—five years ago.
"Seen Hugh Hawksleigh?" she heard one man say to another. "Never been so disappointed in a chap in my life. Years ago he promised great things. Those articles of his on 'Foreign Ways and Doings' made quite a sensation, you know. And there was some talk of wild travels and a book that was going to bethebook of the day. The travels are all right, but where's the book?"
"The usual thing—a woman," drawled the other. "Didn't you know? Some pretty coquette—the usual game—but the cost was heavier than usual—to him. It knocked it out of him, you know. I never saw a fellow so hard hit. That was five years ago, and he's never written a line since. Poor fellow!"
The knowledge that she had made a mistake five years ago was growing plainer to her.
At the end of the fortnight she met him and asked him to come and see her.
He smiled, and did not come.
Her eyes grew too big for the small, sad face.
She met him again, and asked him why he had not come.
He looked down into the sweet, true eyes, and his love weakened his will again.
He promised he would come. He came, and stayed five minutes. He looked at her sternly as he greeted her.
"Why do you want me?" he said, and watched the colour come and go in her cheeks with pitiless eyes.
"We—used—to be—friends," she whispered.
He laughed.
"Never! I never felt friendship for you," he said, "nor you for me. You forget. Five years is a long time, but I have a retentive memory. I forget nothing."
"Nor I," she murmured.
"No? Then why do you ask me to come and see you?"
She did not answer.
He looked round the pretty shaded room.
He laughed again.
"There is a difference," he said, "in you too."
She looked up quickly.
"I am the same," she said, knowing her own heart.
"Are you?" His eyes grew stormy. "Listen," he said, in a low, tense voice: "I am five years wiser than I was—then. I will not be a tool again. You have ruined my life—doesn't that content you? I would have staked my life on your goodness and purity—once. I dare not believe in any woman since you, with your angel's eyes, are false. I was full of ambition and hope once; you killed both. I tried to write—after. I could not. I shall never do anything now—never be anything. I despise myself, and it's not a nice feeling to live with. It makes men desperate. I love you still. Do you understand? I have loved you all the time, and I loathe myself for it." His voice changed. "You may triumph," he said, "but now you understand—I will not come again."
She stretched out her arms after him, but he was gone. And she knew now quite clearly that she had made a mistake five years ago.
For three weeks and a half she did not see him.
Then she saw him when he thought he was alone.
She studied his face with eyes that ached at what they saw. Then she went forward and touched him gently on his arm.
"Well?" he said.
"Will you come," she said in a low voice, "to see me——"
"Thanks, no."
His eyes rested bitterly on her rich gown.
It came across him again how wise she had been. Tied to him, she could not have been as she was now.
"I have something I must say to you," she said tremulously; "will you come—just this once?"
He looked down into the soft eyes with the beautiful light in them.
"I would rather not," he said gently.
The weariness in his eyes brought a sob to her throat.
"Ah, do!" she entreated; "I will never ask you again."
He looked at her with searching incredulity.
Then he turned away.
Just so had she looked five years ago.
She laid a small, despairing hand on his.
The iciness of it went to his heart.
"I will come," he said gently, and went away.
When he came, he wondered at the agitation in her small white face.
Her eyes were burning.
He waited silently.
She twisted her hands restlessly together, and he saw that she was trembling.
He drew a chair forward.
"Won't you sit down?" he said.
She sat down in a nest of softest cushions.
"I—I——" she began, and put up her hand to her throat, "I want to—to—to explain."
His face darkened.
She got up restlessly and faced him.
He thought of that time when they had faced each other before—in the shabby, glaring little room—and his face hardened.
"When you——" she began; "I thought it was for you—I had heard you say——"
"Are you going back five years?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then would you mindnot?" he said. "There can be no good in it, and to me at least it is not a pleasant subject."
"I must!" she burst out. "Oh! cannot you help me? It is so hard!"
She held out her hands pathetically.
A deep colour came into his tanned face, and he stood still, looking at her strangely.
"I think I will go," he said; "there is no use in prolonging this."
"Do you—love—me still?" she cried suddenly.
He turned on her in a white passion of anger.
"Not content yet?" he breathed. "What are you made of? Do you want me to show you all my degradation? Why? Oh, Kitty, Kitty, be merciful! Be true to those eyes of yours——"
He stopped abruptly and moved over to the door.
"Hugh, I love you!"
It was the veriest whisper, but it stayed his steps, and brought a great light leaping to his eyes.
The light died down.
"It is too late!" he said, and turned away.
"Hugh, listen—I loved you always—five years ago. It was for your sake——"
He turned again.
"Kitty?" he said uncertainly.
She went on bravely, always heroic through her love.
"I was poor—insignificant; you were ambitious—clever. I had heard your longings after greatness. Hugh, how could you travel into those wild countries with me? I knew you would give it up, and how could I bear that? To be a drag, a hindrance to you! And in the coming years I thought you would regret—— Hugh, you were poor, too, though not so poor as I. I did it for you—it nearly killed me, Hugh. I was ill after, but it was for you!"
Her voice died away into silence.
He stood very still, and his face was white and bloodless.
But in his eyes there was a great reverence.
"Forgive me!" he said.
She smiled softly.
"Oh, yes," she said.
The cynicism had gone from his face, and the hardness and bitterness too.
help"Oh, cannot you help me? It is so hard!"
"Oh, cannot you help me? It is so hard!"
"Oh, cannot you help me? It is so hard!"
She looked at him wistfully. He turned away from her eyes and hid his face in his hands.
"It was a mistake," he said, slowly, dully.
"Yes."
Still she waited.
He looked up, and she strove to read his face in vain.
Sad it was, and set, and yet there was a light there too.
He took her hands gently in his.
"Kathleen," he said earnestly, "God knows what I think of you. I can work now. Good-bye, dear."
She raised her eyes to his—mystified and anxious.
He answered them, very gently, but with a firmness there was no gainsaying.
"You are famous," he said; "when I have made a name I will come to you. Will you wait, Kitty?"
"For ever, Hugh," she answered, understanding him so well that that was all she said.
He bent and kissed her hands.
She knelt at the side of his bed, heedless of the presence of the nurse at the other end of the room, and her tearswetted his hand. The right hand and arm were swathed in bandages.
He smiled sadly as he looked at her.
"I am a failure," he said.
"Ah, no, no! All England is ringing with your name. Hugh"—she raised a face all alight with a proud joy—"you are famous now!"
A little flush rose to his white face.
"Pshaw!" he said, "rescuing a woman and a few children from being burnt to death. Anyone would have done it."
"Ah, no, Hugh! Brave men shrank from that awful sea and burning ship!"
He was silent, looking at his bandaged hand.
"I must learn to write with my left hand," he said.
She bent nearer.
"Let me write for you," she whispered; "let me finish your book, Hugh, while you dictate it to me. I do not sing now in public, you know."
"Yes, I know."
He drew her closer to him and rested his cheek against her soft hair.
"I said I would not come to you till I had made a name," he said. "I am a wreck now! I shall be a wreck for a long while——"
"Ah, dear, but you are famous!" she interposed lovingly.
He sighed.
"I cannot do without you any longer, Kitty. I am beaten at last. Will you take a wreck?"
"I will takeyou, Hugh, a famous——"
"A famous wreck," he finished with a smile.
write"Let me write for you," she whispered.
"Let me write for you," she whispered.
"Let me write for you," she whispered.
pulpit
By F. M. Holmes.
First let us look at Dr. Joseph Parker. His sermons are constantly attended by ministers of all denominations, including clergymen of the Church of England; and no stronger testimony, we take it, could be given to a man's extraordinary preaching power than that year after year he continually attracts other preachers.
Dr. Parker, it is almost needless to explain, is the eminent Congregational minister of the City Temple in London, and he occupies the unique position of having maintained for thirty years a noonday service every Thursday in addition to his usual Sunday services. To this Thursday service come persons from the ends of the earth, and ministers and laymen of various religious persuasions. On one occasion the sittings of a conference belonging to one of the minor Methodist bodies seemed seriously imperilled because so many of the delegates desired to go and hear Dr. Parker.
What is the secret of his widely attractive power? The answer comes in a word—he is intensely dramatic. We do not mean theatrical. He chooses a clear message to deliver, and that message—that paramount thought—is driven home to his hearers in a manner that forces itself upon every mind, no matter how reluctant. He uses short, pithy sentences, and heightens and emphasises their effect by suitable modulations of voice, by deliberate or rapid utterance as the words may require, and by vigorous and appropriate gesture. He speaks only the very pith and point of what he has to say, and then says it in the clearest and most suitably effective manner that he can possibly command. It is the thing itself we hear, rather than talk or argument all round and about it.
ParkerDR. PARKER.
DR. PARKER.
DR. PARKER.
Thus, on one occasion, his theme was found in the text, "Jesus in the midst.""Where is the midst?" he asked in a clear and striking, sonorous voice that commanded attention at once. These were his opening words, and after a pause he proceeded in the same manner and in similar short, striking sentences to point to different ideas of "the midst," and to declare that Christ was, or should be, in the midst of the literature, science, philosophy, and business of the day. Unless ministers preached Christ, said he, they had better be silent.
bishopsBISHOP OF RIPON. ARCHDEACON SINCLAIR. DEAN LEFROY.BISHOP OF STEPNEY.
BISHOP OF RIPON. ARCHDEACON SINCLAIR. DEAN LEFROY.BISHOP OF STEPNEY.
BISHOP OF RIPON. ARCHDEACON SINCLAIR. DEAN LEFROY.BISHOP OF STEPNEY.
There is nothing new in this, you will say. No doubt Dr. Parker would tell you that he does not wish to preach anything new; but no one can watch him critically without concluding that he constantly studies not only what he shall say, but how he shall say it in the most striking and effective manner.
As a dramatic preacher, we might also instance the Rev. J. H. Jowett, who has succeeded the late Dr. Dale at Carr's Lane Congregational Church, Birmingham. To his Oxford scholarship Mr. Jowett has united an assiduous cultivation of a fine voice and vigorous yet graceful and suitable gesture, which render him a most striking and fascinating preacher.
But turning now to other styles, if Dr. Parker is one of the most dramatic, Dr. Boyd Carpenter, the learned Bishop of Ripon, is one of the most eloquent of preachers. He is also one of the most rapid. He seems so fully charged with his subject that the words pour from his lips like a torrent; his body turns first to one side and then to the other, and anon leans forward in front, as though propelled by the energy of the thought within. His hand is often held up before him with the index finger pointing, as though to lead his audience on to the next thought, and to prevent their interest or attention from flagging. But, rapid and fluent as he is, it must not be thought that he is superficial; on the contrary, there is every evidence that the discourse is well thought out, andbased on a solid framework of reason, while the language is eloquent and rhetorical. And it is, as it were, to mark the network of logical deduction within the words that the index finger is brought so fully into play. We judge that his voice is naturally somewhat thin and poor, but by careful use and perhaps assiduous cultivation, and by the most beautifully clear articulation, Dr. Boyd Carpenter can make himself heard in St. Paul's with what appears to be perfect ease. There is no straining of the voice and no shouting; but in a quiet though forcible manner he sends his voice round the huge building. Further, it has been pointed out to me that he will not commence his discourse until the congregation have settled themselves down into absolute quietness, and all the rustling of dresses, and coughing, and fidgeting are stilled. Under these circumstances his voice would, of course, carry far better in a large church.
Somewhat similar in manner is Canon Barker, of Marylebone, who, in the energetic expression of the thought with which he seems surcharged, bends forward sometimes so deeply towards the congregation as to give, the impression that he is about to dive out of the pulpit. But his style is that of the special pleader, the advocate and the debater; it is as though he desires to argue out everything to its logical conclusion, rather than to sway or move his audience by eloquence and emotional appeals.
WebbPREBENDARY WEBB-PEPLOE.
PREBENDARY WEBB-PEPLOE.
PREBENDARY WEBB-PEPLOE.
Dean Lefroy of Norwich is also a debater; perhaps, a more keen debater than Canon Barker, and he is also a rhetorician. He delights to preach a strongly evangelical "Gospel" sermon, and to embellish it with rhetoric and declaim it with passionate earnestness. It is evident he thoroughly believes in his theme, he seeks to impress it on his audience by vigorous, earnest, passionate utterance, in which his energetic gestures are often of the most decided character. A curious characteristic of his preaching has been related to me by a friend. "You cannot listen to Lefroy for five minutes," said he, "without violently taking sides either for or against him. You are either intensely in favour of him or find yourself becoming almost vehemently opposed"—a testimony, we take it that the Deanis a decided, downright, assertive and aggressive preacher rather than persuasive and emotional. He has instituted a Nave service at Norwich Cathedral, at which he often preaches himself, and attracts enormous congregations.
McNeilJOHN MCNEIL.
JOHN MCNEIL.
JOHN MCNEIL.
Still continuing to glance at those whom we may call rapid and fluent preachers, Prebendary Webb-Peploe comes to mind. He is not so energetic as some others, but the rapidity of his utterance, the fluency of his expression, and his great command of language, would rival that of almost any speaker. He and many others would probably utter three times as many words in a given time as Dr. Parker or Archdeacon Sinclair.
MACLARENIAN MACLAREN(Dr. John Watson.)
IAN MACLAREN(Dr. John Watson.)
IAN MACLAREN
(Dr. John Watson.)
The latter is slow, deliberate, and dignified in his utterances, rarely using gesture and affecting a grave and somewhat sonorous voice; but the Archdeacon's sermons are always most carefully prepared, and indicate considerable study and research.
Among the grave and sedate preachers we might also place Dr. John Watson ("Ian Maclaren"), of Sefton Park Presbyterian Church, Liverpool; his sermons are full of thought, and, as might be expected, exhibit an excellent literary finish.
Now, if we take Archdeacon Sinclair and Dr. John Watson as examples of more deliberate and sedate preachers, we may regard the Rev. John McNeil, the well-known Presbyterian minister, as an instance of the colloquial preacher.
Not that his voice is low-pitched, as used in conversation. Mr. McNeil has done what few preachers could physically undertake: he has preached twice a day for a fortnight in the Albert Hall at Kensington, the largest hall in London, and capable of holding about ten thousand persons; and he has repeatedly filled the huge Agricultural Hall at Islington, numbers being turned away from lack of room. His voice, indeed, seems capable of filling the largest hall without effort. But his style is easy, unaffected, conversational, though sometimes, with both arms outstretched, he bursts forth into loud and impassioned appeals. There is no doubt a large section of the public who like this easy and colloquial style, especially if it come quite naturally to the speaker.
Dr MclarenDR. MCLAREN.
DR. MCLAREN.
DR. MCLAREN.
And now another celebrated figure rises on the scene, the eminent Baptist minister,Dr. McLaren of Manchester. Refined, scholarly, brimming over with knowledge, and a master of beautiful illustration, there is no doubt that he takes rank as one of the very greatest preachers of the day. Like other great speakers, he has evidently studied the art of preaching.
Horton and othersDR. HORTON. HUGH PRICE HUGHES. J. R. JOWETT. SILVESTER HORNE.
DR. HORTON. HUGH PRICE HUGHES. J. R. JOWETT. SILVESTER HORNE.
DR. HORTON. HUGH PRICE HUGHES. J. R. JOWETT. SILVESTER HORNE.
At a meeting at the Holborn Restaurant to celebrate his ministerial jubilee in April, 1896, he said he had determined, at the outset of his career, to concentrate his mind on the work of the ministry and not fritter away his energies over many minor engagements. He had always endeavoured to make his ministry one of Gospel exposition; he had preached Christ because he believed that men needed redemption, and he had preached without doubts and hesitations. It was Thomas Binney who had taught him how to preach.
Undoubtedly Dr. McLaren has succeeded in his aim as an expositor of the Scriptures, for that is regarded as one of his chief characteristics. A favourite gesture of Dr. McLaren's—at all events in his earlier days—was to squeeze up a handkerchief, no doubt quite unconsciously, in his right hand by the nervous energy he was putting forth in his discourse, and then suddenly his hand would dart out to mark some emphatic passage as though he were about to throw the handkerchief at the congregation; but needless to add the handkerchief was never thrown.
Like Dr. McLaren, Dr. Whyte, of Free St. George's, Edinburgh, has a great command of beautiful and striking illustrations. "He is the most wonderful preacher in Scotland," declared an enthusiastic Scot to me on one occasion. "Mr. Gladstone used often to hear him, and Lord Rosebery does now." Dr. Whyte makes great use of the imagination in his discourses and employs frequent gestures, but graceful, emphatic and always to suit the action to the word and the word to the action. "One illustration," said a gentleman, "I remember some time ago. Dr. Whyte was preaching about tribulation, and he showed that the word came fromtribulum, which is a Latin name for a roller or sledge for thrashing out corn, and in the same way tribulation sifted men as wheat." How like a platitude this may sound when summarised down to a line; but the point is that the idea of the beneficial purpose of tribulation had been so firmly fixed in the hearer's mind that he remembered it, and perchance in some dark hour ithad been to him a "cup of strength in some great agony." Is not that, after all, one of the great aims and one of the great tests of good speaking—to fix some idea, some truth firmly in the hearer's mind so that it is never forgotten?
As a robust, manly preacher few, if any, we suspect, can surpass Dean Hole of Rochester. He has a tall, commanding presence—he is over six feet high—a bright, animated countenance, and a most genial manner. When some years ago he held the living of Caunton, Notts, he used to journey periodically to Liverpool, where his midday addresses to commercial men were most successful and exercised great influence. He does not employ much gesture, but his fine voice, sparkling eye and manly, straightforward utterances, based on reason and logic, always command deep attention.
WhyteDR. WHYTE.
DR. WHYTE.
DR. WHYTE.
His appeal is rather to reason than to the emotions, and by way of contrast we may glance at Canon Wilberforce, who is fluent and fervent, and affords one of the best examples of the emotional preacher. It would seem as though he set himself to arouse and stir up all the feelings of his congregation and lead them into what he conceives to be the right channel. Often choosing most unusual texts, he can yet make direct and pointed appeals from the pulpit, touching the greatest hopes and deepest trusts of human nature, and yet can employ as illustrations the greatest events and the newest discoveries of the day. He uses but little gesture, in this respect being somewhat different from the eminent Wesleyan, the Rev. Hugh Price Hughes, who might also be classed as an emotional—we had almost said passionate—preacher. In fluency and fervour he is probably surpassed by none. Possessed of a remarkably clear, vibrating, and penetrating voice, which seems as though it could thrill through any building, however large, there is no chance of anyone dozing when he is in the pulpit. When pleading some cause or denouncing some wrong, his feelings seem to get the better of him, and he slashes away with his voice in a perfect hurricane of verbal blows.
CliffordDR. CLIFFORD.
DR. CLIFFORD.
DR. CLIFFORD.
Quite as emotional and quite as fluent is Dr. Clifford of Westbourne Park Baptist Church. His command of language is extraordinary, and with a mind less clear and well-regulated this great fluency might prove a snare; but his discoursesare always remarkably well-arranged, his "points" are clear, and his meanings driven home with remarkable emphasis. His congregations are immense, and his hearers are devoted to him. His gestures often follow his words, and one—probably quite unconscious—is, it must be confessed, not graceful, even if forcible: it is a drawing back of his arms, and then shooting them out both together as if appealing to the people. His voice is exceptionally clear, penetrating, and resonant; and in all very popular preachers much is due to the voice.
HoleDEAN HOLE.
DEAN HOLE.
DEAN HOLE.
The Bishop of Stepney, who may be described as bearing all the characteristics of the highly cultured Oxford man, has in addition a deeply sympathetic musical voice. He does not use much gesture, but such as he does employ is well suited to the words, while his illustrations are often drawn from his social and religious work in the East End. He used frequently to preach in Victoria Park, where he has readily acknowledged his best supporters were Nonconformists.
Barker WilberforceCANON BARKER.CANON WILBERFORCE.
CANON BARKER.CANON WILBERFORCE.
CANON BARKER.CANON WILBERFORCE.
Another eminent preacher whom we may also describe as exhibiting all the characteristics of Oxford culture is Dr. Horton of Lyndhurst Road Congregational Church, Hampstead. Possessed, like the Bishop of Stepney, of a remarkably sympathetic voice, he modulates and varies it to suit the subject and the words, and his gesture, never redundant, has lately been reduced almost to extinction. At the sermon which he preached before the Congregational Union at its autumnal assembly at Birmingham in 1897, his style was almost severely quiet, but the effect of his thrilling voice and sometimes awesome whispered tones, his polished literary language, and his intense earnestness—as he declared that the ideal Christian must be in constant touch with God, and yet in constant touch with men—was very great, andappealed both to reason and emotion. Indeed, both of these find their place in his sermons. Dr. Horton has mastered the art of always being interesting, no matter what his theme; and it would seem as though in his discourses he makes an effort to really interest and to reach all sorts and conditions of men.
Another Congregational minister who exhibits much of the Oxford manner is the Rev. Silvester Horne, of Kensington; but, in addition, he seems possessed of a fiery zeal and fervent enthusiasm that will, it is feared, wear him out physically before his day is fully spent, unless he carefully husbands his nervous energy. Already, although a young man, he has had to take rest for a whole year because of ill-health. That inner fire, that mental energy, that disciplined enthusiasm, which light up his face so brilliantly and animate his suitable and graceful gesture, are far too precious a possession to be quenched too quickly; but there are few or none of the younger preachers of the day who have promise of a more brilliant future.
And now a word in conclusion for one who is perhaps the greatest philosophical preacher of the time—Dr. Fairbairn of Mansfield College at Oxford. His memory is marvellous, his power of choice and accurate verbal expression is wonderful; he can speak for hours without a note, and though sometimes a sentence should appear involved and complicated, it will finish admirably, and, if read in a verbatim report afterwards, will have all the finish of a literary production wrought out in the quiet of the study. He uses but little gesture, an occasional opening out of hands and arms, as though to present and lay before the audience the thought which he is uttering, seems nearly all. In fact, it would appear that he is so absorbed in the abstract thought, the argument, the philosophy he is working out before you, that he thinks nothing of the manner in which he utters it.
We do not pretend to have exhausted the list of famous preachers, or even to have glanced at all the different types; but these will be sufficient to indicate the variety that prevails, and to show that there is an art of preaching which, like other arts, needs to be assiduously cultivated, and well repays those who intelligently do so.
A pathetic incident occurred some years ago in connection with one of ourwars abroad. A youth who had been wounded, and who died in the fieldhospital, clutched in his last hours an old worn copy of the Bible, on the flyleafof which were inscribed these touching lines:—
TO MY BOY.
Remember, love, who gave you this,When other days shall come,When she who had thy earliest kissSleeps in her narrow home.Remember! 'twas a mother gaveThe gift to one she'd die to save.A mother sought a pledge of love,The holiest, for her son;And from the gift of God aboveShe chose a godly one—She chose for her beloved boyThe source of light and life and joy.And bade him keep the gift, that whenThe parting hour should comeThey might have hope, and meet againIn an eternal home:She said his faith in that should beSweet incense to her memory.And should the scoffer in his prideLaugh his fond faith to scorn,And bid him cast the pledge asideWhich he from youth had borne—She bade him pause and ask his breastIf he or she had loved him best.A mother's blessing on her sonGoes with this holy thing,The love that would retain the oneMust to the other cling.Remember! 'tis no idle toy,Thy mother's gift! Remember, boy!
Remember, love, who gave you this,When other days shall come,When she who had thy earliest kissSleeps in her narrow home.Remember! 'twas a mother gaveThe gift to one she'd die to save.
A mother sought a pledge of love,The holiest, for her son;And from the gift of God aboveShe chose a godly one—She chose for her beloved boyThe source of light and life and joy.
And bade him keep the gift, that whenThe parting hour should comeThey might have hope, and meet againIn an eternal home:She said his faith in that should beSweet incense to her memory.
And should the scoffer in his prideLaugh his fond faith to scorn,And bid him cast the pledge asideWhich he from youth had borne—She bade him pause and ask his breastIf he or she had loved him best.
A mother's blessing on her sonGoes with this holy thing,The love that would retain the oneMust to the other cling.Remember! 'tis no idle toy,Thy mother's gift! Remember, boy!
Roger
By H. A. Davies.
Across the fields from the church—through the clover meadow first, into the broad wheat-field next, and thence over the pasture lands, all yellow with the glint of buttercups—you will come to the Pettingdale farm. A thrill and a song and an aching went through my blood all together when I looked on the block of buildings the other day. How sweet-and-bitter is remembrance; how musical to the heart, and yet how sad with yearning! For the sight of that rugged old chimney standing square and grim and familiar upon the grey roof of the house; the red-tiled barns clustering behind, plain and prosperous; the sweep of the waving corn-fields towards the setting sun; caused my heart to surge with swift memories, long since buried and forgotten beneath the stress of life. How peaceful were the old days amidst these very fields! When the heart is young, ah! then's the time for music; and what echoes of far-off melodies—songs of old summers past and gone—does the scene awaken! There's the orchard where I spent such rare hours. Here are the hedges where we went a-nutting. Yonder is the oak-tree which we used to climb, Frank Pettingdale and I. It is still the same sturdy tree, keeping gnarled and knotted guard over the same creaking gateway, just as in the old days!
Wherever my eyes fell there were thorns and roses for the heart all in one moment. It was in the old upland field that Clara Pettingdale and I as children used to wander, hand in hand, amongst the buttercups. She has long slept, poor Clara, in that corner of the churchyard where lie generations of Pettingdales past and gone—a long line of sturdy yeomen.
The full light of the sun falls upon the courtyard of the farmhouse. It has a broad frontage, long and low and quaint, with irregular gables and overhanging eaves and deep, mullioned windows. The house runs queerly on two sides of the courtyard, one wing being at right angles to the other. It is beautifully clean and prim, with its whitewashed walls, its freshly painted woodwork, and its geraniums growing in green boxes on every window-sill. On the third side of the yard run the granary and the cider-house; while the fourth, save for an ivy-covered wall, which gives way to the entrance gates in one corner, is open to the gentle vista of countryside which stretches away before the house. What a pleasant old courtyard it is—so cool in the summer that the panting dogs love to throw themselves upon its stones; sosheltered in winter that the blustering nor'-easters touch it not; so prosperous-looking always, with its well-kept flags laid from end to end, as level and smooth as a billiard-table, and as spotless as the floor of the farm kitchen. How the polished milk-cans glisten and blink upon the wall! How the white sills of the old-fashioned windows gleam in the sunlight! The whole place seems to breathe of scouring and buckets, and scrubbing brushes and vigorous arms. Every morning the yard is washed down by the house-boy (it used to be Elijah in my day, but he is now a bearded man, and labours outside, and a young Ezra is the present knight of the bucket); every morning the cans are scoured and the tubs are scrubbed, and the step before the door is free-stoned, and the flowers are watered, and the house seems to smile a glistening, watery smile, as though it had just lifted its head from its morning dip to bid you the time of day. There was ever a charm to me about Pettingdale and its paved courtyard. I mind me well what a brave and romantic sound to my young ears was that of the horse's hoofs ringing and clamping upon the stones as he was brought up to the door on market days with the high yellow dogcart behind him; or the clatter of the wheels across the yard as Roger Pettingdale drove out through the broad gateway, a fine old figure with his white hair, and his aquiline nose, and his broad, well-set shoulders.