But the influence of the Church of England is mainly in the higher ranks of society. Below these there are large social strata – deep, broad, thick, and black as seams of coal in a mountain – that are not even touched by all these influences. We like to stray into the old cathedrals at evening, and hear the choir chanting vespers; or to wander about them at night, and see the moonlight falling on the ancient towers. But nations are not saved by moonlight and music. The moonbeams that rest on the dome of St. Paul's, or on the bosom of the Thames, as it flows under the arches of London Bridge, covering it with silver, do not cleanse the black waters, or restore to life the corpses of the wretched suicides that go floating downward to the sea. So far as they are concerned, the Church of England, and indeed we may say the Christianity of England, is a wretched failure. Some other and more powerful illustration is needed to turn the heart of England; something which shall not only cause the sign of the cross to be held up in St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, but which shall carry the Gospel of human brotherhood to all the villages and hamlets of England; to the poorest cottage in the Highlands; that shall descend with the miner into the pit underground; that shall abide with every laborer in the land, and go forth with the sailor on the sea.
How inadequately the Church of England answers to this need of a popular educator and reformer, may be illustrated by one or two of her most notable churches and preachers.
On Sunday last we attended two of the most famous places of worship in London – the Temple Church and Westminster Abbey. The former belongs to an ancient guild of lawyers, attached to what are known as the Middle and the Inner Temple, a corporation dating back hundreds of years, which has large grounds running down to the Thames, and great piles of buildings divided off into courts, and full of lawyers' offices. Standing among these is a church celebrated for its beauty, which once belonged to the Knights Templars, some of whose bronze figures in armor, lying on their tombs, show by their crossed limbs how they went to Palestine to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. As it is a church which belongs to a private corporation, no one can obtain admission to the pews without an order from "a bencher," which was sent to us as a personal courtesy. The church has the air of being very aristocratic and exclusive; and those whose enjoyment of a religious service depends on "worshipping God in good company," may feel at ease while sitting in these high-backed pews, from which the public are excluded.
The church is noted for its music, which amateurs pronounce exquisite. As I am not educated in these things, I do not know the precise beauty and force of all the quips and quavers of this most artistic performance. The service was given at full length, in which the Lord's Prayer was repeated five times. With all the singing and "intoning," and down-sitting and uprising, and the bowing of necks and bending of knees, the service occupied an hour and a half before the rector, Rev. Dr. Vaughan, ascended the pulpit. He is a brother-in-law of Dean Stanley, and a man much respected in the Church. His text was, "He took our infirmities, and bare our sicknesses," from which he preached a sermon appropriate to the day, which was "Hospital Sunday," a day observed throughout London by collections in aid of the hospitals. It was simple and practical, and gave one the impression of a truly good man, such as there are thousands in the Church of England.
But what effect had such a service – or a hundred such – on the poor population of London? About as much as the exquisite music itself has on the rise and fall of the tide in the Thames, which flows by; or as the moonlight has on vegetation. I know not what mission agencies these old churches may employ elsewhere to labor among the poor, but so far as any immediate influence is concerned, outside of a very small circle, it is infinitesimal.
In the evening we went to Westminster Abbey to hear the choral service, which is rendered by a very large choir of men and boys, with wonderful effect. Simply for the music one could not have a more exquisite sensation of enjoyment. How the voices rang amid the arches of the old cathedral. At this evening service it had been announced that "The Lord Archbishop of York" was to preach, and we were curious to see what wisdom and eloquence could come out of the mouth of a man who held the second place in the Established Church of England. "His grace" is a large, portly man, of good presence and sonorous voice. His text was "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." He began with an allusion to Holman Hunt's famous picture of Christ standing at the door, which he described in some detail; the door itself overgrown with vines, and its hinges rusted, so long had it been unopened; and then the patient Man of Sorrows, with bended head and heavy heart, knocking and waiting to come in. From this he went into a discussion of modern civilization, considering whether men are really better (though they may be better off) now than in the days of our fathers; the conclusion from all which was, that external improvements, however much they add to the physical comfort and well-being of man, do not change his character, and that for his inward peace, the only way is to open the door to let the blessed Master in. It seemed to me rather a roundabout way to come at his point; but still as the aim was practical, and the spirit earnest and devout, one could not but feel that the impression was good. As to ability, I failed to see in it anything so marked as should entitle the preacher to the exalted dignity he holds; but I do not wish to criticize, but only to consider whether a Church thus organized and appointed can have the influence over the people of England we might expect from a great National Establishment. Perhaps it has, but I fail to see it. It seems to skim, and that very lightly, over the top, the thin surface of society, and not to touch the masses beneath.
The influence of the Establishment is supplemented by the Dissenting Churches, which are numerous and active, and in their spheres doing great good. Then, too, there are innumerable separate agencies, working in ways manifold and diverse. I have been much interested in the details, as given me by Mrs. Ranyard, of her Bible women, who have grown, in the course of twenty years, from half a dozen to over two hundred, and who, working noiselessly, in quiet, womanly ways, do much to penetrate the darkest lanes of London, and to lead their poor sisters into ways of industry, contentment, and peace.
But after all is said and done, the great mass of poverty and wretchedness remains. We lift the cover, and look down into unfathomable abysses beneath, into a world where all seems evil – a hell of furious passions and vices and crimes. Such is the picture which is presented to me as I walk the streets of London, and which will not down, even when I go to the Bank of England, and see the treasures piled up there, or to Hyde Park, and see the dashing equipages, the splendid horses and their riders, and all the display of the rank and beauty of England.
What will the end be? Will things go on from bad to worse, to end at last in some grand social or political convulsion – some cataclysm like the French Revolution?
This is the question which now occupies thousands of minds in Great Britain. Of course similar questions engage attention in other countries. In all great cities there is a poor population, which is the standing trouble and perplexity of social and political reformers. We have a great deal of poverty in New York, although it is chiefly imported from abroad. But in London the evil is immensely greater, because the city is four times larger; and the crowding together of four millions of people, brings wealth and poverty into such close contact that the contrasts are more marked. Other evils and dangers England has which are peculiar to an old country; they are the growth of centuries, and cannot be shaken off, or cast out, without great tearing and rending of the body politic. All this awakens anxious thought, and sometimes dark foreboding. Many, no doubt, of the upper classes are quite content to have their full share of the good things of this life, and enjoy while they may, saying, "After us the deluge!" But they are not all given over to selfishness. Tens of thousands of the best men on