Loitering in Pleasant Paths. Marion Harland

      MR. SPURGEON and his Tabernacle are “down” in guide-books among the lions of the metropolis. But, in engaging a carriage to take us to the Tabernacle on Sabbath morning, we had to clarify the perceptions of our very decent coachman by informing him that it was hard by the “Elephant and Castle.” Nothing stimulates the wit of the average Briton like the mention of an inn or ale-house, unless it be the gleam of the shilling he is to spend therein.

      In anticipation of a crowd, Caput had provided himself with tickets for our party of three. These are given to any respectable traveller who will apply to the agent of the “concern,” in Paternoster Row. To avoid the press of entrance we allowed ourselves an hour for reaching the church. The Corinthian portico was already packed with non-holders of tickets, although it lacked half an hour of the time for service. There were ushers at a gate at the left of the principal entrance, who motioned us to pass. The way lay by a locked box fastened to a post, labelled “For the Lay College,” or words to that effect. In consideration of the gratuity of the tickets, and the manifest convenience of the same, that stranger is indeed a churl, ungrateful, or obtuse to the laws of quid pro quo, who does not drop a coin into the slit, and feel, after the free-will offering, that he has a better right to his seat. A second set of ushers received us in the side vestibule and directed us to go upstairs. The gallery seats are the choice places, and we obeyed with alacrity. A third detachment met us at the top of the steps, looked at and retained our tickets, and stood us in line with fifty other expectants against the inner wall, until he could “h’arrange matters.” Our turn came in about five minutes, and we were agreeably surprised at being installed in the front row, with a clear view of stage and lower pews. In five minutes more an elderly lady in a black silk dress trimmed profusely with guipure lace, a purple velvet hat with a great deal of Chantilly about it, and a white feather atop of all, touched my shoulder from behind, showing me a face like a Magenta hollyhock, but sensible and kind.

      “Might I inquire if you got your tickets from Mr. Merryweather?”

      I looked at Caput.

      “No, madam!” he replied promptly. “I procured them from——,” giving the Paternoster Row address.

      “Possible? But you are strangers?”

      He bowed assent.

      “And Americans?”

      Another bow.

      “Then all I ’ave to say is, that it is extror’nary! most extror’nary! I told Mr. Merryweather to give three tickets, with my compliments, to an American party I heard of—one gentleman and a couple of ladies—and I was in hopes they were providentially near my pew.”

      She leaned forward, after a minute, to subjoin—“Of course, you are welcome, all the same!”

      “That is one comfort!” whispered Prima, as the pew-owner settled back rustlingly into her corner. “In America we should consider her ‘very-very’ impertinent. Do circumstances and people alter cases?”

      Ten minutes more and the galleries were packed by the skilled ushers, and the body of the lower floor was three-quarters full of pew-holders. We scanned them carefully and formed an opinion of the social and intellectual status of the Tabernacle congregation we saw no reason to reverse at our second and longer visit to London, two years afterward, when our opportunities of making a correct estimate of pastor and people were better than on this occasion. Caput summed it up.

      “I dare affirm that eight out of ten of them misplace their h’s——”

      “And say, ‘sir!’ ” interpolated Prima, gravely.

      Yet they looked comfortable in spirit, and, as to body, were decidedly and tawdrily overdressed—the foible of those whose best clothes are too good for every-day wear, and who frequent few places where they can be so well displayed and seen as at church. Somebody assured me once, that white feathers were worn in Great Britain out of compliment to the Prince of Wales, whose three white plumes banded together are conspicuous in all public decorations. If this be true, the prospective monarch may felicitate himself upon the devotion of the Wives and Daughters of England. I have never seen one-half so many sported elsewhere, and they have all seasons for their own.

      The last remaining space in our slip was taken up by a pair who arrived somewhat late. The wife was a pretty dumpling of a woman, resplendent in a bronze-colored silk dress, garnie with valenciennes, a seal-skin jacket, and a white hat trebly complimentary to H. R. H. She and her dapper husband squeezed past those already seated, obliging us to rise to escape trampled toes, wedged themselves into the far end of the pew, and a dialogue began in loud whispers.

      “I say it’s a shame!”

      “If you complain they may say we should a’ come h’earlier.”

      “I don’t care! I will ’ave my say! Mr. Smith!” This aloud, beckoning an usher; “I say, Mr. Smith! You’ve put one too many h’in our pew. Its h’abominably crowded!”

      The slip was very long. Besides the malcontents, there were five of us, who looked at each other, then at the embarrassed usher. The gentleman next the aisle arose.

      “If you can provide me with another seat I will give the lady more room,” he said to the man of business.

      With a word of smiling apology to his companion—a sweet-faced woman we supposed was his wife—he followed the guide, and, as the reward of gallantry stood against the wall back of us until the sermon was half done. We did not need to be told what was his nationality. The victorious heroine of the skirmish did not say or look—“I am sorry!” or “Thanks!” only, to her husband—“Now I can breathe!”

      She was civilly attentive to me, who chanced to sit nearest her, handing me a hymn-book and offering her fan as the house grew warm. She evidently had no thought that she had been rude or inhospitable to the stranger within the gates of her Tabernacle.

      The great front doors were opened, and in less time than I can write of it the immense audience-chamber, capable of containing 6,500 persons, was filled to overflowing. The rush and buzz were a subdued tumult. Nobody made more noise than was needful in the work of obtaining seats in the most favorable positions left for the multitude who were not regular worshippers there, nor ticket-holders. But I should have considered one of Apollos’s sermons dearly-bought by such long waiting and the race that ended it. The ground-swell of excitement had not entirely subsided when the “ting! ting!” of a little bell was heard. A door opened at the back of the deep platform already edged with rows of privileged men and women, who had come in by this way, and Mr. Spurgeon walked to the front, where were his chair and table.

      I have yet to see the person whose feeling at the first sight of the great Baptist preacher was not one of overwhelming disappointment. His legs are short and tremble under the heavy trunk. His forehead is low, with a bush of black hair above it, the brows beetle over small, twinkling eyes, the nose is thick, the mouth large, with a pendulous lower jaw. “Here is an animal!” you say to yourself. “Of the earth, earthy. Of the commonalty, common!”

      He moved slowly and painfully, and while preaching, praying and reading, rested his gouty knee upon the seat of a chair and stood upon one leg. His hand, stumpy and ill-formed, although small, grasped the chair-back for further support. If I remember aright, there was no invocation or other preliminary service before he gave out a hymn. His voice is a clear monotone, marvellously sustained. The inflections are slight and few, but exceedingly effective. The ease of elocution that sent every syllable to the farthest corner of the vast building was inimitable and cannot be described.

      “We will sing”—he began as naturally as in a prayer-meeting of twenty persons—“We will all sing, with the heart and with the voice, with the spirit, and with understanding, the——th hymn:

      “Let us all, with cheerful mood

      Praise the Lord, for He is good!”

      The pronunciation of “mood” rhymed precisely with “good,” and he said “Lard,”