Of course, the actual church services must, in every well-ordered parish, be supplemented by a considerable amount of religious work outside the church, and our first object being to make Communion a real bond of union between us all, we strove by Bible Classes, and by private instruction, to either prepare for Confirmation, or, if people had already been confirmed, to restore them to their privileges. I differ, I know, from many of my brethren about the age of Confirmation. Very seldom has anyone been presented at S. Agatha’s under fourteen, and I should think that more than half of those confirmed were over twenty, many of them much older. The preparation took about four months each year, the lady-workers taking the girls and young women, I the married women, and my assistant clergy sharing with me the boys and men. Classes had often to be held at half-past nine, and even later, our younger people worked so late. It was possible to weed out a great many during the first two months, those who could but would not attend, and those who, though attending, showed by their manner that they had no real interest in it. I am sure it was far better to repress rather than over-encourage, and if there was any grit or desire, those who were refused were bound to offer themselves next year. It was of the utmost importance for their mates and companions not to make it too cheap. The individual work, if it was only ten minutes a week, was infinitely more precious than all classes, and then there were the three final preparations in church, of which I have spoken before. We never made confession compulsory—I do not think that it would be honest in the Church of England to do so—and though instances occurred in which one was sorry one could not, and believed that it would have been greatly to the benefit of the candidate, yet on the other hand, one realised the great danger it would have been if it had been forced, and therefore not really natural. On the whole, I am inclined to believe that the voluntary system in this, as in most other things, is really the best. It is wonderful what experience these Confirmation seasons gave to us. Last night I was preaching at Kennington, and the parish priest told me, “The people here say that you seem to know all about them and their lives.” I am quite sure all this knowledge came from my Confirmation work at Landport. There is a simplicity and naturalness in people without any veneer of society, so that, when they trust you, they will literally tell you anything about themselves, and very often those who, when they first came to us, would have scoffed at the idea of making a confession, practically made their confessions long before they formally did so.

We had ten Confirmations during my time, and 580 people were confirmed. And here you will see that the great difficulty of a parish like ours, and one of its chief sorrows, are the migratory habits of the population, especially amongst the men; 46 of these have become soldiers and sailors, 38 have been emigrated, 141 have left the town, 30 have moved too far away from the church to remain communicants with us, and 40 are dead. Thus more than half have passed away from our immediate influence, and no longer strengthen the parochial life. Of the 285 who remain, 46 have lapsed altogether from Communion, 37 are irregular communicants, about three or four times a year, and 202 are members of the Communicants’ League, most of them communicating once a month. It is over these lapsed ones that we sorrow most, and there come up before one’s mind, now that one has no further chance with them, so many wasted opportunities. It is only God Who is never hopeless about any single soul, but Whose divine excuse, “They know not what they do,” is said continually for even the most sinful in the moments of their greatest depravity. I am sure that if we could only have translated into our ministry something of this hope, this excuse, I should not have to write the awful words, “46 lapsed,” and yet, thank God, the judgment of their having lapsed is only our judgment, not His, and perhaps He might write over us, that if we were only more honest we would have lapsed too. Remember, nothing in their surroundings urges them towards religion. How many of us, especially the clergy, are religious because we needs must. Many of those who have gone away write to us continually, and we know all about them, but, except by their prayers, they can no longer strengthen S. Agatha’s. If all these had stayed our Easter Communion would have been over eight hundred instead of five hundred. The following letter just received will show how a boy we prepared for Confirmation fulfilled his obligations:

And here is a letter about a boy whom we emigrated three years ago, about whom we were extremely doubtful, but who has done so well that he is trying to emigrate his family.

I do not suppose that anyone considers that the Tractarian movement, in its later developments, has been a pure gain to the Church of England. I can remember, when I was a lad, a week’s preparation for the monthly Communion, in which all the family shared, the mentioning of it at daily family prayer, the putting off of engagements during the week, the private talks both with my father and my mother, and thanksgiving at family prayer the night after. We who talk so condescendingly of the past have very grievous need to ask ourselves whether, while religion has increased, piety has decreased; and whether the multiplication of weekly communicants really and truly means better Communions, and does not often mean a Communion without preparation before, and without thanksgiving after. God forbid I should say that this is the case, but we all know that every privilege entails an increased responsibility, and that the body is in danger just as much from over, as from undernourishment, unless that nourishment be perfectly assimilated to the whole system. At any rate, I endeavoured to keep this thought before me when planning our only parochial society, which we called our Communicants’ League. It was unique, at any rate, in one respect: it had no rules. I have so oftentimes found, in hearing confessions, how burdensome the rule becomes even of saying a daily collect, and there is nothing more fatal to the progress of the soul, especially to the timid soul, than incurring unnecessary responsibilities. I believe that no member of the League ever passed a day without thinking of S. Agatha’s, and oftentimes among the ignorant, who have so little power of expressing themselves, thoughts are the best prayers. But the League had four suggestions: first, to be present at Mass every Sunday; secondly, to prepare for Communion on the first Sunday in the month, if conscience taught, to go to confession, and, if possible, making the Communion; thirdly, to make it fasting, if possible; fourthly, to contribute something to the expenses of the parish every quarter, the sum being left wholly to the conscience of the contributor. None of these rules were obligatory, but they were almost universally kept, except as regards making the Communion, because some only came to Communion once in two months. In order that there might be no difficulty about the preparation, there were services on Mondays, for women alone, at 3 p.m.; on Wednesdays, for lads, at 9 p.m.; on Thursdays, for girls, at 9 p.m.; a general preparation of conscience, for women, at 8 p.m. on Fridays, for men at 8 p.m. on Saturdays; and I sat in church practically the whole of the last four days of the week to hear confessions. The preparation of conscience was very valuable. I said aloud a commandment, then asked eight or ten questions about it making a little pause after each question; beyond getting drunk, doing wrong as they call it, and stealing, the poor have very little knowledge of what sin is. This system of examination prepared many for their first confessions. The League has 441 members. On the first Sunday in the month everybody gives their name as they come into church, and their Communions are marked in a book. We are able thus to test their attendance, and also mark change of address, a very important matter in a migratory parish. The League was responsible, also, for the Day of Perpetual Intercession, of which I have spoken, and for a service for men alone on Sunday afternoons.

Once a year, in S. Agatha’s week, we kept a great festival, when we all supped together, anyone sending what they liked in the way of food. Sometimes there was too much, though our appetites were generally good. Sometimes we had not enough. But that was all part of S. Agatha’s system. At these meetings the whole of the secrets of the parish for the coming year were disclosed. How splendid our great gymnasium used to look, filled with tables covered with all kinds and sorts of things, the most curious puddings, the most extraordinary cakes, in the funniest plates and dishes. Such an intense union and harmony amongst us all. Even when I had to say, as I often had, hard, really hard, things, with what love, what tenderness, were they accepted. I, at any rate, shall never see the like again, for it is seldom granted twice to a man in his life to be called to a work like this, for they were all, in the truest sense, my own children; I had begotten them nearly all in Jesus Christ, and they have proved their loyalty not, I thank God, to me, but to our common Master. When I had to leave, all our farewells were said in church. During those last few days, when they saw us in the street, they went within doors themselves. And yet, with all that, not one was absent from their duty to the priest who came to take temporary charge. No single one said, “Because Mr. Dolling has left I leave.” They knew their duty was to Christ and His Church, not to me. And yet it was a very grievous trial to them, so grievous that, to many of them, it almost meant shipwreck. I think I am committing no breach of confidence if I let you read one or two of the letters which I received just after I left.

The Bishop referred to is the Bishop of Southwell.

The Bishop referred to is the Bishop of Winchester.

The Bishop referred to is the Bishop of Guildford, who confirmed her.

There was hardly a word of complaint out of four hundred letters, because they knew it would vex me; but everyone testified to the heartiness and affection with which they had met the tact and kindness and sympathy of Fr. Bull. Perhaps I ought not to write all this, but I feel so proud of them, so thankful to God for them. You will forgive me inserting a letter which Fr. Bull wrote me after he left.

Many younger clergy and people from a distance wounded by the Bishop’s action in insisting on a change in our services which had been in use for eight years, wrote to me about going to Rome, but no such word was even whispered in S. Agatha’s. And this was not to be wondered at; for neither from me, nor from my curates, nor from my helpers, had they ever learned anything distinctly Roman, unless reservation of the Blessed Sacrament can be so called. We tried to make our religion manly, natural, dignified, and yet, in the truest sense, homely. Every word from the altar was spoken plainly, so that everyone could hear it. There were no concealments from the Bishop or anyone else. If there had been, I should be there still.

Our one object was to translate into the new church all that there had been in the old. My first idea of the new church was that it should be built as plainly as possible. I, who had suffered so much from begging, deemed it wrong to add any further burden to myself. Besides, I felt I had already over-exhausted the generosity of my many friends. But then, God sent Mr. Ball, the architect; and directly I talked to him I saw how wrong this intention had been. If there is one place which needs a magnificent and impressive church, it is a slum. He had made a study of the church architecture which I liked best, and which I had learned to know in Northern Italy. Directly you enter the new S. Agatha’s you realise it is a temple of God—of God Eternal, of God Almighty; and, as it stands now, it has satisfied all my desires. Every act done at the altar can be seen through the whole church; every word spoken there, or from the pulpit, can be heard. There is no use my trying to describe it; I do not think even Mr. Ruskin ever made us understand what a building is like. I think one of the reasons why the people at once felt at home in it was because they had been working for it so long. For two years Miss Wright had been directing a number of ladies in getting the vestments complete. It is almost impossible for me to say what S. Agatha’s owes to Miss Wright. Then the people themselves had bought a chalice and paten, a set of Stations which cost £140, all of the cassocks; indeed, they had contributed over £330, all collected in small sums during the last three years. Winchester had done some special work for us, too. A little boy in Mr. Smith’s house, who died some years ago, gave us our oak lectern, which cost £75. College, past and present, clothed with alabaster one of the pillars of the sanctuary. Three houses gave me nearly £60 for the oak panelling, on which the names from the old church are translated into the new. The great central pillar was clothed in alabaster and marble, and its capital carved in memory of one of my dear lads—a middy—who died of scarlet fever on board ship, and who had made his first Communion in old S. Agatha’s. One of the granite pillars was paid for, and its capital carved in memory of a brother and sister very dear to me, who died within a year of one another. There is still a debt of £230 on the ornamentation of the church, part of it due to Messrs. Powell, who did the beautiful mosaic work in the Lady apse, and whom I am most anxious to pay off. It is wonderful how the magnificence of this mosaic work harmonises with the simplicity and beauty of Mr. Summer’s sgraffitto work. It was a great gift of God to discover an artist who does not only superintend, but actually, with his own hands, religiously perfects his work. I felt, as I took my last look at the church, that it was impossible for me to express in words what I felt I owe, and what Landport and Winchester people owe, to Mr. Ball and Mr. Light—a debt which we can never repay. But there is a debt which we can pay—£100 to Mr. Ball, £1400 to Mr. Light, and £350 to the Bank, which they have advanced to me on Mr. Light’s account.

My own pressing need of discharging these debts, perhaps, has made me forget one special benefit of a church like ours. It practically admits of continuous ornamentation. We have built but the roughest of brick walls. And I feel that this is of infinite importance, that each generation should be able to say, “my” church. That hideous desire to get things finished is the secret of the shoddy, ugly churches which disfigure Christianity, and having to pay nothing for them is one of the greatest wrongs that can be done to a congregation. These great wall-spaces of Italian architecture are designed for the very purpose of being the ignorant man’s Bible, and the poor man’s opportunity of offering his mite to God; and I have no doubt that S. Agatha’s people will, by degrees, create it, what Mr. Ruskin says S. Mark’s is to the Venetians—“an open Bible,” which even the most unlearned and ignorant may easily read.