ould not accept." At the
Temple, Dr. Vaughan was at the height of his vogue, and Sunday after
Sunday was teaching the lawyers the effective grace of a nervous and
finished style.

All Saints, Margaret Street, St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, and St.
Barnabas, Pimlico, showed a type of worship refined, artistic, and
rather prim. St. Alban's, Holborn, "the Mother and Mistress" of all
ritualistic churches, combined Roman ceremonial with the passionately
Evangelical teaching of the greatest extempore preacher I have ever
heard, Arthur Stanton. St. Michael's, Shoreditch, and St. Peter's,
London Docks, were outposts of the ritualistic army. The Low Church
congregated at Portman Chapel, and Belgrave Chapel, and Eaton Chapel
(all since demolished), at St. Michael's, Chester Square, and St.
John's, Paddington. Broad Churchmen, as a rule, were hidden in holes and
corners; for the bizarre magnificence of Holy Trinity, Sloane Street,
had not yet superseded the humble structure in which Henry Blunt had
formerly preached into the Duchess of Beaufort's[68] ear-trumpet; and
St. Margaret's, Westminster, had only just begun to reverberate the
rolling eloquence of Dr. Farrar. At St. Peter's, Eaton Square, amid
surroundings truly hideous, George Wilkinson, afterward Bishop of St.
Andrews, dominated, sheerly by spiritual force, a congregation which,
having regard to the numbers, wealth, and importance of the men who
composed it, was the most remarkable that I have ever seen. Cabinet
Ministers, great noblemen, landed proprietors, Members of Parliament,
soldiers, lawyers, doctors, and "men about town," were the clay which
this master-potter moulded at his will.

Then, as now, Society loved to be scolded, and the more Mr. Wilkinson
thundered, the more it crowded to his feet. "Pay your bills." "Get up
when you are called." "Don't stay at a ball till two, and then say you
are too delicate for early services." "Eat one dinner a day instead of
three, and try to earn that one." "Give up champagne for the season, and
what you save on your wine-merchant's bill send to the Mission-Field."
"You are sixty-five years old, and have never been confirmed. Never too
late to mend. Join a Confirmation Class at once, and try to remedy, by
good example now, the harm you have done your servants or your
neighbours by fifty years' indifference." "Sell that diamond cross which
you carry with you into the sin-polluted atmosphere of the Opera, give
the proceeds to feed th