Part 4

“In May, 1810, I was in company with Mr. Yardley and another young man by the name of Ponder. I found after that the said Ponder was a drummer in the Guards; I called at a house in the London-road, where I saw Mr. Church the first time in my life: there was at this house about twelve or fourteen altogether, drinking gin, and Mr. Church handed me a glass of the same, which I took; Church behaved very polite to me, and said what a fine fellow I was; he pressed me very much to stop and get tea with them, for he said he would call and see me when I was settled in the house in Vere-street. I stopped a little while, and was about to leave them, when Church said I should not go before I had tea, and flung down, a dollar; and a man, by the name of Gaiscoin, took the money and went for the tea and other things, but I would not stay: Church came out of the room with me, and walked with me as far as the turnpike; there he met another gentleman, which I never saw before, and I went on and left him for that time; I think it was six or eight days. I went to live at the Swan, and saw Church again; he came about three o’clock in the afternoon, and Mr. Yardley accosted him, “Parson, what are you come to see the chapel?” He said “Yes, and to preach too.” Church asked me how I was; I said I was not very well: he asked me why I went away in that shy manner; I told him he was a stranger to me, and I did not like to be intruding on strange people: he said I was shy—he did not know what to make of me; he also pressed me very much to take a walk with him, but I declined it: he said I must go, but I still declined, and did not go with him; he staid some time, and joined the company in the back parlour—persons by the name of Miss Fox and Miss Kitty Cambrick was among them, and the Queen of Bohemia. As Mr. Church was going away, he came to the bar and spoke to me, and said I must take something to drink, which I did, and he paid for it, and left the house for that time. In a few days he called again, in the afternoon, and there was not many people there; he asked if Yardley was at home; I said he was not; he said he was very sorry for it; I asked him what he wanted; he said he came on purpose for me to take a walk with him, but I did not go: he said he would wait until Yardley came in. Church said I should do him a great favour if I would take a walk with him; I would not go—he still pressed me very much to go: I said I would if he would wait till I had cleaned myself: he waited more than two hours for me; I went to sleep because I would not go with him; and in the mean time he waited so long that he was tired; he sent the waiter to call me, which he did, and said the Parson wanted me, and had been waiting two hours for me; I said, let him wait, for I should not come; he returned, and said if I would but speak to him, he should go away happy; I found I could not get rid of him—I went down stairs; he said, well, sir, I hope your nap has done you good; I said, I don’t know, don’t bother me. He said I was very cross to him; I told him there was other men without me; if he wanted to preach, not to preach to me about crossness. He said, well, if that was the case, he was very sorry he had offended me; I told him he had not offended me nor pleased me; but as I was not well, the less any one talked to me the better I liked it; he said, if I was but friends with him, and shake hands with him, he should go away happy. Mr. Yardley said, he never see such a fellow as I was, for I had affronted every body that came to the house. I then shook hands with the Parson, for at that time I did not know his name. He shook hands with me, and we had something to drink, and Mr. Church paid for it and went away. I never saw him till I came out of Newgate; I was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Holloway, and telling them there was a Parson somewhere about St George’s Fields, but his name I did not know. He asked me if I should know him if I saw him, I said I should; by that I went to the chapel and saw Mr. Church, and then I asked the people what was the Parson’s name; they told me his name was Church. I said he ought to be ashamed of himself to preach there, a ******** and rascal, and left the place, and went home in the greatest pains I ever felt in my life, and was resolved to see him, which I did the next day, and give him one of the hand-bills; and the manner he received me, was like a young man would his sweetheart;—I began my conversation; Well, sir, I suppose you do not know me? He said he did not. I said my name was Cook, that kept the Swan, in Vere-street. He said he thought so, but was not sure: he said why did I not call before and shake hands with a-body. I told him I did not know where he lived, nor I did not know his name until I went to the chapel and found him out. He told me not to make it known that he ever came to my house, for he and Rowland Hill had daggers drawn, and that he should be obliged to indite Hill to clear up his character, and for God’s sake do not expose me.”—(_Here the narrative breaks off_.)

As an orator, he delivers himself in a full, clear, articulate, tone of voice; but, to criticise his style, or analyse the _substance_ of his discourse, would be a fruitless labour; it would be like dissecting a cobweb. Unmeaning rhapsodies and unconnected sentences, through which the faintest gleam of morality is not to be traced, must, from their evanescent nature, set the powers of recollection at defiance, they even escape the lash of contempt. But, to gratify the reader, the following _notes_ of a SERMON was taken down in short-hand as he delivered it:—

“God is frequently going forth, and we also are often going to the window to look for him; the more _vile I am_ made to appear to the _world_, the more God will _assist_ me. Every citizen is a free-born. Many have wondered how I could go through so much trouble. There have been a great many that have wished to see me—I can inform them, I had much rather they had wished to see Christ. People may be laughed at for being fools, but, you may depend upon it, the more God will like them. All that believe not will certainly be damned. The duties of christianity are not to be preached to an ungodly world. John Church is very much spoken of, but they had much better speak of Jesus. The people of the established church feel no spiritual joy. Spiritual discourse is enlivening to the senses. &c. The bread of life is not to be given away to _dogs_. I am not going to turn auctioneer, but I am going to inform you, that, next Lord day, I am going to publish a book, proving that God, the Son, and the Spirit, are all one great God. My sermon will be good news and comfort to all poor sinners. Satan and all his spirits never sleeps; the power of life and death is only in the hands of our Lord Jesus Christ. Devils are allowed to harass the people of God day and night,—no wonder they perplex those they can’t destroy. People are mostly liable to fall, in their first love, into awful heresies and temptation. All the Lord’s people do not see into the glory of my text—’tis like a jewel in a rock of adamant.—The worst sin was the murdering of God’s saints. When I sit in darkness the Lord will be a light unto me. I am never tired of preaching, and, I believe, my dear brethren are never tired of hearing me. Many men laugh at the doctrine of the new birth—are there not many learned doctors that know nothing of it? Let a man come under any circumstances, I will receive him—Don’t laugh at the doctrine of inspiration; be wise, it has often been preached by our church. If every one that is saved should be as bright as the sun, what a place heaven must be, where there will be so many millions! Angels beckon me away, and Christ bids me come. The sight of Christ, you may depend on’t, will be worth suffering for. O that I had the voice of an archangel, I would indeed do wonders. I doubt the superiority of one angel over another in heaven—Christ is entirely independent of or with God. We must have the spirit of God before we are his people. Believe in the predestination of eternal life, but not in eternal death; people that suffer were before-hand predestined so to do _by God_. Bad or horrid is the religion of a proud pharisee. The MOB is seldom stirred up but through priests; there is now a case of the very kind: envy bursts forth through jealous and envious neighbouring _priests_, and published by _deists_, there can be nothing to fear; and, I verily believe; that any thing prayed for to Christ will certainly be granted, as has always been the case with me. Let us for ever endeavour to turn every thing, whether good or bad, into good. I do not care who hears me, whether _God_ or _man_, _friends_ or _foes_, _devils_ or _angels_, or any thing else; and let them call me an Antinomian again if they please. There must be spiritual life in the soul. I do not believe that God begot Jesus Christ—they say too that Joseph was an impostor, at this very day:—everything that is done against the church is done against Christ; also, that which is done against Christ is done against the church; and anything done against the people of God is done against Christ. It is a most blessed thing that we can throw our burthens upon Christ. That religion that is preached by the people of God is God himself. There can be no going forth until the spirit of God has entered. The Lord Jesus Christ and the people of God are all one. Christ has no sorrow but the people of God must sympathise with him; and the people of God have no affliction but that Christ sympathises with them. This monster—when he was about to preach, would frequently say to his _favorites_;—“Well, I am going tip ’em a gammoning story, my old women would believe the moon to be made of green cheese, If I was to tell them so. And I must tell them something.”

In consequence of a respectable young tradesman, in the Borough, Mr. E— B—, who was one of his hearers, becoming disgusted with his hypocrisy, and some attempts he had made upon him, leaving him altogether, he wrote the following beastly epistles:—

Had this wretch received a classical education, one might suppose he had been writing a paraphrase on Virgil’s eclogue, beginning with the line—_Formasum_ Pastor Corydon _Ardebat Alexin_.

Copy of a letter, written by the Rev. John Church, Minister of the Obelisk-Chapel, Blackfriars’-Road, to Mr. E— B—, Rodney-Street, Kent-Street, Borough, dated March 3, 1809.

“Dear Ned,

“May the best blessings be yours in life and in death, while the sweet sensations of real genuine disinterested friendship rules every power of your mind, body, and soul. I can only say I wish you as much captivated with sincere friendship as I am; but we all know our own feelings best. Friendship, those best of names,—affection, those sweetest power,—like some powerful charm that overcomes the mind. I could write much on this subject, but dare not trust you with what I could say, much as I esteem you.—You would consider it unmanly and quite effeminate; and having already proved what human nature is, I must conceal even these emotions of love which I feel. I wish I had the honour of being loved by you as much and in as great a degree as I do you. Sometimes the painful thought of a separation overpowers me; many are now trying at it; but, last night, I told the persons that called on me that, let them insinuate what they would, I would never sacrifice my dear Ned to the shrine of any other friend on earth; and that them you did not like, him should have none of my company at all. I find, dear Ned, many are using all their power to part us; but I hope it will prove in vain on your side: the effect all this has upon me is to make me love you ten times more than ever. I wish opposition may have the same effect upon you in this particular; but I fear not. However, I am confident if you love me now, or any other time, my heart will ever be sat upon you, nor can I forget you till death. Your leaving of me will break my heart,—bring down my poor mind with sorrow to the grave, and wring from my eyes the briny tears, while my busy meddling memory will call to remembrance the few pleasant hours we spent together. I picture to my imagination the affecting scene, the painful thought. I must close the affecting subject; ’tis more than my feelings are able to bear.—My heart is full, my mind is sunk.—I shall be better when I have vented out my grief. Stand fast, my dearest Ned, to me: I shall to you whether you do to me or no; and may we be pardoned, justified, and brought more to the knowledge of Christ. O help me to sing—

When thou, my righteous judge, shall come To fetch thy ransom’d people home, May I among them stand; Let such a worthless worm as I, That sometimes am afraid to die, Be found at thy right hand.

I love to be among them now, Before thy gracious feet to bow, Though vilest of them all; But, can I bear the piercing thought, What if my name should be left out, When thou for them should call.

Learn these two verses by heart, and then I will write two more, as they are expressions of mind, fears, sensations, and desires.—I must close, I long to see your dear face again, I long for Sunday morning, till then God bless you.

I remain unalterably thy dear, thy loving friend. J. CHURCH.”

Another letter was received by Mr. E— B— on the 15th of March, 1809, from Church, without a date, as follows:

“Dear Sir,

“Is this thy kindness to thy once professed much loved friend, surely I never, never, did deserve such cruel treatment at your hands; why not speak to me last night in James-Street when you heard me call, stop! stop! Ned! do, pray do; but cruel, cruel, Ned, deaf to all intreaties—O why was I permitted to pass the door of Mr. Gibbons when you and West were coming out. Why was I permitted to tramp up and down the New Cut after you; I only wanted to speak one bitter, heart-breaking, painful, distressing, word, farewell: I only wanted to pour my sorrows into your bosom, to shake hands with you once more, but I was denied this indulgence. I never, never, thought you would deceive me—O, what an unhappy man am I; the thing that I most feared is come upon me, no excuse can justify such apparent duplicity; O, my distress is great indeed. O my God! what shall I do? O Christ! O God! support me in this trying hour, what a night am I passing through; I cannot sleep, its near three o’clock; alas! sleep is departed, how great my grief, how bitter my sorrows, the loss of my character is nothing to the loss of one dearer to me than anything else. O let me give vent to tears; but I am too, too, much distressed to cry; O that I could. I feel this like a dagger; never, never, can I forgive the unhappy instrument of my distress in Charlotte-street. Why did my dear friend Edward deceive me? O how my mind was eased on Wednesday night; alas, how distressed on Thursday. I have lost my only bosom friend, nearest, dearest, friend, bosom from bosom torn, how horrid! Ah, dear Suffolk-court, never surely can I see you again. How the Philistines will triumph; there, so would we have it: how Ebeir, Calvin, Thompson, Edwards, Bridgman, all will rejoice, and I have lost my friend, my all in this world, except the other part of myself, my wife, and poor babes; never did I expect this from my dear E— B—. O for a calm mind, that I might sleep till day-light; but no, this I fear will be denied me. How can I bear the piercing thought, parted; a dreadful word, worst of sensations, the only indulgence, the only confident, the only faithful, the only kind and indulgent, sympathising, friend, to lose you. O what a stroke; O what a cut, what shall I do for matter on Sunday; O that I could get some one to preach for me; how can I lift up my head. O sir, if you have a grain of affection left for me, do intreat of God to support me; this is a worse affliction than the loss of my character nine months ago. A man cannot lose his character twice. O, I did think you knew better; I did think I had found one in you that I could not find elsewhere; but no, the first object presented to you, seen suddenly, gained your mind, gained your affections; and I, poor, unhappy, distressed, I, am left to deplore your loss. O for submission, but I am distressed; woe is me. O that I had never, never, known you, then I should never feel what I do; but I thank you for your company hitherto, I have enjoyed it four months exactly, but this is over for ever; miserable as I am, I wish you well for ever, for ever. I write in the bitterness of my soul which I feel. May you never be cursed with the feelings I possess as long as you live. What a day I have before me! I cannot go out of my house till Sunday morning. How can I conceal my grief from my dear wife?—how shall I hide it?—what shall I say?—I am miserable, nor can I surmount the shock at all. I have no friend to pour out my sorrows to now, I wish I had; I am sorry you are so easily duped by any to answer their purposes: my paper is full, my paper is full, my heart is worse; God help me! Lord God support me! What shall I do, dear God! O Lord have mercy on me! I must close; this comes from your ever loving, but distressed,

J. CHURCH.”

In addition to the confession made to Mrs. Hunter, the following confessional letter from Church, was sent to the great surprise of the Rev. Mr. L—, two days after the offence had been committed. It appears that Church was but very slightly known to the above gentleman, in consequence of some money transactions having passed between them:—

DEAR SIR—Surely upon the reception of this short note you will say, ah, _Church_ is like all the rest of the parsons, promise much and do little, yea nothing: to your note I can only with a pained heart reply _I cannot indeed_—I can scarcely write this note, my soul is too deeply pierced. About eight or nine years ago Dr. Draper left the church in the Borough and God opened Chapel-court for me, many attended and have been blest, now a singular providence, but a most distressing one, has occurred to take me shortly from my dear, dear family and beloved congregation. But God has sent Mr. L— to preach all the truth to my poor dispersed flock, at least so it appears to me, and I would do all the good to promote the success of Mr. L— that my poor people might not be starved till I return to them in peace, which may be many months. My heart is broken, my enemies have ruined me at last, and I shall never, never surmount it, an unpleasant affair happening at Vauxall, is added too, and I must take the consequences: no arm can help, relieve, or deliver, but the Lord’s, and I feel persuaded the Lord will _not_: judge my feelings if you can. I shall secretly come and hear you, to get all the good I can to a heart deprest, disconsolate, and full of woe. Oh, the joy of my enemies! Oh the distress of my friends! Oh, my poor heart! Let a sigh go up to God for me when you can.

Your’s, in the utmost distress,

J. C.

The following bad character has been given of Church by Mr. and Mrs. Gee, of the New Cut, who keep a cake-shop, where he once lodged:—

“Mr Church, the minister, lodged at our house a year and a half, and left last year at Lady Day.

“We were in hopes that we were about to have a godly praying minster in our house; and to be sure the first night he had somewhat like a prayer, and that once afterwards were the only times he ever went to family prayer in our house. Nor could they have any prayer, as he would be frequently out almost all hours of the night, and would lie in bed till ten in the morning. Several times he and his wife would have skirmishings and fightings between themselves, while the children would be left to run about the streets out of school hours, and allowed to keep company with children that would swear in our hearing most shockingly. His children were always left to be very dirty, and would be sent sometimes three or four times in a morning for spirituous liquors of all sorts. As for reading good books, or even the Bible, he scarce ever thought of it, but would spend a deal of his time in loose and vain talk, in walking about, and fawning upon young men, that was his chief delight.

“Sundays and working days were all alike to them, for they would send out to buy liquors, and whatever else they wanted, on Sundays as well as other days.

“The house would be frequently more like a playhouse (I might say a bawdy house) than a minister’s house, were a set of young people would come and behave more indecently than ought to be mentioned. Even one Sunday morning they made such an uproar as that they broke one of the windows, after that they would go with him to his chapel, and, after that, he would give the sacrament to such disorderly people, let their characters be ever so loose.

“He was always ready to go fast enough out to dinner or supper where he could get good eating and drinking, but poor people might send to him from their sick bed times and times before he would come to them. Seeing so much of his inconsistencies and shocking filthiness in their rooms, (though they always paid their rent,) we were determined to give them warning to quit our house, and we do not think that a worse man or woman ever came into any house before, especially as Mr. Church pretended to preach the gospel; such hypocrites are much worse than others, and, besides this, we never heard a man tell lies so fast in all our lives. It is a great grief to us that ever we went to hear him preach, or suffered him to stop so long in our house.”

GEORGE AND FRANCES GEE.

It appears from the testimony of George Tarrier, and James Russell, of Redcross-street; of Richard Jessop, of Castle-street; and William Williams of the Mint; that the _Rev. John Church_, on the 16th of November, 1809, also attended at the funeral of Richard Oakden, a clerk in the Bank, who was hung before Newgate, for an abominable offence, on 14th November, 1809. This _pious_ minister and his partizans returned to the Hat and Feathers, Gravel-lane, kept by a Mr. Richardson, where the funeral set out from, to partake of a jovial dinner. His conduct here, it seems, was beyond description.