it on account of his conscientious feelings regarding patronage. Now, however,
instead of obscure exile, he was to be called into the vast and stirring world of
London, and become a minister there independent of the presentation of a patron.
A Presbyterian chapel in Cross Street, Hatton Garden, attached to the Caledonian Asylum, was at this time not only without a minister, but without a congregation; and a popular preacher was needed to fill both pulpit and pews.
One of the directors of the Asylum had heard of Mr. Irving, and judged him
the fittest person for the emergency: he represented the case to his brethren in
office, and, in consequence, Mr. Irving was invited to London to preach before
them. This was the kind of election that suited him, and he preached four
Sundays in Hatton Garden with such acceptance to the handful of auditors, that
he received a harmonious call to enter upon the charge. The only difficulty in
his way was an old statute, by which the Scotch minister of Hatton Garden was
obliged to preach in Gaelic as well as English; but this difficulty was soon got
rid of through the influence of the Duke of York, the patron of the institution;
and in August, 1822, Mr. Irving commenced his clerical duties as minister.
Few sights could have been more interesting than the growth of his popularity from such a small grain of mustard-seed. On the first day he seemed daunted, as he stepped from the vestry to ascend the pulpit, at the array of empty seats before him, and the very scanty number of his congregation; he had never seen the like in Scotland, and for a moment he turned pale: this, then, was his sphere of action, upon which he had prepared to enter with such tremulous hopes and fears! Besides this, his church, by its locality alone, was most unlikely to force itself upon public notice, being situated in an unknown and untrodden street, upon the very edge of the Alsatia of Saffron Hill and Fleet Ditch; and as if this was not enough, the building itself was at the extremity of an obscure court off the street, where no one, however curious, would have been likely to search for a place of worship. And yet his four Sabbaths of probation had not passed when there was a perceptible change. Strangers who happened to stroll into Cross Street in the course of their Sunday wanderings passed an open gate, and were arrested by the far-off tones of a deep, rich, solemn voice, that came like distant music to the ear; and on crossing the court with cautious steps, and peeping into the church, they saw a colossal man, of about six feet three, who, in this heart-subduing tone, and with commanding impressive gestures correspondent to the voice, was addressing them in a style of appeal such as they had never heard before. Could they retreat, and walk idly away?—it was impossible; and therefore they sat down, and listened entranced, while the next Sabbath and the next was sure to find them returning, until they became a part of the flock. And it was not enough that they were themselves delighted; they must have others also either to share in their delight or justify their preference; so that every new-comer brought his kinsfolks and acquaintances to hear this wondrous style of pulpit oratory. Thus the congregation grew with a rapidity that in a few weeks filled the building. But here the popular admiration did not pause. The strange advent in Hatton Garden attracted the notice of journalists; reporters from every metropolitan paper hurried to the spot; and, in consequence of their published manifestoes, the fashion, the literature, and the sight-seeing spirit of London were roused to their inmost depths, and borne onward to the hitherto unknown region of Hatton Garden. On the Sabbath morning Cross Street was filled—nay, wedged—with crested and coroneted carriages; and a torrent of lords, senators, and merchant-princes, of duchesses
