Our Sunday Schools to-day are such a notable feature of Kensington Chapel, that it is interesting to find a record of this kind, dated February 22nd, 1814: “Resolved—In consequence of no other place being found so convenient as the _vault_ under the chapel for a Sunday School, that we take the same into consideration.” We are sometimes tempted to complain of the discomforts of our present buildings, but those who began the work had to do it obviously under difficulties of which we know little. The managers, however, could not finally consent to bury the Sunday School in the vault,—and hence, by the removal of the staircase, a room was fitted up under the back gallery, and here the Sunday School was very narrowly housed. This important question having been thus disposed of, a more serious problem arose—that of music. There was at this time no organ; but it was natural that one so distinguished in the musical world as Mr. Broadwood should desire the introduction of a suitable instrument. Mr. Broadwood not only desired it; but he was liberal enough to offer to present an organ to the chapel. The conscientious objection to instrumental music in religious buildings is now, for the most part, ancient history. But feeling ran high on the question in the days I am writing of, and one “true-blue Presbyterian,” as Dr. Stoughton calls him, would have none of the new-fangled methods, and retired with his family from the scene, entering his protest against the whole proceedings in stout British fashion. Mr. Broadwood gave the organ; and the treasurer had great difficulty, apparently, in paying the organist; and, what with periodical discontinuance of the organ on the score of expense, and criticism of the organist by the congregation, the musical affairs were far from smooth and pleasant for some time to come. Kensington music has never ceased to be a source of anxious solicitude to the Church from that day to this.
Many are the stories of Mr. Leifchild’s power of preaching, and it is evident that he prepared his discourses with great care. His method of delivery was somewhat singular, and we should be inclined to regard it as artificial. But it was capable of great effect. The main portion of the discourse was delivered in a quiet, conversational tone, and was occupied in doctrinal, or exegetical, exposition. The audience listened languidly, if not drowsily. But suddenly there was an awakening. The preacher was approaching his application. Standing full back in the pulpit, and mustering all his energy, he proceeded to declaim the final passages of the sermon. In these he drove home the truths he had elicited in exposition with amazing force. The congregation was now listening with breathless interest. This was what they had come to hear; and they were simply at the preacher’s mercy for the remainder of his discourse. This old style of preaching has almost entirely, if not altogether, disappeared. But it was a great power in those days, and there were few more absolute masters of the art than John Leifchild. There are still two members connected with Kensington Chapel who were in Mr. Leifchild’s Bible Class.