Edward Irving occupied the Caledonian Church in Hatton Garden, a retired and ugly-looking Presbyterian meeting-house; but the nobility flocked round him, and it was picturesque to see Scotch schoolboys in Highland kilts placed in front of the pulpit. As I was trying to get in at a side door, up walked the gigantic orator, with his black locks and broad-brimmed beaver, as if an old Covenanter had risen from the dead. An infant lying in the arms of that strong man added to the effect of the picture. His manner at that period was grand. His sermons were carefully prepared and read, every word, but with a blended majesty and pathos which no extempore utterance could exceed; and his reading of the twenty-third Psalm, Scotch version, was inimitable. His favourite word, “_Fatherhood_,” quoted by Mr. Canning with admiration, and now so hackneyed, impressed religious people wonderfully by its freshness. A fellow-student took me some time afterwards to call on him at his house in the then New Road. He was unwell and sat by the fireside wrapped in a blue gown. He talked to me for some time on the subject of baptism, the right understanding of which, he said, was a key to many theological questions. I could not assent to all he said, nor indeed understand it, but did not dare, at my age, to make any reply. When he had ended he slowly rose from his chair. It seemed as if he would never finish rising, he was so tall. When erect, he waved his hand to a nursemaid, who was walking across the room with a babe in her arms, and then, placing his hand on my head, he offered a solemn intercession, suggesting the idea of a Hebrew prophet blessing a young Israelite.
At a later period he took up peculiar views on prophecy, and on some ecclesiastical points. Then he became wild and incoherent. I heard him preach outside Coldbath Prison to a few bystanders, very differently from what he had done in Hatton Garden. He seemed to have lost unction as well as thoughtfulness and eloquence. On a cold winter morning, before breakfast, several students and myself walked down to his new church in Regent Square to witness “the gift of tongues,” which, amongst other imaginations, he believed had been miraculously bestowed. The building was dark, for the sun had not risen, and the mysterious gloom heightened the effect of the exhibition which followed. First arose inarticulate screams, then exclamations of “He is coming!” “He is co-m-i-ng!” drawn out in marvellous quavers. What appeared to me inarticulate and incomprehensible sounds, were regarded by him and many people as Divine utterances. They deemed them the return of Pentecost—a gift of tongues. At London Wall Church I saw him afterwards arraigned before the presbytery for heretical opinions touching the Lord’s humanity. He fought his battle manfully; and whatever people might think of his sentiments, they could scarcely fail to be impressed with the sincerity and earnestness of the man. The trial issued in his expulsion from Regent Square—poor fellow! It is touching to think of his history; popularity was his snare. It turned his head; yet, after all, he sacrificed that very popularity to sincere convictions. His latest life was an instance of martyrdom for conscience’ sake. Those who condemn his opinions must honour the man.