houses of all dissenters are called, however spacious and elegant they may be is beneath the shadow of Drury Lane Theater, in an avenue not wide enough for a carriage passage. The chapel itself is an old and uncomely affair, with stained glass windows, dark and gloomy, and capable of seating fifteen hundred persons. I went on one bright and beautiful Sabbath morning, and, having been told that the house was crowded dur ing service time, I managed to be there nearly an hour before the sermon commenced. The vestibule was full; the aisles, into one of which I pressed my way, were crowded; but in the pews not a single person could be seen. It was an unusual sight, and, on inquiring, I was informed that no strangers were seated until after the first prayer was offered. One by one the occupants of the pews arrived and took their seats, and, long ere the hour of service, the house was crowded from the pulpit to the porch, and I had the satisfaction of standing during the whole time. As I looked around, I saw many illustrious and titled men, among whom I recognized the countenance of Hon. Abbott Lawrence, who is a regular attendant and communicant at the altar. Soon a slight movement, and an instant cessation of an indistinct murmur which had been running through the assembly, announced the arrival of the preacher. He entered by a door in the rear of his church, arrayed in robes, and, with a dignified step, ascended the pulpit stairs. He is about fifty years of age, tall and graceful in his bearing, has a broad and ample forehead, dark brows and whiskers, and is altogether what the ladies would call a "very handsome man." He is a chaste and elegant speaker, with a clear, silvery voice, and precise, even to what appears to be a slight affectation or mannerism. The preliminary services were conducted

with great propriety, the singing by the congregation, without the aid of an organ, and the discourse was delivered in a fluent, extemporaneous manner.

The text was the words of God to Cain" Where is thy brother?" The preacher commenced by remarking that the context suggests several great facts, namely: that death, in a sudden manner, is not in itself an evil, but often a favor; that the first death was of a good man. Had Cain died first, all men would have looked upon the event as a terrible punishment, whereas now we can regard it in another light; that the first was a martyr's death, indicating that the great contest between the seed of the woman and of the serpent had already commenced; that by death the good are removed from wo here, to joy beyond the grave.

"All men," the speaker went on to say, "are of one brotherhood, on whatever shore, in whatever clime. But this bond of brotherhood is not always recognized. Should I ask one the question of the text, he would reply, 'What is that to me?' He would manifest a spirit which, if carried out, would break down all our asylums and public charities, and destroy society itself. Another would reply, 'My brother is no care of mine; for his sufferings are of his own making, or of his parents.' What of that? Did not Christ come to relieve us of sufferings and sorrows which we made for ourselves? Another would reply, 'I have been deceived so many times by my brothers, and helping them has been a task so thankless, that I will not relieve him.' But do you do good for thanks? The Pharisees did, but Christ did not. True charity shuns the public gaze would rather be cheated itself than allow an object of pity to go unblest, or without our contribution.

What of that?

“When I ask the text with reference to thy brother's religion, the reply is, 'O, that is his business, not mine. If he is sincere, all is well enough.' Did Paul say this when he looked upon the idolaters of Athens? Did Christ say so when he looked upon the abominations of Jerusalem? Did he say so when he went bending to the cross?"

Having asked the question, the preacher proceeded to answer it. "1. Geographically, thy brother is in Africa, in China, in dark lands, in lone and icy mountains, every where. 2. Religiously, thy brother has left the temple of God, and is bowing in the mosk of Omar, in the cathedral at Rome, in the temple of Juggernaut. He has given himself up to the worship of dumb idols; he lives without God. 3. Physically, thy brother is in some vile hovel, or on a sick bed, or in a prison. He is in want, is discouraged. Thy brother mans our ships, builds our houses, tempers our steel, provides our clothing, and fights our battles. Go forth, then, man with a heart, and claim thy brotherhood."

This discourse was applied to the support of a charity school, connected with the doctor's church. Speaking of the poor children composing it, he remarked, "The only difference between the diamond which adorns Vic'toria's crown and that which lies embedded in the earth consists in polish: so the children of the rich and poor differ only in education." In illustration of the interest which angels on high take in the education of children, he said, “In our city is a Crystal Palace. Thousands will go and admire it, and gaze upon the productions of every clime with wonder. But holy angels, as they sweep over the city to-day, will stop not at the Crystal Palace, but will tarry where children are gathered from the streets, and taught to love the Savior." Again he

remarked, "On one occasion, one hundred thousand men were employed to build a pyramidal tomb for a dead king: we are decorating the living temples of the living God." The address was wound up by a beautiful incident, beautifully enforced: A Grecian artist was once employed to make an elegant statue. He sent for all the virgins of Greece, and took the most perfect feature of each, and blended all into one form of loveliness; and when it was completed, each of the maidens of that classic land could recognize some feature of herself in the work of the artist: so the Christian should be able to recognize his own features in the reformation of society, and the advancement of light and truth.

I have dwelt thus long upon this discourse, because Dr. Cumming is said to be the most eloquent preacher in London. The sermon was not profound, and, in this country, would be called brilliant rather than eloquent. There was nothing startling or great; but it consisted of a series of brilliant remarks a string of jewels, glistening all the way along like gems in the bracelet of beauty.

We pass next to the Free Scotch church, in Regent Square, where preaches

JAMES HAMILTON, D. D.

I went in first to see the church, on an afternoon, when no service was held. It is one of the finest chapels in London, and was built for Edward Irving, who entered the city a stranger, and soon became one of the most popular men who ever stood in the sacred desk, drawing crowds of admiring, fascinated hearers. Of that remarkable man you have all heard. His short, eventful course, which for a time shone with

such splendor, and ended in such darkness, has been spoken of by all the lovers of eloquence, and bewailed by all the friends of Jesus. For a time he was the central object of interest, and thousands hung upon his lips with admiration. But, intoxicated with fame and popularity, he imagined himself inspired, and declared that angels were communicating to him the will of God. I went into the chapel with my friend Overbury, of Eagle Street, and gazed upon the walls which had once echoed with the eloquence of that wonderful man, whose name was associated in my mind with the highest style of eloquence, and with the most blinded fanaticism. I went up that spacious aisle, to the elegant pulpit, but Irving was not there. He has passed away to his reward. And Chalmers, too, who loved Irving as a brother, and who dedicated for him his chapel, and whose voice had often been heard within those walls - he, too, has gone home to heaven. My companion told me, that on one occasion he went in to hear Irving. An immense number was crowded within the walls of that spacious edifice, rapt, fixed, lost in the eloquence of the preacher. When the discourse was about half finished, a woman near the pulpit began to make a guttural noise, which she supposed was speaking in an unknown tongue, afterwards interpreting by saying, "The Lord is coming, the Lord is coming." Irving paused, and added, "Yes, he is coming;" and, bowing his head upon the cushion of the pulpit, seemed overcome with emotion. "On another occasion," said my friend, "scores were heard making those hideous noises, or speaking in an unknown tongue, as they called it; and the whole house echoed with the sounds." Poor Irving! the most eloquent and the most unfortunåte preacher of his times!