explanation of this usage, of which I retain no clear remembrance, save that it is of very remote antiquity. Be this as it may, a few hours sooner or later are of little import; it is the pleasing impression on which I dwell, and it is one of the customs that, even with my hard matter-of-fact notions about the 'good old times,' I should gladly see revived amongst us.

On Easter Sunday, every one who has scraped the wherewith together, puts on new clothes, and dines on roast lamb; baskets of stained eggs are sent about as presents, and children feast on cakes embellished with the figure of the Paschal Lamb. In the week following, many marriages take place, as, except under particular circumstances, weddings are never solemnised in Lent.

Dinner-parties are also frequently given at this season amongst intimate friends; more formal ones sometimes on Easter Monday or Tuesday, by the principal families, to some great personage, the delegate or the bishop, for instance. But throughout all, whether on a social or more ceremonious footing, the same kindly feeling, the same absence of ostentation, invariably prevail. Would that we resembled the Italians in this respect! They literally follow the evangelical precept of asking to their banquets those by whom they cannot be bidden in return. At every dinner-party there are always to be met three or four old gentlemen, friends of the family, neither useful nor ornamental accessories, not distinguished by sprightliness, riches, or good looks. They would be classed as insufferable bores by us, and if asked at all, only grudgingly, to fill up a vacant place; but here, on the contrary, their age and infirmities constitute their title to admission; and unfailingly, whenever a trattamento is given-as any gathering for the purpose of making good cheer is denominated are these old friends seen in their accustomed seats at the table, not the least tinge of patronage being mingled with the cordiality of their reception.

The celebration of the festivals of the Madonna, to whom the month of May is especially consecrated, and of San Ciriaco, the patron saint of Ancona, followed quickly upon those I have been just now describing; and a concourse of peasants, daily flocking in, by their bright-looking costumes, and picturesque handsome appearance, enlivened the town to a very unusual

extent.

Indeed, the weather was so lovely, the air so balmy, the atmosphere so gauze-like and softening to the objects it surrounded, that an irresistible charm seemed resting upon the land; and it became easy to comprehend how a colony of Dorians, establishing themselves upon its shores, crowned its lofty promontory with a temple where Venus was invoked.

A cathedral, dedicated to San Ciriaco, one of the oldest in Europe, now occupies the site of the heathen shrine, nobly situated on the very summit of the hill, overlooking the town, which rises for some distance along its sides, but terminating about half-way, leaves the duomo undisturbed in its hoary majesty and impressive solitude. We used to delight in walking up here, and sitting on the steps of the portico, of which the columns were supported on two colossal lions of red granite, gaze forth on the grand prospect which this position displays. At our feet, sloping downwards in a semicircle, lay the town, the mole with Trajan's celebrated arch, the harbour and shipping, commanded by the citadel, and background of mountains stretching far along the curve of the coast, with higher ranges more dimly seen, forming part of the great chain of Apennines by which Italy is intersected. Turning away from this, you seem transported to a different region, for on three sides of this bold headland, a broad expanse of waters alone meets the view. The walls of the cathedral are not six paces removed from where the cliff abruptly ends, presenting a rugged face

of rock, which towers some two or three hundred feet perpendicularly above the sea. The wild music of the waves, on a stormy day, as they surge against its base, is borne upward by the wind, and distinguishable amid the strains of the organ and the voices of the choir, produce an effect not easily forgotten. Unfortunately, the existence of this venerable pile is threatened by the inroads of the sea, which slowly, but perceptibly, is undermining the cliff; and in a hundred years, it is calculated, the duomo will be in ruins. The votaries of San Ciriaco say, however, that he will not fail to protect his church, and defy the ravages of the elements.

The body of the saint, clad in his episcopal robes, for he was bishop of Ancona, is preserved in a subterranean chapel, and is annually exposed, for the first eight days of the month of May, to the veneration of the people.

The legend runs, that after undergoing in the east the martyrdom of boiling lead being poured down his throat, his remains floated in a stone coffin back to the scene of his former labours.

In the duomo is also kept the famous picture of the Madonna, attested to have opened her eyes in 1795, at a moment of great peril to the state, which was overrun by the armies of the French Republic. Fifty years after, in 1845, this miracle received the confirmation of the papal authority; and the petitions from the gonfaloniere (mayor) and magistrates, the clergy and the nobility, imploring that, as an acknowledgment of being thus privileged, they might be permitted to place Ancona under the immediate protection of the Madonna, who, by opening the eyes of her venerated image, had signally shewn her favour towards it'received a gracious response. Fireworks, processions, a general illumination, and nine days of religious ceremonies at the duomo, inaugurated this event, which at every succeeding anniversary is still commemorated with great solemnity.

It was my good-fortune to hear a course of sermons delivered in honour of the holy image by a Barnabite friar, Padre G of Bologna, one of the most celebrated preachers of the day; and the scene presented by the illuminated church, the enthroned picture—a meek and lowly face, shaded by a dark-blue mantle, but resplendent with a star and rose of brilliants, with which it had been adorned by Pius VII.-the eager upturned countenances of the crowd, as their kindling glances wandered from the impassioned orator to the half-closed eyes of the motionless effigy he was apostrophising, as if seeking to discern some miraculous manifestation in their favour; the enthusiastic appeals, the fervent action of the priest as his lofty form towered in the pulpit, and his powerful voice swelled like an organ through the aisles-all rise vividly before me, resembling some dream of enchantment, with that strange fascination that such pageants in Italy possess.

Not less remarkable than his startling eloquence was the ingenuity with which the preacher diversified nine consecutive days of discourses upon the same topic. One day he surprised his auditors by a dissertation on the invention of gunpowder, the destructive missiles employed in modern warfare, the disastrous sieges and the fearful loss of life, all attributable to this discovery. Then depicting the horrors of two or three well-known bombardments and pillages with thrilling power, he asked triumphantly whence it was that Ancona, often surrounded by hostile armies, and invested by foes as watchful as relentless, had always been preserved from a similar fate? Whence, if not by the miraculous presence of that heavenly portrait, whose modest eyelids had been raised, in moments of the greatest peril to the church, to give courage to the dejected, and faith to the wavering!

On another occasion, he commenced by a vivid

description of the early youth, the education, the first exploits of Napoleon. He led you on step by step in his career; he successively brought him before you as the sullen sensitive boy at Brienne, the aspiring lieutenant of artillery, the young general of twenty-six, making Italy ring with his fame. On he went, gathering fresh ardour, more striking similes, more startling vehemence, as he dwelt on the resistless might which hurled down thrones and swept away kingdoms in a breath, till he brought him, flushed with conquest, to Ancona. And here,' he continued-'here, beneath this venerable dome, standing before the sacred picture, prepared to scoff and ridicule its divine powersthat man, with eagle eyes and folded arms, gives one hurried glance, and trembles.... Yes! The haughty brow which the fabled thunders of Jove might have encircled, is bent before that benign though reproachful gaze. His sallow cheek grows ashy pale as those heavenly orbs unclose upon him! His limbs totter; the sacrilegious hand which was stretched forth to lay hold on the venerated image is withdrawn, and he hastens away, sternly forbidding its removal or inspection!'

As a last specimen of this attractive, but certainly peculiar style of pulpit oratory, I ought to quote from a magnificent delineation, with which he opened another of his discourses, of the terror that marks the progress of the Destroying Angel, scattering pestilence from his sable wings, with desolation and mourning in his wake. But my limits forbid anything beyond a mere sketch of the subjects on which he enlarged, with a graphic power, a scenic effect-if I may use the term of which it is impossible to convey any just conception. The dread judgment on the first-born of Egypt, the plagues sent on the murmuring Israelites-the dire records of the dark ages, when cities were made desolate, and whole populations swept away by similar awful visitations-all were detailed with harrowing power. Passing on from these to modern times, he addressed himself more particularly to the feelings of his auditors, by recalling the ravages which the cholera had made a few years previous in Ancona, when, out of its then population of 25,000, 1000 were swept away; and finally bade them ascribe their own preservation the final disappearance of the scourge to the wondrous picture having been borne, amid the tears and supplications of the inhabitants, in solemn procession through the streets. 'Give me, O Maria!' he here cried with transport, striking himself upon the breast-'give me a spring-tide of roses and hyacinths to weave in garlands for thy shrine; give me the laurel-wreath of genius, the monarch's crown of gems; give me all that earth holds beautiful or rare, to cast in tribute at thy feet. Give me eloquence to inspire, fervour to incite, persuasion to reclaim-give all to me, who yet am nothing, to be consecrated to thy service. Let me gaze on those celestial eyes, which so benignly opened upon Ancona, and gather there undying ardour and unconquerable love, our only hope, our only refuge!?

After an address of this description, an approving murmur used to be discernible among the crowd, while now and then an irrepressible 'bravo,' or a patronising bene, bene,' would be heard. But apart from the peasants-who, as I have said, flocked in large numbers to these ceremonies-and the poor old women, whose withered lips and palsied fingers were ever busy in saying their rosary and counting its beads, I should be sorry to have to estimate how much real devotion dwelt in the hearts of the multitude which daily congregated at the duomo, as soon, at least, as the excitement which such fiery appeals would naturally produce upon the susceptible temperaments of the south, had worn away.

As for the young men, of whom there were numbers always present, I heard from various sources that they had no more thought of anything religious in what

they heard or witnessed, than if they were in a theatre or a forum: they were there solely to enjoy Padre G―'s eloquent descriptions, to look about them, and to kill time.

DOMESTIC BOOKBINDING. MUCH valuable literary matter is lost for want of binding; for many persons will go to the expense of the one, who grudge, or cannot afford, the other. We strongly recommend our friends to make all possible efforts and sacrifices with a view to getting their music, magazines, &c. bound for them; but if they cannot, or will not do this, we offer them a few suggestions on the subject of binding at home.

We know amateurs who take much pleasure in the art of bookbinding, and follow it with great success; but, to do this, there must be a workshop and the regular apparatus. Our object is to shew how books may be bound without such apparatus, and at a small expense.

Some little preparation must, however, be made; and we shall describe what is indispensable. Take two flat pieces of plank of some hard wood, about 14 inch thick, and somewhat larger than any book you may have to bind-say, 20 by 18 inches. Lay these planks together, and bore through them both three holes at either end, about an inch from the edge, and with an inch auger. Make six pegs of hard wood, six inches long, and fit them tightly into one plank on one side of it-that is, so that the pegs may all stand out at one side. Reduce the size of the pegs, so that they will pass freely through the holes in the other board, that by their means the boards may be separated or brought near to each other at pleasure. The board in which the holes are should be fitted with a backstay or two, so that it may support itself edgeways on a table, and the two together will thus form a sort of vice or press. For tightening this, arrange four large iron wood screws.' Holes must be bored in the outer plank, large enough to let the screws pass loosely through, but in the other plank, they should bite. book is in the press, the screws must be tightened so as to hold it firmly. This cheap and simple contrivance is susceptible of many improvements, as of screws with winged heads, specially made, &c.; but it will be found sufficient in its simplest form.

When a

In addition to this, you must have a heavy hammer, twelve or fourteen pounds' weight, and round at the ends, to beat and compress the books. If near a foundry, you should make a model in wood or clay, and have it cast; but, in any case, the hammer is not very expensive. The glue-pot may be any little pot of crockery; but should never be put on the firemelt the glue by placing the pot in a sauce-pan with water, and boiling that. Besides the glue-pot and press, you must have some scissors and cutting tools; and now for the mode in which you must proceed.

Suppose you had a year's monthly parts of this Journal to bind-first remove the covers and all papers not belonging to the text; lay the parts carefully together in order, striking the backs gently on the table to get them quite even. Then beat them on a block with the hammer, so as to compress and flatten them. Next put them carefully into your press, and tighten the screws, so as to hold them steady. Let about an inch of the back appear above the edge, and, with a common saw, cut four slits in the back at regular intervals, not deeper than the teeth of the saw. In each of these nicks insert a cord, and to these cords secure with packthread all the little quires forming the book. This completes the first stage of the binding.

To aid in the sewing process, a square frame of light wood is necessary. The cords must be tied to

this above and below, and the lower portion of the frame should be so flat and broad that the book can lie on it. The cords being passed into their respective nicks, the binder must open the leaves regularly to find the middles of the little quires, and then pass, with the needle, the packthread along the inside, but twisting it round each cord in succession as he goes; making it fast at the end with a knot or hitch. When this is done, he must cut away the cords, except an inch and a half or so on each side, which should be left to form the attachment to the cover. He must now replace the book in the press, and give its back a good coat of glue, melted as described above. Leave it in the press till the glue is dry.

In the meantime, the binder can see and measure the breadth of back for which he will have to provide the cover, according to the following directions:

Cut two pieces of thin pasteboard a little larger than your book. Cut out also a piece of calico or linen, so much larger than both these every way, as to allow for the back and the 'turning in.' Paste, down the middle of this, three or four slips of the same calico, to strengthen the back; carefully measure its breadth and length, and lay on your covers, leaving the space of the back between them; turn in your calico round the edges of the covers, avoiding creasing, and the cover is made, and must be allowed to dry. Then take your book, unravel and soften the ends of cord, and wet them with strong glue. Lay the book carefully on its back into the cover, and glue down the cords to the sides. Support the book in this position by some simple contrivance, and glue down a slip of linen or calico to hold the cords steady. Afterwards paste, over all this, a sheet of white or fancy paper to line each cover, and the work is done when dry. We say nothing about cutting the edges artistically, as it requires a particular arrangement not contemplated here; but if you are ingenious enough to cut them clean and straight with a sharp knife, so much the better.

However simple or rough such binding may be, it is far better to bind thus than to let books go to ruin. As regards the edges, it may be added, that, previous to putting the book into its cover, it may be put in the press, bringing up each edge of the three exposed ones successively, and, while held thus tightly, should be cut with a sharp knife or shoemaker's cutting-tool. Any little inequalities may be smoothened down with fine glass-paper. The edges, when cut, may be dabbled with any colour desired, by using a big hair-brush and water-colours.

In speaking of the linen or calico for the covers, we, of course, intended something of the sort used by bookbinders, as it may be had of almost any colour. We should strongly advise the amateur to make his own pasteboard. It may be done with old newspapers, at 3d. per pound, if none others can be had. If only done flat, and without creases or wrinkles, it is far stronger and better than that which is sold in the shops, and costs only a fraction of the price. The secret of making it good and even is, to wet the paper, independently of the paste to be employed, laying the sheets quite flat on each other, and, when nearly dry, placing them on a table or other flat surface, on which they should be secured with books or such things laid upon them, so as to force them to dry out flat. The last thing of all to be done is, to put the book as tightly as possible into the press, and leave it there for some hours.

We hope none of our readers whom it may concern will be discouraged from attempting bookbinding by the apparent complexity of the operations necessary for it. It is an amusing work enough; and the comfort of having books bound, and standing orderly on their shelves, will amply repay the trifling cost and trouble. Perhaps what we have written may be the means of

suggesting to more than one reader who can afford the proper apparatus, an amusing and useful mode of filling up a few leisure hours now and then. It should not be forgotten, that the art admits of the exercise of high artistic powers, and that it is allied to the fabrication of such little elegances as card-cases, work-boxes, papeteries, &c., on which taste and a decorative talent may be displayed to any extent. Supposing homemade pasteboard to be used, it is a good plan to press the covers, before using, as strongly as possible. between the planks, as described above, leaving them for a night, or longer, if possible, under the pressure.

A BUTTERFLY.
THOU incarnation of the light,
Coquetting with the flutt'ring sight,
Looking as if thou 'd ta'en a flight,
Like winged flower,

Down from the sun's effulgent bright
And burning bower—

The flashes of thy filmy wing,
Like gaudy pennon's fluttering,
That o'er the seas of sunlight spring,
A bark of light,

And with the wavy breezes bring
Us beauty bright.

Thou star of day, I see thee shine,
Against the azure depths divine;
And where the twinkling tints combine
A flow'ry cell,

Thou feed'st on beauty rich as thine,
And loved as well.

The earth secreteth rubies red,
The sounding sea, its coral bed,
The lucid air creates instead

Experiments are now in progress to shew that the sea is constantly charged with a solution of copper. Mr Septimus Piesse caused a bag of iron nails to be hung from the sides of steamers passing between Marseille and Nice, and obtained a precipitation of copper upon the iron. He finds the same metal in the substance of animals

inhabiting the sea, and recommends the popular experiblade of a knife, and leaving it there for twenty-four hours, ment of putting an oyster-a bad one, if possible-on the when, on the removal of the oyster, the copper will be blue colour of some portions of the Mediterranean is due found on the knife. In Mr Piesse's opinion, the beautiful to an ammoniacal salt of copper, while the greenness of other seas is owing to the chloride of copper.

CURIOUS PARALLELISM OF CUSTOMS.

It is a custom in Berwickshire among women-workers in the field, when their backs become much tired by bowing low down while singling turnips with short-shanked hoes, to lie down upon their faces to the ground, allowing others to step across the lower part of their backs, on the lumbar region, with one foot, several times, until the pain of fatigue is removed. Burton, in his First Footsteps in East Africa, narrates a very similar custom in females || who lead the camels, on feeling fatigued, and who lie at full length, prone, stand upon each other's backs, trampling and kneading with their toes, and rise like giants refreshed.'-Notes and Queries, June 20, 1857.

Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. Also sold by WILLIAM ROBERTSON, 23 Upper Sackville Street, DUBLIN, and all Booksellers.

POPULAR

LITERATURE

No. 188.

A POPULAR PREACHER. I AM not a successful person, and I don't like a person that is so. When I am told of people who have caught the public ear or eye-an actor who draws full houses, a barrister who affects juries to tears, a poet who reaches a second edition, anybody, in short, who has done more than I have done-I feel a very natural antipathy for him, and adopt one of two courses: I deny that the thing is true; I have been to the theatre, and was the only creature in the stalls; I have been to the Old Bailey, and was convulsed with merriment at the pathos of the learned gentleman; I happened to know the publisher, and he confessed to putting 'second edition' upon all after the first fifty copies. Or else, admitting the success, I deny that it is deserved: the actor is a stick, the counsel is a pump, the poet is a fool. I find this practice, as a general rule, to be soothing to myself, as well as pleasing to my friends: the majority of whom also have been unfortunate in life, having merits that have never been appreciated, genius that has been ignored, and yearnings that have never come to anything.

Picture, then, our indignant sentiments when we heard of a certain reverend gentleman-one Boanerges -getting fifteen thousand people to listen to him in the open air. This, of course, was a frightful exaggeration; but then if there were only ten thousand? or even five thousand? Some of us were clergymen ourselves, and were, reasonably enough, excessively outraged. Well, we did what we could: we heard it from the best authority that there were barely five hundred in his chapel, and that each of those received a fourpenny-piece for going there; that after the first day's preaching, the novelty of the thing went off, and so did the congregation; that poor Boanerges was a seventh-day wonder which only lasted a week. The report then spreading that a gigantic place of worship, such as had not been heard of since Solomon's Temple, had been actually projected for the express purpose of accommodating Boanerges's hearers, followed by the certain news that one of the finest music-halls in London had been found insufficient for his audience in the meanwhile, and that the very largest of all had been engaged instead-then, I say, we altered our tactics. Boanerges was (then) a Mormon, a Shaker, a Jumper, a Latter-day Saint. He belonged to the Agapemone, denied the rotundity of the earth, was in favour of a plurality of wives, habitually preached standing upon one leg, emphasising with the other upon the reading-cushion, and held dramatic dialogues with Adam, with Moses, and with Nebuchadnezzar. We were confirmed in this line of proceeding by

PRICE 1d.

the religious newspapers, who, upon the occasion of a frightful accident occurring in his crowded congregation, asserted roundly that it served them, the sufferers, right. 'No man,' said one of them, 'is justified in collecting large assemblies who has not the power of controlling them '-upon an alarm of fire, for instance; after which it went on to describe what its Archdeacon Stratecote would have done in a similar emergency. Anti-Boanerges tracts also were published with strange interrogatory titles: 'Who is Boanerges?' 'Why is Boanerges popular?' 'Who is the Chief Heretic of To-day?' Not, of course, that we, or the newspapers, or the tracts cared sixpence what Boanerges was or was not, but on account of the fifteen thousand persons, more or less, who still kept going to hear him. People one meets at dinner-parties began to go; some of whom-Wilkins, for instance, a young man without a proper sense of respect for his superiors-thought fit to oppose my sentiments.

'Any man,' I had observed, 'who degrades himself to act the buffoon, will get thousands to come and see him do it.'

"There are more buffoons in the world than spectators,' retorted Wilkins.

'Sir,' said I, in a manner which is considered to be like that of the great lexicographer's, 'there are not. I maintain that if a man choose to play the actor in his pulpit upon the Sabbath-day, he will fill his house.'

'Nay; but we know not a few of those also,' persisted Wilkins, 'who have still several pews to let. I don't want to exalt my man unduly, but he shall not be sat upon.'

'Sir,' said I, 'did not this person address a man from his pulpit who happened to come into his chapel out of the rain, and stigmatise him as "an umbrella Christian? Did he not on one occasion imitate a Baelga? Did he not, on another, run down his pulpit stairs, to illustrate the swiftness of a fall from grace; and toil up the same slowly, to picture the difficulty of repentance? Did he not call the established clergy "dumb dogs?" Did he not?' 'Perhaps he did, and perhaps he did not,' said Wilkins; 'I have heard you say he did, often enough; now, do you come with me next Sunday to hear him, and judge for yourself.'

I agreed to go. Horshair, who has been thirty years at the bar without stooping to any transaction with an attorney, and Humbleby, one of the most respectable of modern divines, offered to accompany us on the ensuing evening. We left all the arrangements to Wilkins. He said we must dine at four o'clock, in order to be at the music-hall before the

service commenced. This was very disagreeable to people of our years and position, and particularly as we could get nothing at the club till after six. We arranged, then, to meet at the Wellington' at fiftynine minutes past three; and Humbleby and I were there, punctual to the minute. There was some printed statements upon one side of the door, setting forth that upon Sundays no table could be served till | after five o'clock; we rang the bell, and found that even this hope was illusory, and that the earliest time of hope was half-past five.

Horshair and Wilkins kept us waiting in the east wind for near a quarter of an hour, during which my friend continuously observed that it served us both right, and that it was nothing more than he had expected. We then adjourned to a neighbouring chop-house, strongly recommended by our young companion, and partook of the very worst dinner that I have had since I was a school-boy: much as wine was to be desired on such an occasion, and particularly for the stale fish, there was no wine to be got until six o'clock. During this melancholy entertainment, Wilkins observed that he hoped we were all right about Boanerges, for he was advertised to preach at so many different places that one could never be quite sure. Humbleby was speechless with indignation; but Horshair and I gave the young man so much of our minds as to induce him to confess he was only joking. Immediately after cheese, we drove away in two hansoms to the music-hall: an hour's indigestion, turnpike-paying, and suffocation (for Wilkins would smoke) ensued before we reached our bourne, which seemed to be a long blank wall in a perfectly empty street. An official person with his back against it informed us that Boanerges only preached there in the mornings; and that in the evenings he preached at his own chapel, a mile or two off, in Southwark. Humbleby, who had quarrelled with Horshair coming along, immediately began to walk back again without any remark, and, as we afterwards discovered, had the misfortune to be garroted near to the South-western Railway Station.

6

We three drove on to the chapel, the street in front of which was filled with masses of people. Horshair, not knowing that Humbleby had previously paid the cabman, discharged the entire account over again, from which circumstance much dispute arose between the two friends; but there was no time to lose in inquiries, if we were to hear Boanerges that evening. Though we formed ourselves into a solid square of three, we had much ado to keep our position in the crowd, and could not advance one step. The great iron gates in front of the chapel were closed; but two strong currents of people were flowing in, by ticket, at the side-doors; a thoroughly Calvinistic notion,' as Horshair observed, whose forte, when disgusted, is sarcasm. Presently, the police let three great waves of outside folk through the main entrance, and then the inexorable iron closed for good: we were in the fourth wave next the bars. A deacon-one of those of whom Boanerges is reported to have said: 'Resist the devil, and he will fly from you; but resist a deacon, and he will fly at you'-here addressed us, and implored us to go away. Mr Boanerges himself has said that his chapel holds but twelve hundred to hear, and two thousand to suffocate; the two thousand are now in. Three streets off, there is good doctrine and a most

respectable minister-Ebenezer Chapel, first turn on the left hand.' This announcement was greeted by a general groan, the sentiment of which was 'Boanerges aut nullus;' and not till the opening hymn-it sounded like a song of triumph-was raised by the fortunate inmates of the wished-for place, did we in the street begin to melt away in twos and threes. In those unknown, ill-paved, unlighted, cabless regions, I claim credit for myself and Horshair that we did not do for Wilkins, who appeased us, however, in some slight measure by standing dinner-for we had had no dinner, in any high sense of the term-at the club.

On the ensuing Sunday, Wilkins called upon me at breakfast-time with two tickets: 'Admission for Lord's-day mornings' to the temple of Boanerges. I glared at him for a moment or two, and then consented to go. It was a beautifully clear day; the gardens in which the music-hall was built were crisp with frost, and their ornamental waters sparkled in the sun; the scene was more like one in Paris than in London; and the vast throngs of ticket-holders among the statues and the arbours, and in front of the great model of the Russian stronghold, seemed pleasure-takers rather than church-goers. The music-hall itself, with its hundred windows and long gilded galleries, with its printed announcements of 'Cloak-room,' 'Refreshmentroom,' 'This Way to the Stalls,' and so on, which were suffered to remain in all their native profanity, contrasted strangely with the usual habitations of religion amongst us; two private boxes on either side the orchestra alone reminding one, by a sort of impious parody, of the grand old British pew. Upon the orchestra seats and fronting the vast assemblage, Boanerges's own particular flock were accommodated; and where the conductor's box was wont to be, was reared an enormous pen, by way of pulpit. How the folk kept flocking in!-for the most part, well-dressed

there were scarcely any poor among them-and || quite as many males as females; the majority, like ourselves, with curious, half-smiling faces; but a large minority, too, with very demure ones, in whose, chiefly feminine, hands were a Bible and a ticket neatly wrapped up in a pocket handkerchief. These tickets, by the by, cost but twelve stamps for a course of four sermons, and, it is fair to state, go a very little way towards paying the hire of so vast a place, which is expected to be defrayed by the voluntary contributions of the congregation at the doors. The body of the hall and also the best seats in the galleries, were filled before the gates were opened to the general public, and the unticketed religious world rolled in upon us like a flood. In ten minutes, when the gates were closed again, there was not an empty seat to be seen. The whisper that threaded this great crowd dropped in an instant, and every man's head was bared, as if by magic, for we had come together, some of us at least, to worship, and lo! there was the preacher.

A middle-sized, unhandsome person, not above twenty-five years old at most, heavy-featured, rather flat-faced, straight-haired-but with what a voice! Without effort, without perceptible lift even, it filled that mighty temple with a volume of sound. A short opening prayer, somewhat remarkable for metaphor, was followed by a hymn, which a man with a tuningfork gave out from the orchestra seats, and the select few thereon began to sing; one not well-known to us, or in which most of the congregation could join, being