And what a muster of carriages there always was at St. George’s, to take the corporators and fashionables home after service. How the coachmen squared their elbows, and how the horses pranced, and how the footmen banged-to the doors! And then when “all right” was heard, how they dashed off, to the right and left, some taking one turn and some the other, down narrow old Castle-ditch, and so into narrow old Lord-street, down which they flew “like mad,” until the profane vulgar called these exhibitions “the Liverpool Sunday races!” And what a crowd of dandies and exquisites always assembled on the Athenæum steps, not to discuss the sermon, we fear, but to criticise the equipages as they rattled by, and, when they were gone, to pass judgment upon the walkers, their dress, appearance, etc. The ladies, we recollect, invariably pronounced this phalanx of quizzers to be an accumulation of “sad dogs” and “insufferable puppies;” but it always struck our young mind that it was very odd, if they really thought so, that they did not avoid them by ordering their carriages to be driven, or themselves walking, some other way. If the moth flies into the candle more than once, we must presume that it does not dislike the operation. CHAPTER XXI. We spoke, in the last chapter, of St. George’s as the church which the mayor and corporation always attended. Once, when Mr. Jonas Bold was Mayor, it happened that Prince William of Gloucester was present. By a strange coincidence, which somewhat disturbed the seriousness of the congregation, the preacher for the day took for his text, “Behold, a greater than Jonas is here.” Both Mayor and Prince, we believe, as well as the discerning public, fancied that there was something more than chance in the selection of so very telling and apposite a text. It reminds us of the Cambridge clergyman, who, when Pitt, Chancellor of the Exchequer, while yet almost a boy, attended the University Church, preached from the words, “There is a lad here which hath five barley loaves and two small fishes; but what are they among so many?” Some years since the Duke of Wellington, attended by a single _aide-de-camp_, walked into a Church at Cheltenham. Here there could have been no design; he was totally unexpected. But, when the text was announced, out came the startling words, “Now, Naaman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, was a great man with his master and honourable, because by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria: he was also a mighty man in valour, but he was a leper.” This chance shot evidently told. A grim smile seemed for a moment to gather upon the features of the “Iron Duke,” as he cast an intelligent look at his companion, who telegraphed him in return with an equally knowing glance. They were both particularly attentive to the sermon, in which there were many hard hits, which might have been made to order, as they seemed to be as applicable to Duke Arthur as to Duke Naaman.