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.