Public religious meetings in those days were comparatively rare, and the style of speaking was different from what it is now—more ornate, with apostrophes and appeals of a kind which has vanished away. The annual Bible gathering was held in Freemasons’ Hall, the floor covered with a closely-packed audience. A passage was partitioned off on the left hand side for the access of speakers to the platform, who were eagerly watched, and loudly applauded, as they approached, their heads amusingly bobbing up and down as they quickened their pace. The diminutive William Wilberforce, eye-glass in hand, his head on one side, came skipping along; Dr. Ryder, Bishop of Gloucester, with big wig, and smooth apron, followed at a more dignified pace; Cunningham, Noel, and other evangelical celebrities were sure to be present. Rowland Hill, by his quizzical look, and humorous tongue, could not fail to make a mark; and Burnet of Cork, who afterwards became pastor of the Independent Congregation, Camberwell, was a vast favourite, his rising to speak being a signal for loud cheers. There he would stand, calmly extemporising sentences which exactly hit the occasion, and the audience—all eyes turned towards him—upturned faces seeming, as he said, to resemble “a tesselated pavement.” He liked to compare North and South Ireland with one another, as showing the contrast between a Bible-reading and a Bible-ignoring population. After Exeter Hall had been opened there arose a tremendous controversy about Unitarians and the Bible Society. Some well-known speakers could not get a hearing, and the scene on the platform was terribly confused, until Rowland Hill rose and put the assembly in good humour, by remarking that he “would accept the Bible from the hands of the devil; only he would keep him at a distance, and take his gift with a pair of tongs.” In the same place anti-slavery meetings were held. I remember one in particular when, besides Buxton and Mackintosh, O’Connell and Sheil were present. Mackintosh spoke with philosophical calmness. O’Connell was full of invective, satire, and pathos; one moment terrific in denunciation, then heart-melting in tones of sympathy; now stamping with his foot, and laying hold of his scratch wig, as if he would tear it in pieces; next, with gentle whispers, drawing tears, or creating laughter. Sheil, in a torrent of declamation, was carried off his legs, borne along by his own impetuosity, completely overmastered by himself; whilst his Irish friend never lost self-control amidst most violent storms of passion.