they lend their aid _in upholding the_ THING. What silly; nay, what base creatures those must be who really give their money, give their pennies, which ought to buy bread for their own children; who thus give their money to these lazy and impudent fellows, who call themselves ministers of God, who prowl about the country living easy and jovial lives upon the fruit of the labour of other people. However, it is, in some measure, these people's fault. If they did not give, the others could not receive. I wish to see every labouring man well fed and well clad; but, really, the man who gives any portion of his earnings to these fellows deserves to want: he deserves to be pinched with hunger: misery is the just reward of this worst species of prodigality. The _singing_ makes a great part of what passes in these meeting-houses. A number of women and girls singing together make very sweet sounds. Few men there are who have not felt _the power_ of sounds of this sort. Men are sometimes pretty nearly bewitched without knowing how. _Eyes_ do a good deal, but _tongues_ do more. We may talk of sparkling eyes and snowy bosoms as long as we please; but what are these with a croaking, masculine voice? The parson seemed to be fully aware of the importance of this part of the "service." The subject of his hymn was something about _love_: Christian love; love of Jesus; but still it was about _love_; and the parson read, or gave out, the verses in a singularly _soft_ and _sighing_ voice, with his head on one side, and giving it rather a swing. I am satisfied that the singing forms great part of the _attraction_. Young girls like to sing; and young men like to hear them. Nay, old ones too; and, as I have just said, it was the singing that _drew_ me three hundred yards down the street at Tenterden, to enter this meeting-house. By-the-by, I wrote some Hymns myself, and published them in "_Twopenny Trash_." I will give any Methodist parson leave to put them into his hymn-book. _Folkestone (Kent), Monday (Noon), 1 Sept._ I have had a fine ride, and, I suppose, the Quakers have had a fine time of it at Mark Lane.