Mr. Brock’s _début_ in London was a decided success. The chapel, which, I should think, could contain fifteen hundred hearers, is invariably crammed. If you are late, it is with difficulty you will get standing room. The genteel part of the chapel is down stairs, and if you do get a seat, you will find it a very comfortable one indeed. In a very snug pew, at the extreme end on the right, you will see Sir M. Peto and his family. Half-way down on your left you will see the spectacles and long head of Dr. Price, Editor of the ‘Eclectic Review.’ Lance, the beautiful painter of fruits and flowers, also attends here, but I believe you will find him in the gallery. The people all round you look comfortable and well fed, and no one presents a more comfortable and well-fed appearance than the Rev. W. Brock himself. There he stands, in that handsome pulpit, in that richly-ornamented chapel, with all those genteel people beneath him and around him—a stout, square-built man—a true type of Saxon energy and power—without the slightest pretensions to elegance or grace. Such men as he are not the men young ladies run after, fall in love with, get to write in their albums, buy engravings of for their boudoirs; but, nevertheless, with their strong passionate speech, and indomitable pluck, they are the men who move the world. During the war, we are told, it was the weight of the British soldiery that carried everything before it. The Frenchman might be more scientific, more agile, more skilful every way, but the moment the word was given to charge, resistance was hopeless—you might as well try to stay the progress of a torrent or an avalanche. What the Englishman is in the field, Brock is in the pulpit. You are borne down by his weight. He gives you no chance. On comes the tide, and you are swept away. You are learned—evidently the man before you has little more than the average learning picked up in a hurry, in a second-rate academic institution. You like to theorise on the beautiful and divine—the preacher before you cares nothing for your flimsy network, born of Plato and Schelling. You explain away and refine—Brock does nothing of the kind: ‘It is in the Bible—it is there!’ he exclaims, and that is sufficient for him. You may say it is absurd, it is opposed to reason and common-sense. You can no more move Brock than you can the Monument.