I believe the principle of there being such a crowd is the same in both cases. The great mass of spectators see in Mr. Brooke a man of fine physical endowments, and a very powerful voice. They are not judges of good acting; they cannot see whether or not an actor understands his part; they have no opinion on the subject at all: but Mr. Brooke has a name, and they run to hear him. It is the same with Dr. Cumming. The intrepid females, the genteel young men, who go to hear him, are no more judges of learning and ability than any other miscellaneous London mob: but Dr. Cumming has a name. Carriages with strawberry leaves deposit high-born ladies at his chapel. Lord John Russell goes to hear him. Actually, he has preached before the Queen. So the chapel is crammed, as if there was something wonderful to see and hear. I confess I am of a contrary opinion. I cannot—to quote the common phrase of religious society—‘sit under’ Dr. Cumming. I weary of his Old Testament and his high-dried Scotch theology, and his Romanist antipathies, and his Millennial hopes. ‘You tell me, Doctor,’ I would say to him, ‘that I am a sinner—born in sin, and shapen in iniquity—that I am utterly and completely bad. Why not, then, speak to me so as to do me good? I care nothing for the Pope! Immured as I am in the business of the world—with difficulty earning my daily bread—I have little time to think of the Millennium, or to discuss whether the Jewish believer, some two thousand years ago, saw in his system anything beyond it and above it—anything brighter and better than itself. The student, in his cell, may discuss such questions—as the schoolmen of the middle ages sought to settle how many angels could dance on the point of a needle—but I, and men like me, need to be ministered to in another way. Men who preach to me must not wrestle with extinct devils, but with real ones. What I want is light upon the living present, not upon the dead and buried past. Around me are the glare and splendour of life—beauty’s smile—ambition’s dream—the gorgeousness of wealth—the pride of power. Are these things worth living for? Is there anything for man higher and better? and, if so, how can I drown the clamour of their seductive voices, and escape into a more serene and purer air?’ And how am I to know that these professing Christians, so well dressed, listening with such complacency while Dr. Cumming demolishes Cardinal Wiseman—are better than other men? As tradesmen, are they upright? As members of the commonwealth, are they patriotic? As religious men, are their lives pure and unspotted from the world? I want not theories of grace, but what shall make men practically do what they theoretically believe. It is a human world we live in. Every heart you meet is trembling with passion, or bursting with desire. On every tongue there is some tale of joy or woe. If, by mysterious ties, I am connected with the Infinite and Divine, by more palpable ties