I am connected with what is finite and human: and I want the preacher to remember that fact. The Hebrew Christ did it, and the result was that his enemies were constrained to confess that ‘never man spake like this man,’ and that the ‘common people heard him gladly.’ Dr. Cumming preaches as if you had no father or mother, no sister or brother, no wife or child, no human struggles and hopes—as if the great object of preaching was to fill you with Biblical pedantry, and not to make the man better, wiser, stronger than before: perhaps it may be because this is the case that the church is so thronged. You need not tremble lest your heart be touched, and your darling sin withered up by the indignant oratory of the preacher. He is far away in Revelation or in Exodus, telling us what the first man did, or the last man will do; giving you, it may be, a creed that is scriptural and correct, but that does not interest you—that has neither life, nor love, nor power—as well adapted to empty space as to this gigantic Babel of competition, and crime, and wrong, in which I live and move. The service at Crown Court Chapel is very long; the Scotch measure the goodness of their services by their length. You must be well drilled if you are not weary before it is over. The chapel itself is a singular place. You enter by an archway. The gallery steps are outside; the shape is broad and short; a galley runs on three sides, and in one is placed the pulpit, which boasts, what is now so rare, a sounding-board. As no space is left unoccupied, the chapel must contain a large number of persons. The singing is very beautiful—better, I think, than that of any other place of worship in London. There is some sense in that, for the Scottish version of the Psalms of King David is not one whit more refined, or less bald and repulsive, than that of our own Sternhold and Hopkins, or Tate. But, nevertheless, the singing is very beautiful. Dr. Cumming himself looks not a large man, but a sturdy determined man, with good intellectual power, and that power well cultivated, but all in the dry Scotch way; though so little does the Doctor’s speech betray him, that you would scarcely notice that his pronunciation was that of a native of the ‘Land of Cakes.’ He is young-looking, his hair is dark, and his complexion is brown. As he wears spectacles, of course, I can say nothing about his eyes; or, as he wears a gown and bands, as to the robustness of his frame. He looks agile and well set; strong in the faith, and master of texts innumerable wherewith to support that faith. A polished, graceful, self-contained, and self-satisfied man. He may be a man of large heart and sympathies; but he has not the appearance of one. He rather seems a man great in small things, tediously proper and scrupulously correct—a great gun, I imagine, at an Evangelical tea-table—and, with his ultra Protestantism (he is a countryman of Miss