professors are to be believed, Christianity is _ever_ in imminent danger. Between the encroachments of Popery and the progress of Infidelity, we are always in a state of chronic alarm for organized religion. Really it would seem, that if it were not for the frequent exercise of a little authority—that is, physical force, an occasional crusade against Popery, a persecution _by society_ of free inquiry, the religious world would lose all confidence—Samson must inevitably be overcome by the seductions of Delilah or the hosts of the Philistines. It may safely be concluded that, where this faithlessness obtains, the power of the Gospel is deficient. Christianity is essentially aggressive, but, according to the experience of its degenerate disciples, it is hard work to act upon the defensive. Does not the outside world take note of these things? What more natural than that the sceptic and indifferent should doubt the alleged power of religion when such are its apparent manifestations—when, positively, any particular discovery of great advantage to mankind, such as the application of steam to locomotion, or any special event promising social benefit, such as the opening of the new Crystal Palace, fills its adherents with apprehension, because it seems to disturb their particular interests? * * * * * How is the great gulph that separates the masses of the people from religious institutions to be bridged over? Here is a problem worthy of the anxious consideration of the religious world. To treat so great a subject would require the compass of a volume instead of a pamphlet. Indeed, it has already been discussed _in extenso_ by others; so that it is superfluous to do more in these pages, than refer to one or two points directly bearing on the question in hand. It may then be remarked, that to secure the required end it is needful not only _to do_, but that much _must be left undone_—especially in the direction of the poor man’s pleasures. If the Gospel be not taken to them they were better left alone; for interference with their rights only irritates them, and widens the gulph. The two forces will, as things go, move on like parallel lines, but never unite. The bulk of the people are far beyond the reach of such delusive palliatives as stopping Sunday trains, and shutting up tea-gardens and public-houses. The preacher’s voice rarely reaches them, and Christianity itself wears, in their eyes, the stigma of being a middle-class religion, not adapted to the poor, to whom originally it was “glad tidings of salvation.” They are, besides, almost ostracised from our religious assemblies. Talk of Sabbath desecration! Suppose working-men—say, for example, the 10,000 pleasure-seekers on the Croydon line—were to flock to our places of worship? What is to be done with them? There is at present no room for them _in the system_. It requires time and money to erect and consecrate steepled buildings, fashion pews,