For instance, at All Saints over the altar is a crucifix. In his evening sermon he was pleading that as much now as ever was it our duty to confess Christ before man. It was grand for the Crusaders to save the Holy Land from the Infidels. It was grand the way in which St. Agnes and St. Polycarp died, in which the early Christian martyrs lived and died. Nowadays the Church and the world were far too friendly, and what was the result? That we tried not how much we could do for Christ, but how most easily we could save our souls. We sang the song of martyrs, we acted the part of cravens. “Look,” said the preacher, turning round to the crucifix, “look at the Saviour on the Cross. Who placed him there? who made those wounds there?—the world. And you try to be friendly with the world.” So intense was the power of the speaker that all seemed awestruck, as if before their very eyes stood the Saviour with His wounded and bleeding limbs. Another wonderful thing about the preacher is his common sense. “Look here, now,” said he, “here are a million of people who do not go anywhere on a Sunday in London. Suppose each one of you now resolve to go to the east of London and bring the people to church. Suppose you were to be street preachers. I don’t see why you should not. I don’t see why some of you laymen should not come and preach in this pulpit. Do you want your commission? Here it is, ‘Let him that heareth say Come,’ and if you did this you would accomplish more good between now and Christmas than would be done by the Society for the Employment of Additional Curates if they worked till Doomsday.” Well, there is a freshness, and a vigour, and a common sense about this style of remark one does not often meet in the pulpit. And the service itself, too, was the perfection of common sense. It began in the evening at eight. It was over by nine. It began with a short prayer and a hymn which did not take ten minutes, and it ended the same way. There was a service after to which many stopped, but short as the service was I fear the speaker had overtaxed himself. He speaks from the chest deeply, hoarsely, and his throat gave him a good deal of trouble at the end. Sometimes in his homely Saxon and ironical way he reminds you of George Dawson, but then George Dawson never stirred the depths. The only man I have ever seen equally effective was J. B. Gough, but then Gough was no orator, and could only act one character, while Mr. Body is a master of powerful language, and words never fail. He can read and sing also as well as he can preach, and while I write I seem to see him as he stood giving out the hymn after the sermon, as a general might marshal his troops— “Onward, Christian soldiers! Marching on to war, With the cross of Jesus Going on before.” A SUNDAY WITH THE LUNATICS.