produced by personal conversation after sermons, and concluded with an urgent appeal—an address of unusual earnestness. Then Mr. Davidson closed the service in the usual way. The experiment was a bold one, but none present could have regretted it. Why should not qualified laymen give addresses in our chapels and churches on special occasions—on a Sunday night? Is there a valid reason why they should not, or why ministers should not thankfully accept their aid? PARK CHURCH, HIGHBURY. At the back of substantial and well-to-do Highbury Place, bounded by the New River and the North London Railway, has sprung up of late years a flourishing settlement of villas, single and semi-detached, known as Highbury New Park. At one end of it there has been erected, at a cost of somewhere about eleven thousand pounds, a very handsome place of worship of white brick, ornamented with a very handsome spire. From an inscription in front of it I learn that it is a United Presbyterian Church, and that the pastor is the Rev. John Edmond, D.D. The Doctor came from the north to London some few years ago to preach to a congregation of Scotch men and women, meeting in Myddelton Hall, Islington, whence they had to move, as the church increased in success and influence and Christian zeal and power. Boswell, when introduced for the first time to old Sam Johnson, admitted that he was a Scotchman, but added, humbly and by way of apology, that indeed he could not help it. “Sir,” replied the Doctor, “that’s what many of your countrymen cannot help;” and, the writer would add, a good thing too, when we see what Dr. Edmond is, and how he and his church labour to spread Christian truth around.