respect; but there is often a presumption
of motives quite the reverse—too often
a self-sufficiency and arrogance which
disgust rather than invite. On the open
space of road at the entrance to Battersea
Suspension Bridge, hard by to that most
picturesque region of Cheyne-walk, near
to a really pleasant part of the river, the
genuiness of this mode of enlightenment
may be tested by those who relish such
inquiries. For here every Sunday evening
—apparently, through the year; for we have
visited it, at long intervals, and find the
entertainment never flagging—a display of
fancy preaching in different styles of
discussion, conducted on the true principle of
"lose your argument, lose your temper!"
with explanatory expositions of all kinds, go
forward with an almost dramatic variety.
As we debouch on this open place, with
the quaint grounds of Chelsea at the back,
we see the place covered over with a dozen
or more groups of about twenty persons, in
the centre of each of which, arms are seen
going up and down, hammering, as it were,
on the anvil of argument, or, rather,
assertion; while frowning lips and strained
eyes testify to the eagerness of the
combatants. Were these merely the usual
evidences of the brotherly love of differing
Christians, there would be nothing worthy
of note, nothing worth the attention of
readers of this journal, in the exhibition;
but as we draw near, and observe the
groups looking away—the popular fashion
of listening—we find there are things going
on here, subjects uttered and gravely
reasoned on, which might well confound
much of the decent respectability of the
age. There may be a question as to the
propriety of interference with those strange
gatherings at the foot of Lord Nelson's
statue, when Sir Edwin Landseer's lions
are ridden by patriots; but some check on
the wanton profanities to be heard here
every Sunday evening, issuing from a class
contemptible, it is true, in numbers, and
position, though, perhaps, not in ability,
might be worthy the consideration of a
zealous metropolitan member of parliament.

Let us approach group number one, up by
the railings, where a gentleman of foreign
aspect, speaking strange English, effective
from his vehemence and passion, is clutching
hold of the bars, keeping, at the same
time, a precarious footing on the coping,
while the disengaged hand, very lanky and
dirty, gesticulates furiously.

"I will tell you, my friends, who is at
de bottom of all dis. De priests—I do not
mean de Catholic priests, or de Protestant
—but all indiscriminately. Vat is it dey
want? Your money! money! money!
dat is dere cry. Every vere, dey pillage de
people. I will take your own Bible; I do
not believe in it myself, but I look on it
with the greatest respect, as one of de
most important and valuable historical
works in de whole world: well, what do
we see in de Bible? Had de Apostles
carriage and ten towsend a-year, and a
palace at Fulham? No-o—" this a roar,
and very frantic, " de priests and priestcraft
is destroying de world—eating you
all up!"

A voice in the crowd, " All bosh! That
was said a hundred years ago, and
refuted."

"My friends, he says it is ' boss.' Dat
is always de way wid de priests—dey
never argue. Ah, my friends! dat is
always de way—dey hoodwink every one."

A grave, red-cheeked gentleman in the
crowd says, " This is mere ribaldry! I
am ashamed to see sensible Englishmen
listening to this rubbish, picked up from
foreign countries."

Friends of the orator interpose angrily,
and protest against the interruption.

"But it is contemptible," goes on the
interrupter, " to hear such stuff talked, and
it's as old as Tom Paine and his fellows."

"Dat is not argument. Ah, you see,
gentlemen, dese fine Christians dey always
descend to abuse."

"I could demolish all your nonsense in
two minutes. The Scripture says—"

"Please do not interrupt me, sir, I am
speaking—you and your friends may have
your turn afterwards," &c.

Passing to another group, we see signs
of hilarity, and discover a combat going on
in the middle, between a stout red-faced
lady flourishing a very black book, clutched
between the fingers of thread gloves, at a
very grizzled Hibernian.

The Irishman is the champion of his own
religion, the Catholic; both, like every one
else on the ground, have arrived at the
stage of losing their temper. We standing
near catch the words, " You poor
benighted creature, you!" " Where was yer
church before Martin Luther?" with other
threats and ripostes of a kindred kind, all
keenly enjoyed by the bystanders.
Periodically each disputant throws up his or
her eyes and his and her hands, lost in
wonder, doubting if there be a Providence
to hear such things put forward. " Powers