time, which was not diminished by the fact that
a stout gentleman took this opportunity of
mounting upon a neighbouring bench, and
developing his views on various matters; and
though it would be hard to say what the views
were, it was yet certain that the stout gentleman's
voice—he being fresh, too—was louder
than our original lecturer's voice, who now
altogether changed his note, and began offering
his "new national anthem—God save the
People," for sale, which done, and all the floating
capital that was to be had being secured, he
thanked the audience all round for listening to
his remarks, and promising them another
opportunity of profiting by his wisdom on the
following Sunday, descended from his pulpit and
lapsed once more into private life.

Meanwhile there were no signs of flagging or
weariness among the other speakers, who were
all this time busy in different parts of the Park
with their little knots of auditory. The sound
of their voices made itself heard on all sides,
and, as you passed along, snatches of doctrine
reached you from one and another, and words
of strange import rang in your ears.

"I know, myself, that I am saved."—"I feel
that if I was to die this moment I should go to
Heaven." Words of this and the like awful
kind were to be heard that day in Hyde Park,
while sometimes a preacher—a boy this was—
would enforce his inculcation of the worthlessness
of works without faith, with what sounded
at first as startling as this:

"If I were to hear any man say, ' I shall go
out of this Park to day with a distinct intention
of reforming what is amiss in my manner of life,
of correcting this bad tendency, of abandoning
that bad habit, of resisting the incursions of evil,
and cultivating my better and higher instincts,
aiming at such high attainments as become the
nobleness of man,—if I should hear any man
express himself thus, I would say, ' I have nothing
to do with you; you are trusting to a delusion
and a lie, and are altogether in a wrong way.'"

Wonderful were these boys. Sometimes one
of them would catch sight of a little child, holding
by its father's hand, and instantly improving
the occasion, would say, to the child's unspeakable
terror, " Come and hold my hand, and walk
with me. I was once a little boy, I was a child
once, bless you! Come hand in hand with me."

Sometimes, again, a friend came up to where
one of these lads was preaching—a grown-up
man—whom the boy would receive with a
broad grin, and make him free of his bench.
The new arrival, scarcely giving himself time
to shake hands first, sprung up on the bench
and plunged at once into his subject, to the
inexpressible edification of the assembled boys.
There appeared, too, to be a strange and
mysterious connexion between all these preachers,
and you would hear one group talking about
what was going on in another.

To attempt to give any idea of the endless
repetitions of which the addresses and the hymns
used by these youthful ministers ordinarily
consist, would be to issue demands upon the
confidence of the reader which he could hardly be
expected to meet. One hymn seemed to consist
almost entirely of the repetition of a sacred name,
coupled with an invitation to the hearer, with an
unceasing reiteration of these words, " Now's
the time—now's the time—now's the time."

This same reiteration was found, too, in all
the sermons; and, besides this, a kind of idle
questioning, which is singularly unmeaning and
wretched. "Now, answer me," says the
preacher—as if one could answer him—"now
answer me, why does the apostle act thus?
Is it because he is anxious to secure the
approbation of mankind? Is it because he wishes
to advance his own interests? Is it that he is
indolent, vain, or self-confident?" The
personalities inflicted on the bystanders are singularly
unpleasant. " Mind it is to you I am speaking,"
the preacher cries, turning suddenly round,
and fixing some harmless person enough with his
glance. " It is to you I am speaking. It is not to
that man on your left hand—no, nor to that boy
on your right hand—it is to you, and you only."

The political preachings in Hyde Park furnish
an instance of that freedom which a form of
government too secure for fear can venture to
permit. Outside the ring where such ignorant
ravings were going on might be observed the
serene countenance of a stolid policeman, as
little disturbed by the attacks of the orator
on the government of which he was a servant,
as the English constitution by the threatened
elevation of Mr. Squillars himself. Of the
religious movement it is more difficult to speak.
There is something about this notion of a
ministry of boys that is not pleasing. They
do not preach well—how should they? The
mere notion of their thus addressing their elders
in language of reproof, and in the accents of
the teacher speaking to the pupil, is hardly
suggestive of what is fit and becoming.

As, on my way out of the Park, I reached the
outskirts of the crowd that hemmed in the last
of these young preachers, and prepared to take
my departure, I could not help noticing, with a
feeling of some amusement, a certain figure
standing at the very edge of the assembly. It
was the figure of a man listening very eagerly
to the incoherencies which one of these boy-
preachers was draggling his way through,
wearily, at the close of the day. This man had
his head bent eagerly forward, and hearing with
his eyes as well as his ears, was glancing from
the corners of the first-named organs as those
do who are listening with especial eagerness.
He was dressed entirely in black, a peculiar
thin white muslin band, with black showing
through it, enveloping his neck. A smile of
the most withering contempt played about his
thin lips and the corners of his watching eyes.

He was a Jesuit priest.