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 688 Sometimes the speaker’s place is usurped by a member of the Stiggins school, who, attired in the orthodox white choker and black coat, employs cant, oily phrases, in the solicitation of donations, “however small,” in aid of a mythical chapel which he professedly intends erecting. At other times we may come across the simple and earnest members of the various religious missions busily engaged in their good and unpretentious labours.

It is surprising how much unknown heroism exists amongst us. Many of these humble pioneers of social progress may be poor, almost illiterate, and at times ludicrously ignorant of the real meaning of the sentences which they utter with such startling emphasis; yet they seem at least to be thoroughly in earnest, which is more than can be said of others of far higher pretensions. There is something practical in the idea of these lowly missionaries and street-preachers, silently but ceaselessly working in the neighbourhoods of hideous squalor, rags, and vice; daily witnessing scenes of drunken brutality, horrible licentiousness, and shameless depravity, frequently sharing their humble meals with the poverty-stricken and unfortunate, or offering up supplicating prayers by the side of poor dying wretches, who, after continually defying the fangs of the law, find themselves in the merciless grasp of a foe whom no mortal can elude. These men found out long since what our Churchmen and wealthy Dissenters are only just beginning to discover—that if the masses will not go to the preachers, the preachers must go to the masses.

At the present day, bishops, deans, and other religious dignitaries, do not think it beneath them to take part in “special Sunday services,” held in various metropolitan theatres during the winter; but thirty or forty years since the case was different.

Then street preaching and “special services” were neither fashionable nor safe, and were chiefly conducted by a class of persons whose types are rapidly disappearing. Of these “Boatswain Smith” was the most notorious and remarkable. He would “hold forth” in Wapping, Ratcliffe Highway, and other choice localities, and, by the employment of quaint expressions, nautical language, and slang jokes, would often collect an audience from among the low, dissolute, and profligate denizens of those localities. But his real sphere was on the river Thames. Never did preacher select a more suitable place for his operations. Seated in a small boat, “the boatswain” would row into the very midst of the forest of ships which lay in the Pool, and, sounding his shrill boatswain’s whistle, would “pipe” all hands on to the decks of the various vessels. At the first note, cards, bottles, drinking-tins, brandy flasks, dice, low songbooks, and dominoes, would be kicked into the forecastle, and the dark savage features of rough, big-whiskered sailors would appear over the black bulwarks in obedience to the man who had so fearlessly summoned them. Some, intent on mischief, would clamber into the rigging; others would perch themselves on the weather-beaten capstan, a few would crawl on to the rudely carved figurehead, while many would listen with the sober,earnest attention, so characteristic of the true British sailor.

Using sea terms, “the boatswain” would designate the Good Samaritan as “a welcome craft that bore down to help a poor lubber who fell amid landsharks, that bore away his cargo, and left him adrift on the highway;” while any thoughtless and talkative “Jack” would be hailed with a request to keep “that ere figure-head still,”—a mandate generally complied with.

But times have changed, and no one knows what has become of “the boatswain.” Many of his successors have degenerated into quiet, lamb-like speakers, who must not be confounded with those who make open-air preaching a cloak for knavery and malpractices; who pen begging-letters on behalf of charitable institutions which have no real existence, and who assume a character for sanctity to which they have about as much right as Bill Sykes himself.

However, despite of wolves in sheep’s clothing; of ignorant controversialists; of crack-brained enthusiasts, or of fanatical visionaries, who strive to obtain, out of doors, the audiences they fail to allure to the lecture-room; these humble pioneers of Progress labour steadily onward, each in his own peculiar way, reaping scant worldly reward, applause, or fame.

2em

flashing with light; link-men exhibiting a prospective-little-sixpence energy to prevent dainty dresses from rubbing against dirty wheels; young ladies shooting like meteors from their carriages to the entrance; a little knot of gaping women and children gazing, wonder-stricken, at the silks and the gauzes; together with thundering knocks at the door, proclaim the great fact that people are assembling in a certain handsome house in Suffolk Square for the purpose of whirling, twirling, crossing, advancing, retrograding, and pirouetting, on the occasion of what is denominated a Ball. Mrs. Sweetlie Grant is the giver of the entertainment on, I believe, the occasion of one of her children’s birthdays; but, as I confess to that profound indifference which most grumpy bachelors feel in respect to children, from their teething-time to their teens, I make no especial inquiries on the subject. Mrs. Sweetlie Grant enjoys the reputation of giving the most recherché receptions of any of the Brighton winter residents, and, as her husband is one of our “merchant princes,” and proud of receiving his friends in a princely way, his wife indulges him in his predilections, and presides over her assemblies with tact, judgment, and good taste. A visit to Mr. Grant’s house of business in the City, and a dinner or soirée at his private abode, would present a contrast as great as a stalactite palace and the dark tunnel by which you approach it.

His counting-house in Lombard Street is tolerably large and, excepting on a foggy winter’s day, is, for a City office, cheerful enough; but his own private sanctum is dark and dusty, with that indescribable odour of stale air which seems a