ations of his experience at
Hastings, where, for several weeks, he had been preaching on the beach
to large congregations. He was idling there, he said, for health's sake,
and one evening, seeing a number of men loafing about, he proposed to
one of them that he should give them an address. This gentleman declined
the address, but added, characteristically enough, "If ye'll gie me
some beer I'll drink it." Two others, being asked if they would listen,
"didn't know as they would." Under these unpromising auspices Mr. Hall
began, and, attracting a crowd, was "moved on" by a policeman. A
gentleman who recognised him proposed an adjournment to the beach, and
there a sermon was preached, and has been repeated by Mr. Hall on
several occasions, with a congregation of thousands. He has a peculiar
knack of speaking in a tongue "understanded of the people," and his
address to the Fairlop crowd on that Friday night "told" considerably.
At its conclusion he quietly put on his hat, dropped into the crowd, and
went his way; but the tone of criticism amongst his hearers was very
favourable, and I quite agree with the critics that it's a pity we
haven't "more parsons like that." It is not, however, simply by
religious zeal such a want as that to which I allude is to be supplied,
but by the substitution of some sensible recreation for the low
attractions of the beershop and gin-palace. It is a problem worthy of
our deepest thinkers: "What shall we offer our huge populations in
exchange for the silly pageant even now being enacted in the outskirts
of the metropolis--which may well be taken to embody the pastime of the
lower orders--Fairlop Fair?"

CHAPTER XVI.

A CHRISTMAS DIP.

There are few more exhilarating things, on a breezy spring morning, than
a spurt across that wonderful rus in urbe--Kensington Gardens and Hyde
Park--for a prospective dip in the Serpentine, where, at specified hours
every morning and evening, water-loving London is privileged to disport
itself in its congenial element. So congenial is it, in fact, that some
enthusiastic individuals do not limit themselves to warm summer
mornings, or the cooler ones of springtide and autumn, but bathe all the
year round--even, it is said, when a way for their manoeuvres has to be
cut through the ice. Skirting the north bank of the Serpentine at
morning or evening in the summer, the opposite shore appears absolutely
pink with nude humanity, the younger portion dancing an