erature at University College; but it was understood that
University College, with its liberal institutions, with its Dissenters
and Jews, was no place for a Churchman who wished to rise. Dale saw
this, gave up his professorship in Gower Street, and reaped a rich
reward.

London was badly off for _illuminati_ fifty years ago. The only pulpit
effectually filled was that of South Place, Finsbury, where W. Johnson
Fox, the celebrated orator and critic, lectured. He had been trained to
be an orthodox divine at Homerton. One day he said to me, "The students
always get very orthodox as they get to the end of their collegiate
career, and are preparing to settle, as the phrase is." Fox, it seems,
was the exception that proves the rule. He was eloquent and attractive
as preacher and lecturer. Dickens and Macready and Foster were, I
believe, among his hearers. At any rate, he had a large following, and
died an M.P. Lectures on all things sacred and profane were unknown in
London fifty years ago. I once heard Robert Dale Owen somewhere at the
back of Tottenham Court Road Chapel, but he was a weariness of the flesh,
and I never went near him again. The provinces occasionally sent us
popular orators; one was Raffles, of Liverpool, a man who looked as if
the world had used him well. I well remember how he dealt in such
alliteration as "the dewdrop glittering in the glen." Then there was
Parsons of York, with his amazing rhetoric, all whispered with a thrill
that went to every heart, as he preached in Surrey Chapel, where also I
heard Jay of Bath, who, however, left on me no impression other than he
was a wonderful old man for his years. Sherman, the regular preacher
there, was a great favourite with the ladies--almost as much as Dr.
Cumming, a dark, scholarly-looking man, who held forth in a court just
opposite Drury Lane Theatre, and whose prophetic utterances obtained for
him a popularity he would otherwise have sought in vain. It makes one
feel old to write of these good men who have long since passed away, not,
however, unregretted, or without failing to leave behind them

Footprints on the sands of Time.

When I first became familiar with the Dissenting world of London the most
bustling man in it was the Rev. Dr. John Campbell, who preached in what
was then a most melancholy pile of buildings known as the Tottenham Court
Road Chapel, the pulpit of which had been at one time occupied by the
celebrated George