ir M. Peto did not wish in vain.
These great railway contractors can do what they like. In a very short
while a very fashionable chapel was built in the neighbourhood of Bedford
Square. It stands out in bold relief by the side of a tawdry
Episcopalian chapel-of-ease and a French Protestant place of worship. As
soon as the new chapel was completed, Mr. Brock was duly installed as
pastor.

Mr. Brock's _debut_ in London was a decided success. The chapel, which,
I should think, could contain fifteen hundred hearers, is invariably
crammed. If you are late, it is with difficulty you will get standing
room. The genteel part of the chapel is down stairs, and if you do get a
seat, you will find it a very comfortable one indeed. In a very snug
pew, at the extreme end on the right, you will see Sir M. Peto and his
family. Half-way down on your left you will see the spectacles and long
head of Dr. Price, Editor of the 'Eclectic Review.' Lance, the beautiful
painter of fruits and flowers, also attends here, but I believe you will
find him in the gallery. The people all round you look comfortable and
well fed, and no one presents a more comfortable and well-fed appearance
than the Rev. W. Brock himself.

There he stands, in that handsome pulpit, in that richly-ornamented
chapel, with all those genteel people beneath him and around him--a
stout, square-built man--a true type of Saxon energy and power--without
the slightest pretensions to elegance or grace. Such men as he are not
the men young ladies run after, fall in love with, get to write in their
albums, buy engravings of for their boudoirs; but, nevertheless, with
their strong passionate speech, and indomitable pluck, they are the men
who move the world. During the war, we are told, it was the weight of
the British soldiery that carried everything before it. The Frenchman
might be more scientific, more agile, more skilful every way, but the
moment the word was given to charge, resistance was hopeless--you might
as well try to stay the progress of a torrent or an avalanche. What the
Englishman is in the field, Brock is in the pulpit. You are borne down
by his weight. He gives you no chance. On comes the tide, and you are
swept away. You are learned--evidently the man before you has little
more than the average learning picked up in a hurry, in a second-rate
academic institution. You like to theorise on the beautiful and
divine--the preacher before you cares not