Passing up Merrimack Street the other day, my attention as arrested by a loud, earnest voice, apparently engaged in preaching, or rather 'holding forth' in the secondary story of the building opposite. I was in the mood to welcome any thing of a novel character; and following the sound, i passed up a flight of stairs, leading to a long, narrow, and somewhat shabby room, dignified by the appellation of Classic Hall. Seating myself, I looked about me. There were from fifty to one hundred persons in the audience, in which nearly all classes of this heterogenous community seemed pretty fairly represented, all listening with more or less attention to the speaker. He was a young man, with dark, enthusiast complexion, black eyes and hair; with his collar thrown back, and his coat cuffs turned over revealing a somewhat undue quantity of 'fine linen,' bending over his coarse board pulpit, and gesticulating with the vehemence of Hamlet's player, 'tearing his passion to rags.' A band of mourning crape, fluttering with the spasomadic action of his left arm, and an allusion to 'our late beloved brother, Joseph Smith,' sufficiently indicated the sect of the speaker. He was a Mormon—a Saint of the Latter Days!